Why Dismissive Avoidants Secretly Need Multiple Partners ｜ The Psychology of Emotional Control

Hey—you. Yes, you. Stop scrolling. We need to have a talk. We need to address that sensation you’ve been carrying. That tight knot in your stomach, that small voice you keep quieting, that gut feeling that something isn’t right. You’re with someone, yet you feel alone. You’re supposed to be a pair, but have never been this bewildered in your life. Often, it begins subtly, doesn’t it? You meet someone who seems wonderful. Calm, composed, in control. They have their own life, hobbies, friends. They don’t seem dependent on you. And you think, “Finally—an adult who’s stable and independent. This isn’t clinginess; it’s healthy.” For a while, it feels true. The chemistry is there. It’s real. Then—click—the light flips. The person who used to text all day and say the sweetest things suddenly needs space. The one who was reliably present becomes “busy.” That word—busy—becomes a shield. Their attention fragments. Sometimes the affection is radiant, warm as sunlight. Then, just as quickly, it vanishes. They’re gone and you can’t place why. And the phone—oh, the phone. It’s always face down or in Do Not Disturb while you’re together. They mention friends you’ve never met. Plans stay vague: “I’ll let you know,” “We’ll see,” “Not sure about this week.” You sense a widening distance, practically a wall—solid as brick and mortar. You are intelligent, empathetic, a fixer. So you try to talk. You bring it up gently: “Hey, I just want to know where we stand,” or “I’m feeling disconnected.” Suddenly, you’re the problem. “You overthink,” they say. “You’re too sensitive,” or “You’re dramatic and insecure. You rush things.” Or, “I’m not ready for a relationship,” or my favorite, “I don’t like labels—why ruin something by naming it?” Then they pull back, apologize, and you begin to doubt your own alarm. Stop. Look me in the eye for a moment. You are not losing your mind. Say it with me: you are not crazy. You are not asking for too much. That unease in your belly is not mere insecurity—it’s information. It’s your nervous system, your intuition, your whole being registering truth. It’s an alarm. A warning signal. It is shouting, pay attention. That confusion you feel is not your fault. It’s manufactured. It’s smoke and mirrors. It’s engineered to keep you close enough to be an option and far enough away to be harmless. You are not paranoid for sensing it—you are awake. Deep down you suspect you’re not the only one, that you’re not the sole recipient of their attention, not the only person propping up their ego or offering comfort. Your first instinct might be to chalk it up to cheating—someone playing the field, selfishness, arrogance, sex, ego. But pause—before jumping to that conclusion, understand this “aha” moment: this behavior is rarely born of malice. It stems from fear. It’s not about hurting you so much as preserving themselves. The person across from you is not an assured player; they are a frightened child inside an adult body. Their distance, the other people, the secrecy—this isn’t a power play to win; it’s a survival tactic. It’s not a trust issue so much as trauma. These are the patterns of the dismissive-avoidant. To truly grasp why they act this way, you must look past what you see and into the emotional wiring they hide. In the next installment, we’ll peel back the curtain and explore the root causes. Why do they do this? How does childhood programming push them to keep multiple people on standby? Once you understand the why, you’ll stop taking it personally—and that’s where you reclaim your power.

Want to know why? Why they behave like this, why commitment feels impossible, why they maintain a roster of backup people? Do you think this was a conscious choice, like waking up one day and deciding, “I’ll be heartless and break hearts”? Not at all. To understand the adult you’re dating, you must trace back to their childhood. The dismissive-avoidant didn’t arrive fully formed; they were shaped. They grew up in an environment where emotional needs were unmet or even punished. Picture a baby crying, frightened, reaching out for comfort—and instead of being soothed they were told, “You’re fine,” “Stop crying,” “You’re too sensitive,” “You’re dramatic,” or they were met with silence and neglect. Their needs were inconvenient; their vulnerability was a burden. The child learned a survival lesson that imprinted on their nervous system: needing someone equals pain; showing weakness equals danger; relying on someone equals disappointment, judgment, or shame. The deepest lesson: intimacy is a trap. So what did that small child do? They adapted. They learned to self-soothe. They stopped relying on others. They overdeveloped independence and became their own caretaker. They built a fortress around their heart, brick by brick, with a banner that reads, “I’m fine. I don’t need anyone.” Fast-forward twenty or thirty years: here you are—warm, empathetic, consistent, wanting real connection—and when you move closer, when you show need, what happens inside them? Alarm bells, sirens, childhood wiring ignites: danger, entrapment, loss of control—pull back. What you call love registers in their nervous system as pressure. What you call closeness registers as suffocation. What looks to you like safe, secure connection looks to them like closing bars. They dread your neediness even as they fear being needed. So how does a person who craves connection but is paralyzed by fear meet their needs? How do they spread the risk? Here’s your second “aha”: they keep multiple partners not to celebrate abundance but to hedge against fear. It’s not arrogance; it’s psychological insurance. Think of it—if they have you, an ex texting for comfort, a friend for dinners, maybe someone new online—what have they done unconsciously? They’ve ensured no single person holds all the cards. No one can get close enough to truly cause harm. It’s not about hoarding options for pleasure; it’s about protection. When you get too close, when you ask for more, when things start to feel real, what do they do? They pull away and redirect attention to someone easier—less demanding, still in the fun and safety zone. It’s an emotional regulation tool, the way they control their anxiety. They aren’t playing people to assert dominance; they’re patching themselves with people to avoid relying on just one. That brings us to the how. How do they live with this? How can someone be tender one minute and distant the next without feeling like a fraud? They have methods. In the next section we’ll examine the tactics—the playbook. For now, you should know this: it isn’t about malice; it’s about fear. It’s an inner scared child trying to connect while avoiding being trapped. That’s the why. Now we must talk about you—the woman sitting there asking, “How do they sleep at night? How can they look me in the eye and text someone else? How can they be warm one day and cold the next? Don’t they feel guilty?” This is the part you need to hear: the “how” is their operational manual, a set of tools they use, consciously or unconsciously, to manage this impossible system. Their first and most powerful tool is their secret weapon. Here’s your third “aha”: it’s called compartmentalization. Imagine their life and mind not as one open space but as a filing cabinet or a series of locked boxes. There’s a box labeled “Work.” A box labeled “Family.” A box for “Hobbies.” And then there’s a box labeled “You.” And next to it

