A Ghost Among the Living: the Architecture of Avoidance

I keep people at arm’s length and call it self-protection.

…correction.

I keep people at arm’s length because I know exactly how close I can let them get before it costs me something.

That’s not confusion. That’s math.

I see the wall while I’m building it. I hand myself the bricks and step back to admire the craftsmanship. Nice work! Very secure. Emotionally inhospitable, but secure.

This is not monkey see, monkey do.

This isn’t ignorance dressed up as bliss.

This is not, “I didn’t realize I was doing that.”

This is do as I say, not as I do vibes, complete with a color-coordinated fully laminated instruction manual.

I can explain healthy attachment. I can name coping mechanisms in my sleep. I can feel the moment my chest tightens and still choose the exit anyway. Insight has arrived. Behavior has …well, behavior acknowledged the email.

I have boundaries (sort of).

I also have escape routes (by the dozens).

Fire drills - a highly refined instinct for when something is starting to matter too much.

I show up. I connect. I joke.

I disappear.

Smooth. Professional. No fingerprints. No trace.

A dimly lit hallway with faint shadows suggesting a ghostly presence

Then Lenormand kicked the door in.

I’ve recently started working with Lenormand and wow. No poetry. No symbolism buffer. Tarot will hold your hand while asking how you feel. Lenormand points at the mess and says, “That. That’s the problem.” Then waits, unblinking.

No games. No metaphor sandwich. No emotional consent.

Just a hypothetical internal dialogue…

“You’re doing it, again.” [insert an obligatorily earned sigh]

Yes, I am aware.

“It’s still the same thing.” [insert dramatic eye roll and another audible sigh]

I KNOW!

“Okay.” [insert side-eye]

Stop giving me that look.

Why am I so afraid of getting burned? Love? Pain? Realizing that those two share the same blood?

Here’s the inconvenient truth everyone dances around: love and pain are not opposites, but collaborators. Sometimes they show up wearing the same face. You don’t open yourself up without risking heat. You don’t feel deeply without the chance of getting scorched.

So what do I choose? Numb.

Numb is efficient and tidy. Numb lets me function, survive, and appear “healed” in polite company.

Numb doesn’t ask for much and doesn’t take anything either.

Or does it?

Numb isn’t peace. I’m not confused about that. It’s just a placeholder while I negotiate with my nervous system and call it growth.

Well, I call it growth. My nervous system, on the other hand, calls it stalling.

A ghost among the living doesn’t haunt by accident. It’s a skill set.

Smile.

Deflect.

Make it charming and insightful.

Be warm, but unreachable.

Be honest in theory, but evasive in practice.

Share just enough to be interesting, but never enough to be vulnerable.

It’s a great system. No, really.

10 out of 10 for safety.

0 out of 10 for intimacy.

The cards keep interrupting anyway…as if my higher self might know better.

“Walls again?”

Yep.

“How’s that working out for you?”

Define working.

“You’re lonely.”

Rude, but accurate. Continue.

They don’t care that I understand the pattern. They don’t applaud awareness. They want to know when understanding turns into choosing something different.

And yes, I am aware that this is unhinged.

But if we’re being honest, all the best people are a little feral in the psyche. The thinkers. The feelers. The ones who can name the wound, joke about it, and still guard it like a sacred relic.

So, here I am.

Self-aware.

Contradictory. (A mystery wrapped in an enigma if you ask my husband.)

Annoyingly honest.

Knowing love and pain share a pulse.

Knowing numbness isn’t the goal.

Knowing the walls aren’t permanent, but…

…still building them.

Still questioning them.

Still standing in the doorway, half-in, half-out, telling myself that I’m just being careful.

Ghost among the living.

Not lost.

Just choosing safety over heat and pretending it’s temporary.

And maybe the real question isn’t when I’ll stop building walls.

Maybe it’s how many times I’ll let the fire knock before I finally open the door and admit I miss the warmth.

Your friendly ghost among the living,

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