Care makes you a fucking liability to yourself.
Not in a gentle, romantic way people talk about vulnerability — all that “walls coming down” stuff. I mean it makes you structurally unsafe. When you genuinely care about someone, you've handed them power over you whether they asked for it or not. Their pain lands in your chest. Their needs become your emergency. You'll rearrange your entire world to accommodate theirs because that's what emotional investment does: it makes you porous. Exposed. A bit pathetic, if we're being honest.
And when that care isn't reciprocated — when you matter intensely to yourself in relation to them, but you barely flicker on their radar — something genuinely corrosive happens. Not disappointment. Not sadness. Something that makes you question your own judgement, your worth, whether you're capable of reading situations accurately at all.
I've spent most of my life vulnerable to this. Looking back, there's been precious few people who genuinely cared about me. My grandmother did — I'm certain of that. But my parents? Not so much. And the friendships, the relationships where I felt cared for? They ended. Which I suppose means care has limits. Or at least, the care I thought was there had limits. Maybe it was never as solid as I believed.
Here's what that does to you: you become desperate to find it again. That feeling of mattering to someone. Of being part of their awareness. Of existing as more than peripheral. So you start reading care where it isn't there. You take warmth as investment. Attention as commitment. A good conversation as evidence they give a shit. And then the realisation stings — that you've done it again. Mistaken politeness for care. Projected meaning onto someone who was just being decent.
Most people, I think, learn to protect themselves from this. They calibrate. They wait for evidence before investing. But I don't seem to have that mechanism. Or maybe I do and I override it, because what I need isn't just care — it's feeling stable and safe. And the loss of care, even imagined care, even care that was never really there, genuinely fucks me up. It destabilises something fundamental.
The lesson I've absorbed from all of this — the one that's settled into my bones whether I want it there or not — is that I don't deserve care. That I'm not worthy of it. Which sounds melodramatic, but it's the operational belief that shapes everything. If someone doesn't reciprocate, well, that makes sense, doesn't it? I'm not enough. I'm not doing enough. Maybe if I tried harder, gave more, anticipated their needs better, they'd care back.
So I keep going. I keep caring, keep giving it away, in the hope that somehow it'll be reciprocated. I bounce between wanting, needing them to care back and wanting to run away and burn everything down. Make excuses for them. Convince myself I'm misreading things, being too demanding, expecting too much. That fundamental sense within myself — that I don't deserve shit — makes it all feel reasonable somehow.
Here's what makes asymmetrical care particularly dangerous: when you genuinely care about someone, consideration becomes automatic. You think about how your decisions affect them. You factor their needs into your plans. You notice when they're struggling and adjust accordingly. That's not nobility, it's just mechanics — you're motivated to consider them because you're emotionally connected to the consequences.
But when someone doesn't care about you in the same way, they don't have that motivation. Your needs don't automatically register. Your struggles don't prompt adjustment. They're not thinking about you when they make decisions because you don't occupy the same space in their awareness that they occupy in yours.
And that creates a power imbalance that can slowly dismantle you.
I'll drop everything for people I care about. Rearrange my schedule, my priorities, my emotional bandwidth. When they need something, I turn up. When they're struggling, I'm there. That's what care looks like in practice — sustained attention and willingness to sacrifice on someone else's behalf.
But they won't do the same for me. Not because they're monsters, necessarily. Just because I don't matter to them the way they matter to me. My call goes to voicemail whilst I'd have picked up immediately. My crisis is something they'll get to when convenient whilst I'd have cancelled plans. My needs are legitimate but not urgent whilst theirs feel like emergencies I must address.
This is where exploitation creeps in. Not always malicious — often just thoughtless. They've learnt they can rely on me. That I'll be there, I'll understand, I'll accommodate. And because I care, I will. I'll make excuses for them. Tell myself they're busy, they're struggling, they show things differently. I'll convince myself that my needs are too much, too demanding, that I'm being unreasonable to expect reciprocity.
And slowly, I disappear. My sense of what's reasonable gets warped. I start to believe that caring means endless accommodation. That if I really cared, I wouldn't need anything back. That expressing hurt or frustration about the imbalance makes me selfish, demanding, not understanding enough.
If someone I've made central to my life treats me as peripheral to theirs, I absorb that message. I internalise it. I must not be worth caring about, not really. Because if I were, wouldn't they show up? Wouldn't they think about me? Wouldn't I occupy some space in their awareness beyond what I can provide for them?
The mindfuck is trying to figure out whether they care at all or just don't care enough. I spend too much time searching for signs. Searching for anything that feels genuine and real. Twisting and turning words over in my head, trying to make sense of things. Monitoring every action, every reaction — trying to balance rational observation with the deep, stupid optimism that they do care, I'm just not seeing it. That maybe I'm wrong. That maybe this time it's different.