There is another box labeled “the person” — the second one. Maybe there’s a third labeled “X,” the one they still message. And this is the cardinal rule of the entire system: those boxes never touch. That’s why they can sit with you on a Friday night, be fully present, look you in the eye, laugh with you, and make you feel like the only person alive. The instant the “you” box opens, every other box snaps shut. They are closed, tucked away in the cellar, as if they don’t exist. The moment they step out that door there’s a click: the “you” box is closed and returned to the shelf, and the work box is opened — or the box labeled for that other person — and suddenly you don’t exist. Don’t they feel guilty? No. Guilt requires integration: holding two opposing beliefs at once — “I care about this person” and “I’m doing something that will hurt them.” Their entire psychic defense is designed to prevent that integration. When they are with you, they care. When they’re texting someone else, they aren’t thinking about you. It’s a clever, devastatingly effective method — a warped way of organizing an internal world that’s terrified of intimacy. They don’t give you their whole heart. You’re not committing to a whole person; you’re committing to a box. You wonder why you’re kept out of every other corner of their life: you aren’t permitted in. Allowing you in would let the boxes touch, and if they touched, the whole system would collapse. That’s their inner tool. Now what about their outer tools? How do they manage you? How do they keep you confined to that box without everything exploding? This is the moment of clarity. Phase Four. I name it the shield of ambiguity. Raise your hand if you’ve heard any of these lines: “I just don’t like labels.” “I’m not ready for a relationship.” “I’m not a committed person.” “We’re just having fun.” “Why do we need a name for it?” Let me translate what that actually means. This isn’t harmless ambiguity or drifting with the flow. It’s a deliberate psychological shield. A verbal loophole. Their get-out-of-jail card. Because here’s the game: their actions pull you in. They treat you like a partner, speak to you intimately, sleep beside you, trust you — their behavior screams relationship. But their words, their scripted lines, protect them. They purposefully manufacture a gray area, a fog. Within that fog, they have plausible denial. As long as they never promise exclusivity, as long as they never say “you’re mine,” as long as they honestly claim they aren’t ready, they can convince themselves they aren’t doing anything wrong. They’re free to message an ex. They’re free to accept that friendly dinner invite. They’re practically free, they tell themselves. That’s why you feel on the verge of losing your mind: you try to reconcile what they do with what they say. It can’t be reconciled. You exist in contradiction. That fog is their safety net. It’s the space where they enjoy all the benefits of intimacy without the exposure and responsibility commitment requires. It’s the ultimate emotional loophole — allowing them to keep you available while keeping their options open, all while reassuring themselves they are decent people. But what happens when ambiguity isn’t enough? What happens when—

<p—you, a bright, instinctive, clear-seeing woman, begin to push back? What happens when the fog clears? What happens when you say, “No — I need clarity”? What happens when you discover a message you weren’t meant to see? What happens when you finally corner them with proof? Then the shield of ambiguity is pierced. Their fortress is under attack. The boxes threaten to fall apart. And here—

