Chasing the Unavailable: My Dopamine Addiction

Long ago, if a man lacked effort, there were no second chances. No second guesses. Reason enough to let go and move on. The trending “if they wanted to, they would” mindset, or Mel Robbins’ “let them” theory. 

Now, I find myself lost to it, drifting further and further away from recognizing a man who will not commit. Worse, desiring the man who can’t, who won’t.  Not only ignoring that instinct but actively running in the opposite direction, full speed chasing after someone who looks over his shoulder just to make sure I’m still behind him. 

Place Your Bets

Something has grown to be deeply, disturbingly wrong with me. The men who don’t want me, who are incapable of loving me, who make it abundantly clear— I find them exhilarating. 

Maybe it’s Freudian. Maybe it’s self-sabotage. Or, that addiction gene cultivated in something unlikely, something looked past: the pleasure chemical. The rush of the reward. 

When the reward is unpredictable and risky, the rush is greater. It’s why some gamble with higher stakes, why they play with risk. The maybe keeps them hooked. 

Replace slot machines and substances with emotionally unavailable men, and you get my favorite form of self-destruction. 

I’m not addicted to them. I’m addicted to the high— the validation, the breadcrumbs. The problem with highs? The crashes.

Archetypes 

What is it about certain men that keeps us stuck? Why do some hold power over us long after showing their disinterest? And why do we keep coming back?

Some men love you. Some men like you. And then some men exist solely to break you. 

1— The Player

He’s charming. He’s competitive. He’s emotionally unavailable, but his distance is measured, calculated. Everything he does is designed to keep you interested without ever fully committing. He flirts enough, engages enough, and withdraws enough to make you feel like you need to prove something.

The chemistry is there, but so is the ego. The dynamic with him isn’t about love. It’s about competition. Who will cave? Who will show they care?

You don’t even know if you want him, but you dutifully play along. But if he ever loses interest, it will hurt. Because it’s about proving to yourself that you could have had him if you wanted to.

The reality is that The Player doesn’t choose anyone. He engages where he feels challenged, and he disengages the moment the challenge disappears. He never fully commits because that would require forfeiting the game he cherishes so dearly.

2— The Dream Seller

He’s different from The Player in one key way: he makes you believe he wants something real. He presents himself as emotionally available, as someone who sees you, values you. He looks at you like you’re special, tells you he’s never met a girl like you before.

He tells you things he’s “never told anyone else.” You do the same. Maybe about your family, your passions, your fears. It feels so real.

Until it doesn’t. The texts grow shorter, but he still says all the right things. He pulls away, subtly at first, then all at once. Eventually, you get the “I’m just not ready for something serious.” Maybe he isn’t. Either way, you’re left spiraling, wondering if you imagined everything.

Unlike The Player, who never made you think he was serious in the first place, The Dream Seller builds an emotional connection that feels different. Losing him doesn’t just hurt— it shakes your belief system. Maybe, if you had just done one thing differently, he would have stayed.

But that’s what you need to remember: it is never about you. It’s about his own need for emotional validation, his search for comfort, and his inability to follow through on what he started.

If someone truly wanted to be with you, they wouldn’t keep you guessing.

3— The Nice Guy

He’s perfect. He texts back, makes plans. He’s sweet. He likes you. 

You should like him. You want to like him.

The Nice Guy presents a different kind of challenge: one that forces you to confront your patterns. How you’ve become conditioned to associate the high with love. 

Love freely given doesn’t spike adrenaline. It’s not a gamble. It’s safe, predictable. And if you’ve grown accustomed to equating unpredictability with passion, that steadiness feels dull.

Deep down, part of you believes love should be something won, something worked for. If it’s just given, where’s the proof that it’s real? It makes you wonder: Does he love me because I’m special? Or because he would love anyone? 

Love Me, Leave Me, Haunt Me

If anything, the awareness makes it worse, like watching yourself run back into a burning building while narrating exactly how you’re getting burned. 

Looking back now at my first, I don’t know if I’d even call it love, not in the way I understand it now. It felt all-consuming. It taught me love is something that can disappear without explanation, slipping from your hands like water.

Once the damage felt bearable, the first person I found myself capable of feeling anything for, who had me excited, left suddenly, too. And then there I was again, questioning myself with gruesome introspection. I thought love would always leave me if I didn’t make myself worth staying for.

The game consumed me after. Light-hearted and detached, I could feel the thrill of a challenge without guessing if it was real. Instead, I could know for a fact it never would be.

I don’t see relationships for what they were— I see them for what they could have become if circumstances had been different. The idea of “unfinished business” keeps me attached, even when reality— if they— say it’s over.  

If I felt deeply desired, seen, or emotionally intoxicated, it’s hard to let go of that high. My brain craves that intensity again, so I hold onto the person who gave it to me. My brain has linked deep love with emotional struggle. If something ends easily, it doesn’t feel as significant. But if it ends in pain, it feels like it must have been important.

This makes it hard for me to accept that sometimes people aren’t meant to stay, and that’s okay. 

Even when I say I’m done, I don’t fully shut the door. Part of me hopes that if I wait long enough, they’ll realize what they lost. This hope keeps me from fully letting go because I’m still living in a “maybe one day” mindset.

In this waiting, in this thrill, I watch the wheel spin, greedily waiting for the near impossible win.