E4: Let's Get High
You did the work. You read the books, went to therapy, drank the Kool-Aid, hauled around the giant embarrassing water bottle. And then he walks in with the right eyes and the right chaos, and your whole nervous system lights up like a slot machine. So what is that feeling — chemistry, or your childhood trauma getting pushed through your veins by the little mad scientist Gina lovingly calls Mr. Trauma?
This week on Daddy Tissues, Gina gets honest about the most inconvenient truth in dating after divorce: danger feels incredible, butterflies might be a warning sign, and the high we chase is sometimes just our nervous system getting a hit after years of being starved. But this isn't a lecture about settling for the beige-wall guy. It's about the real question — can love be electric and safe? Can you have the fire without abandoning yourself? Grab your tissues and your popcorn. This one hits a nerve.
Transcript
If you wanna give your daughters some kick-ass birth control, or you even need some yourself that's better than anything you will ever get at the gynecologist that doesn't come with a copay or side effects, then all you gotta do is park their little ass down in a comfy chair with a blanket and some snacks and tell them my story, the Gina Sullivan birth control prescription.
Oh, wait. That's right. I haven't even told you my story yet, and either have any of the women I'm lining up to tell theirs. They are just in the process of growing their balls as big as mine. You guys are in for a treat. But right now, I want to welcome you back to the best fucking podcast you are ever gonna listen to.
This is Gina Sullivan, and you are listening to "Daddy Tissues."
Gina [:You are gonna need some popcorn, my friends. Some pop fucking corn. One day, when my PTSD allows it,
That story needs an entire season in itself. But I am a woman of my word, and we will get there. For today, we are gonna talk about that feeling that says, "I want to fuck his face off," AKA chemistry. You can read every book, go to all the therapy sessions, drink the Kool-Aid, and nothing, I mean nothing you do will ever,
Gina [:ever change what makes you feel like you just got hit with this morphine acid kryptonite crack straight in your IV running through your veins.
Like in the movies where they are experimenting on a human or this mad scientist guy pushes this magic potion inside someone laying on a table giving them these superpowers. You know, where you see the chemical reaction from the inside view of the body as it's happening in real time.
You see this red, blue, orange, whatever color you like to imagine, translucent liquid, and you watch it race through their veins. You literally feel that rush inside, and it's just a movie. I mean, I've never done heroin, but if it makes you feel like what I'm imagining, then I get why people can't stop doing it
Gina [:It just takes you away to this place that is out of reality. , To be honest, I don't even know if that's actually what chemistry is.
I'm just assuming But it's that stupid, beautiful, dangerous feeling that we get when we see the one. I hope you all know what I'm talking about so I'm not this freak of nature. Actually, I take that back. I'll be the freak, and I feel bad for you if you haven't experienced this. Some call it butterflies, the obsession, the electricity, the I cannot live without this person even though I met them 11 minutes ago feeling.
We are gonna call that chemistry. But sometimes I wonder if chemistry is just our childhood trauma being pushed through our veins by that mad little scientist inside of us when he finds the final ingredient to his magic potion.
Gina [:Here is the dilemma: you can be self-aware, you can understand your patterns, you can know your red flags, you can listen to the podcast, journal, meditate, drink your giant, dumb, embarrassing, big-ass water bottle of water, do all the things. Then one man walks in with the right eyes, the right energy, the right chaos, whatever ingredients that little genius scientist called Mr.
Trauma likes to use, and suddenly your entire nervous system is like, "There he is, that beautiful creature God made just for me. The one sent to ruin my life. We love him And you're done. Your body does not care that you have done the work. Your body does not care that your friends hate him.
Gina [:Your body does not care that he has emotional damage written across his fucking forehead in invisible ink that only your therapist can see.
Your body wants the high. And I know people say that butterflies are actually a warning sign. They say that anxious feeling is your nervous system saying danger. They say healthy love should feel calm, like you are at home. But whoever came up with this idea probably didn't come from the same home I did, or this story will be null and void.
I'm not saying they're wrong. Maybe healthy love is calm and peaceful. I'm saying, inconveniently, that danger feels fucking incredible. Sorry, it does. That adrenaline, that pull, that feeling when you look at someone and nothing else in the world
Gina [:matters.
That feeling where you wanna be around them, on them, under them, spiritually merged with them in a way that is probably medically concerning. That feeling where the world could be burning down and you're like, "Okay, but did he text?"
It is a drug. It is a drug, and I don't say that lightly. It feels like a high. You crave it. You chase it. You make excuses for it. You tolerate things you swore you'd never tolerate because you wanna get back to that feeling, and that is the dangerous part because passion can make disrespect feel worth it.
Chemistry can make inconsistency feel romantic
A trauma bond can make chaos feel like love. And suddenly, you're not choosing a person anymore. You're chasing a feeling.
Gina [:You're addicted to the version of yourself you become when you're with them: alive, wanted, desired, chosen, consumed. And if you spent your entire life feeling not chosen, let me tell you, that feeling will take you out at the knees.
, Just saying this makes me wanna get my phone and text that motherfucker, but we are not doing that. Anyway, here's where it gets annoying. What if you want both? What if you want passion and peace? What if you want the chemistry, the sex, the obsession, the electric feeling, but you also want respect?
What if you want someone who looks at you like you're the only woman in the world and actually means it? What if you wanna feel alive without abandoning yourself?
Gina [:That's the question I keep coming back to. Can healthy love feel electric? Can safe love feel passionate? Can you have that insane chemistry with someone who won't lie, cheat, manipulate, degrade you, or turn you into someone you don't recognize?
I need to believe yes, because I refuse to accept that the only choices are boring safety or passionate destruction. No, absolutely not. I am not doing all this healing just to end up with a man who respects me but makes me feel like I'm sitting next to a beige wall. But I'm also not destroying myself for good sex and a chemical reaction.
We are evolving, unfortunately. So here is what I think. Maybe the goal is not to kill the passion. Maybe the goal is to stop confusing panic with
Gina [:passion. Maybe the goal is to learn the difference between excitement and instability, between desire and desperation, between chemistry and craving, love and withdrawal
Because when you are attached to someone who is inconsistent, every good moment feels amazing because it's relief. He texts back, relief. He chooses you, relief. He shows affection, relief. He comes back, relief. And your brain starts calling that love. But sometimes it's not love. Sometimes it's your nervous system getting a hit after being starved.
Disgusting little science project, honestly. So what do we do with that? I don't have the perfect answer. If I did, I wouldn't be hosting a podcast called "Daddy Tissues." I'd be on a yacht somewhere with a fine glass of red wine,
Gina [:wearing a tiny white bikini with no stretch marks and an expensive pair of wide-leg baggy linen pants.
But I know this: I want the fire. I want the passion. I want the sex that makes you forget your bills, your trauma, and your inbox. But I also want loyalty, respect, consistency, kindness, emotional safety. I wanna be loved hard and treated well, and if that makes me unrealistic, fine, let me be unrealistic.
Maybe I'm searching for a unicorn here, but I would rather die trying to find the kind of love I actually want than settle for something that makes me feel half alive. I will not lose myself again just to keep the spark. That is the line. That is the work. Not killing the part of me that wants passion,
Gina [:but teaching myself that passion without respect is just a prettier way to suffer.
Daddy tissues rule of the day: if the chemistry makes you abandon yourself, it is not love. It is a drug with a little penis that we don't fucking need. Grab your daddy tissues, girls, , because we're gonna say cheers to all the divorced women out there trying to survive this fucking life we didn't ask for.
Let's take this as an opportunity to find healthy love, healthy passion. Let's get high on the love that's legally prescribed. Till next time.