<p—comes their most desperate tool. This is the fifth “aha” moment. It’s defensive manipulation. It’s what they use when a person who avoids and withdraws is faced with a truth they’re not prepared to hold. Their brain doesn’t register your confrontation as a conversation; it experiences it as an attack. You aren’t asking questions — you are threatening their survival. Their response isn’t about truth; it’s about control. In that instant they will do anything to turn the spotlight away from them and onto you. You’ll hear that you’re overthinking it. You’re crazy. That person is “just a friend.” You’re being dramatic. “I can’t believe you’d accuse me of that after all we’ve been through.” “You have trust issues.” “You’re the one ruining this.” That’s projection. “That’s not what happened.” “You’re remembering it wrong.” “I never said that.” That’s denial. They will make your response the problem, not their behavior. Sometimes this is malicious; often it’s sheer panic — a frightened animal cornered and lashing out. They’d rather make you feel insane than admit they’re exposed. So when they call you jealous, insecure, or unhinged, listen closely to what they’re actually saying: you’re getting too near the truth. You see me, and that terrifies me. I’m uncovered and I’ll do anything to regain control. It’s not an accusation so much as an admission. These are the rules of the game: internal splitting, external ambiguity, defensive manipulation. That system exists to keep them safe and to keep you and everyone else perpetually confused. So what about you? You’ve been living inside this fog. You’ve been told you’re too much. What does that mean for you? That’s the next thing to address. These are the rules: splitting, ambiguity, defensive manipulation. Now you see it. You see the pattern and the logic of the whole machinery they use. But now we must talk about the most important player in this equation: you. While they’re busy surviving and protecting themselves, you’re the one left to cope with the fallout. You’re the one checking your phone, wondering why your messages go unanswered. You’re the one awake at two a.m., replaying conversations. Your nervous system is taxed; you ride a dizzying loop of highs and lows. You have been made to feel needy, insecure, dramatic, insane — why? Because you wanted stability, honesty, a normal loving relationship. You’ve been living in fog, doubting your reality, trying to stay calm and understanding while your heart breaks. So stop. Just stop. Take a breath. Hear this not as a thought but as something to sink into your bones: their actions are not a reflection of your worth. Let me say it plainly: their inability to commit is not because you are not enough. Their inability to choose you is not because you lack value. You did not fail to be enough. You did not fail. You are whole, loving, compassionate, and you’ve met an impenetrable fortress. You encountered someone whose internal programming — the survival wiring installed in childhood — interprets love as danger. You cannot outlove their fear. You cannot be perfect enough to erase their trauma. That’s not how it works. Here is the painful paradox: in their desperate effort to protect themselves from hurt, the avoidant withdrawer guarantees their loneliness. Imagine it: they might be surrounded by people — you, someone else, maybe another quick contact — but no one truly knows them. They are safe, yes, but utterly alone. Starving for emotional nourishment in the middle of a feast. They have abundance without intimacy, options without soulful connection. That is their prison. That is their tragedy. It is not yours. Your role is not to wait patiently outside that fortress in the hope they will someday descend. You are not their therapist. You are not the chosen one who will finally fix them. Your job is to stop playing a rigged game you were never meant to win. So what now? How do you reclaim your power? We will cover that next. For now, know this: you understand the why — the fear — and you know the how — the playbook. You understand the impact — the confusion and the pain it has caused you. You’ve been given the information. You’ve had your moments of clarity. You can’t unknow what you’ve learned. So the crucial question becomes: what will you do with it? Because right now you are stuck. Do you know why you’re stuck? You’re waiting. You’re waiting for them to change. You’re waiting for them to realize the truth. You’re waiting for them to wake up one morning and finally see your value. Here’s the truth: waiting is a choice. It’s not passive; it’s an active decision. You are choosing to hang your life, your joy, and your emotional wellbeing on someone who has shown they cannot meet your needs. You are choosing to accept the place they put you in. So what is the alternative? It is not your job to fix them. We have established that your role is not to compete with another person, another contact, or an ex. You cannot win a rigged game. The only way to win is to stop playing. What does stopping playing look like? It means refusing to be their therapist. It means stopping the breadcrumb analysis, stopping the effort to be the “perfect” person who pretends not to need anything. From this moment forward your sole assignment is to protect your psychological safety. That’s your choice. You can keep seeking clarity from someone who thrives on ambiguity. You can keep demanding full commitment from someone who is emotionally unavailable. Or you can seize the mightiest gift this whole ordeal offers. The moment you stop, the moment you step back, the moment you see what’s happening and refuse to be one among many, you reclaim your emotional power. Read that again. This is your call to action. This isn’t a game to bait them into chasing you. This isn’t an ultimatum for them. This is a proclamation to yourself and to the world: “My peace is worth more than their confusion.” My worth is non-negotiable. I deserve clarity. I deserve consistency. I deserve to be someone’s chosen. That person will come. The second you stop handing over the key parts of your heart to someone who only wants a part-time lease, that is your moment. Knowledge is power — but action is where your new life begins. Stop analyzing. Stop waiting. Stop chasing. Choose yourself. Step back. Reclaim your power. Go.