I fell in love at age 14, with a person I had never met: a YouTuber who made funny videos for a living, and had a cute smile, and became the thing I thought of whenever I didn’t want to feel pain.
This YouTuber—or the image of him—filled up my mind and painted my reality with laughter and smug secrecy. Thanks to this fantasy, a mean comment from a schoolmate stung less. A retightening of my braces left minimal gum-throbbing. A fight with a friend was experienced as a small, heart-racing event, before being quieted by the fantasy.
Did it occur to me that this person from across the country would never know my name? That they were seven years older and uninterested in children? That I was “falling in love” with an imaginary person, and our potential “relationship?” Not particularly. This fantasy was my comfort; I would not give it up so easily.
What Is Limerence?
Limerence can be defined as an unhealthy obsession with a person that is based on fantasy. These obsessions are often romantic in nature, though not always.
You can fantasize about a classmate, a coworker, a celebrity, or a character from a book. As long as your chosen LO (limerent object) has some human qualities, I think you can become limerent towards them.
Here are some of my other previous limerent objects: Peter Pan (from the 2003 live action film), Harry Potter (both the book and film versions), Percy Jackson (only the book version), every young actor playing an angsty teen/werewolf/vampire in a CW show from 2010-2015, boys from my classes, boys from work, neighbors, and pretty much anyone who was attractive and liked to make jokes and acted indifferent to my existence.
What have I fantasized about? Anything: having an adorable meet-cute with my LO, going on romantic dates, spending nights talking about ideas and dreams and fears. I included arguments (to make it realistic, obviously), and moments where I received comfort after experiencing anxiety or sadness. I was The Limerence Fairy—I made the wishes, and I granted them.
How Limerence Helped Me
My fantasy relationships gave me confidence. I was chosen (in my mind). Therefore, I didn’t need anyone else to choose me. It didn’t matter if I was alone on a Friday night after school—I was all tucked in and cozy within my limerent fantasy. It was okay if no one invited me to their college housewarming parties or pre-gaming events because I could go study for an exam at the library and imagine my limerent boyfriend was also doing the same thing. I didn’t need dating experiences—that is, until someone asked me about them, and I had to step into the reality of the moment, and stutter, and respond with either a lie or an admission: no one real had ever chosen me.
My fantasies gave me the opportunity to feel chosen. If you never grew up feeling like you were someone who others wanted to spend time with or date, it can be a relief to embrace fantasy. It can become an addiction, too.
How Limerence Harmed Me
Limerence can affect you mentally, emotionally, and physically.
Hours and hours and hours I’d spend, daydreaming, rewriting and editing the daydreams in my head, and avoiding my own life. I missed meals, skipped social events, procrastinated on homework and real work. I can’t tell you how many pounding headaches I experienced after ruminating on real or imagined conversations with the person of my fantasies. If I had to calculate it, I’ve probably spent years of my life daydreaming—years that might have been spent creating, or practicing hobbies. Or spending time with the people I’d dismissed in favor of the fantasy.
Limerence was a refuge, and it was also a sickness.
The causes of limerence? Mine was a multifactorial diagnosis: trauma, loneliness, boredom, a vivid imagination. I also found out later in life that I am autistic, and had been experiencing pretty severe OCD. But I think it really came down to a desire to feel good: to feel something good after a long time of feeling the opposite.
Is it wrong? To fall for someone who doesn’t exist means potentially hurting that person you modeled your fantasy after, because they did not—and could not—live up to your imaginings. And it wasn’t like they asked for it. No one asks to be fictionalized. We ask to be accepted exactly as we are. I’ve even been in relationships with people and felt limerent towards them. This was particularly painful, as I was secretly begging them to be someone else, and they were confused by my constant disappointment.
I have also become limerent with a person who actually hurt me. I clung to the idea of them so strongly that not even abuse seemed real, until one day, I realized I had become a shell of myself, and not even the fantasy could bring me relief.
But is it wrong? Is any coping mechanism wrong? A coping mechanism is simply something you did because you needed it to survive. Or you thought you needed it. Until you don’t. And then you’re able to step away from it with new eyes and decide you can find something healthier to occupy your time and attention with.
From Limerence to Love
For me, stepping away from limerence meant choosing to love myself. But I didn’t want to. I’d spent my whole life hoping someone would just choose me, so that I didn’t have to do the work of loving myself. Deep down, I didn’t think I deserved such attention, compassion, and care.
Choosing to love myself looked like:
Discovering my deepest desires, such as becoming an author, traveling to Paris, and owning a pet
Letting myself cry, a lot, and not shaming myself for it
Creating art, even if I was embarrassed about how it looked
Quitting a job that was wrong for me
Going to the gym regularly
Fixing my financial situation
Seeking expert help when I didn’t know how to help myself
I also started to understand love differently:
The feeling of being in love is accessible to me at all times. I can access the feeling because I am the one who emitted it in the first place. I simply directed it towards the person I fantasized about. This can best be described as a feeling of whimsy, awe, or “sparkle.” It’s when you step outside and look around and let yourself be amazed by the fact that you are alive.
The feeling of being loved is a result of me taking specific loving actions for my highest good. These are actions like offering compassion when I’m feeling low, taking an honest look at my bank accounts, or going for a walk to give myself a break from screens.
I think I could call myself “limerent-in-recovery.” I don’t forsake fantasizing–I’m obsessed with writing fiction. (Read my fantasy short-read, Margaret’s Magic Daisies, about a lonely girl who uses magical daisies to see the ghost of her dead mother.) I’m also obsessed with manifesting my dreams and using my imagination for good. But I’m disciplined about how I view people now. I’m determined to see people exactly as they are.
And please note: this process was not easy. When I let go of limerence, and faced reality, I felt overwhelming grief. Grieving the loss of a fantasy is a different type of grief. You might lose a person who exists, but the ending of the fantasy can hurt more–because you might feel like you’re losing your only chance at happiness. Or the only thing that brought you comfort, security, joy, or excitement. This grief is hard to explain to others, though. How can you explain to someone that you thought you were in love with them, but that it wasn’t them, exactly, but a version of them? Of course, I think you can miss both the real person, and the character you created. I often have.
I refuse to shame myself for my addiction to limerence. I know it is what saved me, again and again and again. It gave me hope. It gave me an opportunity to feel seen, and cherished, and adored. It helped me practice the feelings I’d want to feel in my ideal relationship. And it revealed my desire to express love and connect with other people.
My understanding of love has been transformed. Real love doesn’t make you feel sick; it alleviates that which ails you.
