Why We Attract Manipulators

The Human Magnet Syndrome describes how people with codependent tendencies are often unconsciously drawn to narcissistic partners.

Why? Because one learned to overfunction, fix, prove, and earn love. The other learned to take, dominate, and exploit connection.

In queer lives, especially when identity was shaped around rejection or secrecy, this dynamic feels like fate. But it’s just conditioning — and it can be unlearned.

The Human Magnet Syndrome reveals why gay men with codependent tendencies often feel irresistibly drawn to narcissistic partners. This emotional dynamic, rooted in trauma bonding and unmet needs, explains the magnetic pull between giver and taker — and the pain that follows. Awareness, boundaries, and healing can break this cycle and restore self-worth.

Love can feel like gravity—mysterious, powerful, and impossible to resist. Many gay men know the experience of being pulled toward someone who seems perfect at first: confident, charismatic, and intoxicatingly self-assured.

But over time, that connection can turn confusing or painful, leaving one partner giving endlessly and the other taking without real reciprocity.

Psychotherapist Ross Rosenberg calls this phenomenon The Human Magnet Syndrome—a dynamic where people with codependent tendencies are unconsciously drawn to partners with narcissistic traits. This “magnetic” attraction isn’t random. It reflects deeper emotional patterns shaped by early experiences, self-esteem, and the way we learned to love.

Rosenberg describes the relationship between a codependent and a narcissist as an emotional dance—two people whose steps are perfectly coordinated but painfully imbalanced.

• The codependent is the giver, the fixer, the one who finds meaning in caring for others. He often feels safest when he’s needed and struggles to express his own needs.
• The narcissist, in contrast, seeks admiration and control. His confidence can be magnetic at first but often hides fragile self-esteem and a deep fear of vulnerability.

Together, they create an emotional chemistry that feels powerful but unsustainable. The codependent feels special for being chosen; the narcissist feels powerful for being adored. Over time, however, the relationship drains the giver and isolates him from his own sense of worth.

Gay men often grow up navigating rejection—whether through family, religion, peers, or society at large. Many learn, consciously or not, that love must be earned: by being attractive, successful, funny, or emotionally accommodating.

That early lesson can create the emotional soil where codependency grows. When a confident, self-assured man (often with narcissistic tendencies) enters the picture, he can feel like the embodiment of everything the codependent man wishes he could be—bold, secure, unapologetic. The attraction feels electric, even healing.

But soon, a pattern emerges: one man over-functions, taking responsibility for the relationship’s emotional health, while the other under-functions, controlling affection, attention, or intimacy. What looks like passion becomes imbalance.

The “chemistry” that felt like destiny often turns out to be the body’s recognition of something familiar—an old emotional wound being replayed.

For many gay men, leaving a relationship like this can feel almost impossible. The connection isn’t just romantic—it’s psychological. The highs and lows mimic addiction.

The codependent’s identity becomes wrapped around the hope of fixing the relationship, while the narcissist maintains control by alternating charm and criticism. This push-pull dynamic keeps both men stuck, mistaking intensity for intimacy.

Recognizing this pattern doesn’t mean blaming yourself. It means seeing how deeply your need for love and safety has shaped the kind of partners you’re drawn to. Healing begins when you stop trying to earn love that should be freely given.

Recovery from the Human Magnet dynamic starts with awareness and compassion—for yourself and for the parts of you that learned love through struggle.

Here are some steps toward breaking the cycle:

Awareness is liberation. When you can recognize the difference between chemistry and compatibility, you can make new choices.

Seek spaces—therapy, friendships, community—where you’re valued for who you are, not what you provide.

Boundaries are not barriers; they’re self-respect in action. They allow space for both partners to show up authentically.

If you’ve grown used to relationships that are intense or dramatic, healthy love may feel “calm” or even “boring” at first. That calm is actually emotional safety—the foundation of real intimacy.

You were doing your best with the tools you had. Every relationship, even the painful ones, can become a teacher in self-awareness and growth.

Understanding the Human Magnet Syndrome can be a powerful act of self-liberation for gay men. It helps us see that attraction isn’t always about chemistry or fate—it’s often about healing old wounds in familiar ways.

As we learn to nurture self-worth, embrace vulnerability, and demand emotional reciprocity, we begin to attract love that reflects our growth, not our pain.

Healthy love isn’t about completing one another—it’s about walking side by side, each whole, each free, each choosing the other from a place of respect and authenticity.

This essay draws on the work of Ross Rosenberg, psychotherapist and author of The Human Magnet Syndrome: The Codependent–Narcissist Trap (2013). His research explores how early emotional experiences shape adult relationships and how awareness can lead to healing.

Growing up queer often meant hiding, adapting, pleasing. It trained many of us to read people quickly, caretake for safety, and internalize shame about our needs.

So when someone powerful, aloof, or emotionally unavailable shows interest? It lights up the part of us still desperate to be chosen.

You weren’t seeking drama. You were trying to complete a story you never got to finish as a kid.

"Attraction isn’t always chemistry. Sometimes it’s trauma recognition."

When opposites attract, the connection can feel electric — passionate, magnetic, even fated. But for trauma survivors, this attraction often hides deeper emotional wounds. This story explores how trauma bonds form between contrasting personalities — the empath and the avoidant, the healer and the wounded — and how to recognize when chemistry is actually a call to heal, not to chase.

We’ve all heard that opposites attract—that the best relationships are made from balance: the calm one and the wild one, the dreamer and the realist, the giver and the taker. And sometimes, that chemistry really does create magic.

But for many gay men, “opposites attract” can also hide something deeper—something psychological rather than romantic. Beneath the spark, there can be an unseen current: a connection not born of compatibility, but of shared trauma.

