Resentment is a classic sign of relational devitalization. And it’s a stubborn little beast.

It survives logic, outlasts apologies, and festers even in therapy sessions where everyone’s crying and nodding and vowing to “move forward.”

It hides behind polite smiles, weaponized silence, and passive-aggressive dish placement.

In couples therapy, it’s often the uninvited third partner, sitting in the corner like an unpaid intern with a grudge and a clipboard.

But here’s the hard clinical truth: the only cure for resentment is grieving what you didn’t get.

Not revenge. Not justice.

Not a better version of the person who hurt you. Not even closure, which is often just revenge with a self-help filter.

No—grief. Real, guttural, bone-deep grief. The kind that doesn’t expect the other person to change. The kind that recognizes you might never get what you needed.

Let’s begin, as all modern tragedies do, with a man alone on a couch.

He’s got high-speed Wi-Fi, Uber Eats on the way, porn in one tab, and TikTok in another. He’s not in pain exactly—but something’s off. And he doesn’t know why.

In the Red Pill worldview, we have a word for this state. Not “depression.” Not “anhedonia.” Not “ Limbic Capitalist malaise.”

They call it… sedation.

But don’t mistake it for rest.
This isn’t a nap.
It’s a cultural coma.

It’s a Tuesday night.

Your therapist has just helped you reframe a lifelong shame spiral.

You’re proud.

You’ve learned the difference between a boundary and a punishment.

You understand how your nervous system works. You can name your triggers without blaming anyone. You’re... dare we say it... evolving.

Then your phone buzzes.

It’s your sibling in the family group chat, forwarding a meme about how therapy ruins people.

Your mother follows up with a reminder to “just let things go already,” and your uncle weighs in with anunsolicited opinion about how “you kids just need thicker skin.”

And just like that, your healing becomes the most threatening thing in the room.

“Looksmaxxing” sounds like something your gym-bro cousin would shout while deadlifting a car bumper. In reality, it’s much weirder, much sadder, and very, very online.

At its most basic, looksmaxxing refers to the obsessive pursuit of physical attractiveness, usually by young men, often in forums that resemble a CrossFit cult led by a depressed algorithm.

This isn’t just “glow-up” culture or “self-care” with a protein shake.

This is jawline micrometers, skull shape tier lists, and people earnestly discussing whether they need leg-lengthening surgery to improve their Tinder matches. It’s a slippery slope paved with retinol and despair.

What Even Is “Inappropriate Flirting”?

Let’s be clear upfront: flirting, in and of itself, is not a crime.

It’s a dance, a glance, a linguistic wink. It’s been with us since people figured out how to lock eyes across a firepit. But inappropriate flirting?

That’s something different. That’s when the dance turns into a stomp, the glance into a leer, and the wink into an HR complaint.

Unappropriated flirting isn’t just about bad timing or awkward delivery. It’s about ignoring context, consent, or common sense.

It’s when one person thinks they’re being charming—and the other person’s nervous system hits the eject button.

So let’s walk through eight modern examples, complete with breakdowns of why they miss the mark and how to avoid stepping on social rakes with your big flirty boots.

If the mere idea of someone looking at you — really looking at you — makes your stomach flip, your throat tighten, and your sense of self fragment into a thousand regrettable sixth-grade memories, congratulations.

You might be experiencing scopophobia: the intense, often irrational fear of being watched.

But wait — isn’t that just social anxiety?

Or maybe the spotlight effect? Or just being mildly neurotic in a surveillance-saturated society?

Yes. And no. And it's complicated.

Let’s walk through it. Carefully. While avoiding eye contact.

First, What Is Scopophobia?

Most couples in trouble don’t come in screaming.
They come in silent.

Their love isn’t loud. It’s tired. Their fights aren’t explosive. They’re low-stakes and unresolved. Their sex life isn’t dead, exactly—it’s more like quietly uninhabited.

And when they talk about their pain, it’s often framed through logistics:
“We don’t connect anymore.”
“I don’t feel close to them.”
“I’m not sure if we’re in love or just roommates.”

This isn’t codependency. It isn’t narcissistic abuse.
It’s mutual emotional undernourishment.

It’s what happens when two people who were raised on relational crumbs try to build a feast together—with no recipes, no language for hunger, and no shared permission to say, “I need more.”

You were probably praised for it growing up.“You’re so mature.”“You never ask for anything.”“You’re the easy one.”

And you believed them. You had to. Because asking for more wasn’t an option. And so, you became the emotionally independent one—not by choice, but by necessity.

Now, as an adult, you pride yourself on not needing much. You don’t burden anyone. You don’t cry in front of people. You handle your own problems, regulate your own feelings, and schedule your own therapy.

You call this strength. The world calls this admirable.But let’s tell the truth.

You call it independence because “neglected” sounds too raw.

If you grew up emotionally neglected, you’re probably not chasing love.
You’re chasing resolution.

You’re chasing the moment where the withholding parent finally looks up and says, “I see you. I choose you. I won’t leave.”

But you’re not chasing that moment in therapy.
You’re chasing it in Tinder matches.
In exes who half-text.
In lovers who breadcrumb you into thinking their crumbs are a meal.

Welcome to attachment hunger—a relational state where you crave love with the intensity of someone starving, but only recognize it when it comes wrapped in anxiety.

This is not weakness.
It’s conditioning.
And like any hunger left unmet long enough, it changes the way you think, love, and settle.

Some people fall in love and feel joy.

Others fall in love and feel like they just picked up a second job with no benefits and a shifting job description.

If you're the latter, it may not be because you're unlucky in love.

It may be because love was never allowed to be restful in your nervous system.

If you were neglected as a child, you didn’t learn to receive love.

You learned to earn it. Perform it. Manage it. Sustain it through effort.

And if there was a disruption? You handled that too.

For you, love isn’t a shared meal.

It’s a service industry job. You greet. You manage. You clean up emotional messes. You check in to make sure everyone’s okay—except you.

Let’s name it clearly:
If love feels like work, your inner child is probably still on the clock.

Most people think fawning comes from trauma with teeth—yelling, hitting, threats, chaos.

But some of the most entrenched fawning behaviors are born in quiet neglect, where no one hit you, but no one held you either.

If you were emotionally neglected as a child, you may not have learned to flee or fight—there was no one to flee from, no war to fight.

Instead, you learned to become extremely convenient.

Pleasant. Nice.

You learned how to shape-shift into the version of yourself most likely to receive crumbs of approval without causing trouble.

This is the fawn response—a lesser-known cousin in the trauma family. It's not about safety through distance (flight) or dominance (fight). It’s about earning safety through self-erasure.

Let’s say you’ve read the signs, checked every box, and had your uncomfortable laugh-cry moment.

Congratulations: you’ve realized you were emotionally neglected as a child.

Welcome to the club.

The jackets are invisible, the meetings are internal, and most of us have trust issues and an urge to overfunction until someone dies.

Now what?

How do you rewire a nervous system that treats love like a con artist and treats loneliness like an old roommate? How do you learn to receive, when your childhood taught you to minimize, deflect, and self-abandon?

This isn’t a self-help listicle.

This is a practical guide for the walking wounded—those raised on emotional famine—who want to believe in connection again without selling their soul or burning out their frontal lobe.