Because most people will insist they care. They'll be hurt by the suggestion that they don't. And maybe they do feel something — affection, fondness, appreciation for what I bring to their life. But feeling warmly towards someone isn't the same as being emotionally invested in their wellbeing. It's not the same as sustained consideration. It's not the same as caring in a way that costs you anything.
You can like someone, enjoy their company, value what they do for you, all whilst being fundamentally uninvested in whether they're okay when you're not around. That's not cruelty. It's just… not care. Not the kind that matters. Not the kind that shows up consistently.
And when you're on the other side of that — when you're the one caring deeply whilst they're just vaguely fond — you're in a genuinely dangerous position. The power dynamic is entirely in their favour. They can hurt you far more easily than you can hurt them. Their absence would leave a hole in your life that you built around them. Your absence from theirs would be… inconvenient maybe. A bit sad. But not devastating.
You're exposed in ways they're not. You've invested in ways they haven't. You're vulnerable to manipulation — again, not always deliberate — simply because your care makes you willing to accept less than you deserve. You'll tolerate being deprioritised, being forgotten, being treated as optional, because losing them feels unacceptable.
And they know it. Maybe not consciously. But they know you'll be there. They know you care. They know they can rely on you in ways you can't rely on them. And that knowledge, even unspoken, shapes how they treat you.
I know what I'm supposed to do. Recognise that care should be reciprocal. Not perfectly balanced at every moment, but roughly symmetrical over time. Acknowledge that if I'm always the one accommodating, always the one checking in, always the one adjusting, that's not a relationship — that's me caring about someone who's letting me.
I can articulate all of it. I understand the logic. I know what the healthy response would be.
But I can't actually do it. That foundational belief — that I don't deserve care, that I'm not worthy of it — is too strong. Too embedded. Knowing what's healthy doesn't mean I can access it. I'm too broken on some level to believe I deserve better than what I'm getting.
And here's the thing: I don't do this with everyone. I've learnt to protect myself. Built walls. Most people don't get through because most people aren't worth that kind of investment. I can be friendly, functional, even warm without actually caring deeply. It's safer that way.
But then someone comes along who feels different. There's a connection. A chemistry. An understanding. We're operating on the same wavelength, the same frequency. And that matters because when you're on someone's wavelength, you feel seen. You feel understood. And stupidly — so stupidly — I think: if someone truly sees who I am, sees my scars, sees what I'm about, then maybe…
So I let them in. I lower the barriers. I share parts of myself I never share with anyone. I let them know me in ways that feel terrifying and necessary all at once.
And when they still don't care enough — when they see all of that and it's still not enough to make me matter — it's so much worse than the casual rejections. Because this person knows who I am. They've been let in. They understand the wavelength. And if someone who truly sees you still treats you as peripheral, what does that confirm except the foundational belief? That even when fully known, I'm not worth it.
All the old wounds come flooding back. Every rejection. Every moment of feeling neglected or forgotten. But sharper now, because this time they knew. This wasn't a misunderstanding or a failure to communicate. They saw exactly who I was and chose not to care enough anyway.
How are you supposed to live with that? How are you supposed to reconcile someone understanding you — really understanding you — and that basic understanding not leading to being cared about?
Care should make both people feel more stable, not less. When it's reciprocal, you're held in each other's awareness. You know someone is thinking about you, factoring you in, invested in whether you're okay. That creates security.
But when care is one-sided, it does the opposite. I become less stable, more anxious, more uncertain. I'm constantly trying to earn consideration that should be freely given. I'm shrinking myself to fit into the peripheral space they've allocated me whilst they occupy the centre of my world.
The answer should be no. Obviously. Because asymmetrical care is corrosive. It warps your sense of what's reasonable. It makes you believe you're too much whilst somehow also not enough. It leaves you vulnerable to exploitation and manipulation by people who may not even realise they're doing it.
But here's the truth: I keep doing it anyway. I keep caring about people who don't care back. I keep searching for signs they might. I keep making excuses. I keep shrinking myself to fit into whatever peripheral space they've allocated me.
Because somewhere deep down, I believe this is exactly what I deserve. Feeling shitty and sad and uncared for. Being peripheral. Mattering less. It fits the story I've been telling myself my whole life.
Care is powerful when it's reciprocal. It creates stability and safety and connection. But when it's one-sided, it just makes you smaller. And the person on the other end? They stay exactly the same size they always were. Unbothered. Unchanged. Getting everything they need from you whilst offering nothing back.
And I know that. I can see it. I can articulate it.
But I can't seem to stop.