There is a strange paradox of the human psyche: we often continue to believe in people precisely when our actual experiences scream the opposite. For many, this irrational faith becomes the foundation of their lives, but the price of such “devotion” is the gradual loss of one’s own sense of self.
For a child growing up in an atmosphere of emotional deprivation, conflict, or abuse, hope is not just optimism. It is the only available means of protection.
When you’re six years old, admitting that the adult (on whom your survival depends) is cold, unstable, or dangerous is nearly impossible. It would mean finding oneself in a psychological vacuum where there is no safety. That is why a child’s psyche turns to magical thinking:
“If I’m good enough, Mom will smile.”
“If I learn to anticipate the footsteps behind the door, I’ll be able to control the chaos.”
In this sense, what we later call codependency is initially an act of incredible adaptability. It is a way to maintain a connection at any cost—for it is precisely this connection that is the fundamental condition without which a child cannot survive, either physically or psychologically.
The problem with adulthood is that this childhood mechanism does not disappear on its own. It turns into an internal scriptwriter that compels us to choose partners or friends with whom we can reenact the same drama of anticipation over and over again.
In psychoanalysis, this is called compulsive repetition: the psyche unconsciously strives to return to the traumatic situation in order to try to “overcome” it this time. We choose cold or unstable partners in the hope that if this time we can make such a person love us, then that old childhood wound will finally heal. This is an illusion of control: we believe we can change the outcome of the past through the present.
Another psychological mechanism is at work here, one very similar to an investment. The more time, emotions, care, and effort we’ve already invested in a relationship, the harder it is for us to admit that it isn’t working. It hurts the psyche to accept that what we’ve invested won’t yield the result we’ve hoped for so long. So we keep investing more—more patience, more explanations, more hope.
Beyond the point where loyalty to another becomes a betrayal of oneself, we often continue to invest in what offers no life, only increasing the extent of our own inner emptiness.
When we refuse to mourn a lost illusion, it does not disappear—it transforms. Unresolved grief often turns into chronic aggression.
Instead of facing the acute pain of helplessness, we begin to rage against the other person. We demand, we accuse, we try to “force” an admission or love. This rage is the psyche’s desperate attempt to make reality submit to our hope.
But as long as we are angry, we remain closely connected to the object of our anger.
Aggression is also a kind of glue.
It keeps us tied to people we should have left long ago, giving us a false sense of control over a situation that is beyond our control.
The hardest part of psychotherapy isn’t finding the causes, but the process of mourning. We must grieve for the love we never received and for the ideal partner who exists only in our imagination.
The therapist’s task is to help the client face the truth: you may be perfect, but that won’t make another person love you if they are incapable of doing so.
This is the moment of the Adult’s birth—that part of us capable of seeing reality without anesthesia, of acknowledging that some people are dangerous to us, even if we love them.
It is also the ability to live with powerlessness—to allow yourself to feel sadness instead of anger. Sadness frees us from repeating patterns, while anger only binds us to them.
And finally, it is the opportunity to stop being “convenient”: to listen to your own needs, rather than anticipating the next move behind the door.
True freedom begins where expectations end.
When the inner adult takes the wheel from the child who is still standing by the door, listening for the lock to click.
It is a painful journey—letting go of the hope for “revenge” in order to finally find oneself.
But it is precisely beyond this threshold that relationships begin in which love no longer needs to be earned—because they are built on mutuality, respect, and security.