A Jungian approach to why I was a pick me.

Last night, I found myself deep in a rabbit hole of Jungian psychology—something that’s been calling to me more and more in recent months. Ever since the end of a deeply abusive relationship, followed by a string of manipulative encounters via dating apps, I’ve been asking myself one central question:

Why do I even want a man? What is this about, really?

Is it the craving for partnership? For some form of connection? For a kind of completion?

I’ve been child-free since my late 20s by choice. I love kids—I truly do. I adore my friends’ children and treasure the time I spend with them. But I also deeply appreciate that I can step away and return to my peaceful, child-free life. The idea of parenting full-time just doesn’t resonate with me.

But here's the deeper issue: I don't trust men—not with my vulnerability, not with my emotional safety, and certainly not with the power that comes with co-parenting or cohabitation. The thought of being stuck with someone I no longer love (or worse, someone who mistreats me) for the sake of the kids is a waking nightmare. I'm lucky—I don’t have to remain tied to the man who assaulted me and stole most of my savings. I’ve cut that cord completely.

So again: what is it that I want from men?

Is it sexual gratification?

Well... I’ve talked openly about this in other posts on FDS. If we’re honest, sex with men has mostly left me feeling disappointed, empty, or manipulated. Sure, it’s thrilling to be desired—but if that “desire” is just a prelude to abuse, gaslighting, and eventual discard, is it worth it? And let’s not lie: a satisfier (aka sex toy) is more dependable, less judgmental, and frankly more effective than any man I’ve ever been with.

Is it physical closeness? Affection?

Maybe. I’m not a super cuddly person, but I do love snuggling on the couch with someone I care about. That moment of stillness, warmth, shared breath. But if that comfort comes wrapped in hot-and-cold behavior, devaluation, or emotional whiplash, then no thanks—I’d rather snuggle with my cat.

The insult that misogynists try to throw at us—“Enjoy your cats”—is so unintentionally ironic. They are literally admitting that they’re worse companions than cats. That they bring so little to the table that we would prefer a cat’s company. I mean… they’re not wrong. 😏

Because here’s the reality: I was financially abused, treated like a live-in maid, and constantly burdened with unpaid emotional labor. After finally getting out of that situation, I’ve vowed: I will never live with a man again. Not unless he proves, over many years, that he’s safe and worthy of that level of trust.

We’re in the middle of a massive housing crisis in Europe, and I managed to find a rental on my own. That’s already a huge win. One day, I’d love to buy a place—but for now, I have my independence. Giving that up for a man? Not happening.

Then there’s the whole money and social capital aspect.

Do I want a man to take me out for dinner? Sure, I’d love that. But if that dinner comes with strings, with manipulation, with insults the moment I set a boundary—then that meal isn’t worth it. I’m not interested in being a kept woman, especially when most of the men I meet earn less than I do and expect to be treated like kings regardless.

If I’m honest, the biggest reason I used to want a man was social acceptance.

I was the nerdy girl growing up—glasses, braces, pigtails. I was that cartoon character cliché. But during puberty, I blossomed. I became conventionally pretty—and suddenly, people treated me like I mattered. Boys who used to bully me now wanted to date me. It was intoxicating.

That taught me something toxic: Desirability = worth.

And now that I’m in my mid-30s, I see how shallow and fickle that currency is. You’re desirable until you say no. You’re beautiful until you set a boundary. Then suddenly you’re “too old,” “too fat,” “too difficult.” Schrödinger’s woman: you only exist as long as you comply.

So, what am I left wanting?

A life partner. Someone who’s there when I’m sick. Someone who thinks I’m the best person they’ve ever met. Someone who protects me, respects me, and sees me as an equal. Someone like Knightley from Emma—a man of integrity, kindness, and deep love.

But… do men like that exist? Or are they just literary ideals?

I’ve had decent boyfriends, sure. But even the “good ones” had serious issues—entitlement, hygiene problems, emotional laziness, or an expectation that I’d play the role of mother/maid/therapist all in one.

I think the truth is this:

What I’ve been searching for in a man is really just my animus—my inner masculine. The protector, the strength, the reliable presence I wanted someone else to embody.

But maybe... that person is me.

Maybe the answer isn’t out there on Tinder or hiding behind a “tantric healer who’s ethically non-monogamous.” (Ew.) Maybe it’s in the self-work. The workouts. The independence. The cultivating of my own strength and clarity.

Because I can protect myself. I can take care of myself. I can love myself deeply—and build the kind of life that feels safe, joyful, and complete.

I’m not giving up on love. But I’m done searching for it in places that only leave me feeling used and broken.

So instead of desperately seeking a man to fill that archetypal role…

I’m becoming him.

And honestly? It feels powerful as hell.