But the item that stopped me cold isn’t the wallet or the trophy.
It’s a painfully poignant letter from Jennifer Aniston.
The internet wants you to look at this auction the way it looks at everything. Clickable. Sortable. A celebrity life broken into lots and starting bids. I want you to look at it the way I look at it after twenty years of sitting with couples in San Francisco.
Because that letter isn’t a collectible. It’s evidence of how human love actually works when someone you adore is drowning.
Here’s the part I can’t stop thinking about as a therapist.
In my view, we are an interdependent species. We’re born needing a primary attachment figure, cradle to grave. When someone is in pain that feels unbearable, their nervous system doesn’t politely wait for the right coping strategy. It reaches for whatever soothes fastest.
In my practice, I call this a competing attachment. Anything we turn to for comfort instead of our partner or our people. Sometimes it’s work. Sometimes porn. Sometimes a substance. Substance use sends two tragic messages to the people who love the user: you are not my priority, and you are not acceptable as you are.