It’s what happens when attraction feels electric, urgent, and irresistible—but the relationship soon becomes painful, confusing, or depleting. This is where trauma bonding enters the picture: a pattern of connection rooted not in love, but in the echo of old wounds.

When we first meet someone who feels like our “other half,” the chemistry can feel almost spiritual. They understand us, see us, challenge us. It’s intoxicating. But that intensity doesn’t always signal emotional alignment—it often signals familiarity.

In psychological terms, we’re drawn to what we know. If love once meant chasing approval, managing conflict, or suppressing needs, our nervous system will recognize those dynamics as “home.”

So when we meet someone whose energy activates those same emotional patterns—perhaps a partner who’s emotionally unavailable, controlling, or distant—it can feel like destiny. But it’s not destiny; it’s a repetition. The body is trying to finish an old story by rewriting it with a new person.

In many gay relationships, these “opposites” actually reflect each other’s unhealed parts.

• The man who always fixes may be drawn to the man who refuses to be fixed.
• The one who avoids conflict might attract the one who thrives on it.
• The emotionally giving man often ends up with someone who takes without giving back.

These pairings can seem complementary on the surface, but they’re often trauma-matched. One person’s caretaking soothes the other’s fear of abandonment. One’s emotional distance protects against the other’s intensity. Each partner unconsciously reenacts patterns learned long before they met.

This isn’t weakness—it’s human. Our early experiences with love, safety, and attachment wire our nervous systems to seek what feels familiar, even when it’s unhealthy. The challenge is learning to tell the difference between emotional intensity and emotional safety.

Relationships rooted in trauma connection often follow a familiar rhythm:

1. Idealization – The relationship starts off fast, deep, and consuming. It feels like “finally, someone gets me.”
2. Tension – Subtle imbalances appear: one gives more, one withdraws. Emotional needs start to feel dangerous.
3. Conflict – Disagreements become dramatic or cyclical. Each person’s triggers activate the other’s.
4. Reconciliation – After every blow-up comes an intense reunion, reinforcing the bond through relief and longing.

Over time, the cycle itself becomes addictive. The highs feel euphoric; the lows feel devastating. Even when it’s painful, the familiarity keeps both people locked in. It’s not love that keeps them together—it’s trauma chemistry.

Healing from trauma-connected relationships doesn’t mean avoiding difference or passion—it means learning to distinguish chemistry from compatibility. It’s about building relationships that feel calm, not chaotic; mutual, not one-sided.

Here are a few ways to begin:

Intense beginnings can cloud perception. Take time to observe how you feel around someone: Do you feel grounded or anxious? Seen or consumed? Safe or uncertain? Real love grows in stillness, not just in sparks.

Reflect on your early experiences with affection, approval, and safety. These patterns shape what feels “normal” in love. Once you see them, you can begin to choose differently.

Your body remembers everything. When attraction feels like both excitement and anxiety, it might be a trauma response. Learn to listen to your body’s cues—it’s often wiser than your mind.

Healthy relationships may feel “boring” at first compared to the highs of trauma bonding. But peace is not dull—it’s healing. Love should feel steady, kind, and reciprocal.

You don’t have to do this alone. LGBTQ+-affirming therapy, group work, or mindful friendships can help you unlearn patterns and replace trauma-driven attraction with conscious connection.

When we begin to heal, attraction changes. We stop chasing partners who trigger our wounds and start noticing those who calm them. We begin to crave not adrenaline, but alignment.

“Opposites” can still attract—but now, they do so from a place of wholeness, not from the unfinished business of old pain. When two people meet who are both aware of their pasts and committed to growth, their differences can complement rather than collide.

That’s when the connection shifts from trauma to transformation.

This essay was inspired by attachment and trauma research by psychologists such as Ross Rosenberg, Bessel van der Kolk, and Dr. Gabor Maté, who explore how emotional wounds shape adult relationships—and how awareness can heal them.

 Many queer survivors describe their toxic partner as:

• Magnetic
• Complicated
• Intense

But here’s the truth: That intensity often came from your nervous system being activated by danger it misread as passion.

Your body learned that love equals:

• Proving your worth
• Managing someone else’s mood
• Being chosen by someone who barely sees you

We can love differently. Safely. Sustainably.

Reflection Prompt:
Write down 3 qualities that drew you in. 

Then ask: did those qualities feel familiar from childhood, past trauma, or old wounds?

What you thought was love may have been control, fear, or the longing to be seen. This story invites deep reflection on how emotional manipulation and unmet childhood wounds can disguise themselves as affection. Through awareness and honesty, survivors can separate love from dependency — reclaiming clarity, strength, and genuine self-worth.

There’s a quiet kind of heartbreak that comes not from being left, but from realizing the love you thought you had… wasn’t really love at all.

It’s the ache that sets in when the fog clears and you start to see the truth—not with bitterness, but with clarity. What you thought was connection was control. What you thought was chemistry was anxiety. What you thought was love was, in fact, a longing to be loved.

For many gay men, especially those raised amid rejection or invisibility, the line between love and validation can blur. We mistake intensity for intimacy, attention for affection, and infatuation for emotional safety. Reflecting honestly on what we once called love isn’t about shame—it’s about freedom.

We all want to believe the best about our relationships. But sometimes what feels like love is actually a mirror reflecting our unmet needs back to us.

You might have called it love when:

• You constantly tried to prove your worth.
• You confused being chosen with being seen.
• You accepted inconsistency as passion.
• You tolerated disrespect because you feared being alone.

These aren’t signs of weakness; they’re signs of humanity. When we grow up learning that love must be earned or performed, our hearts adapt. We learn to over-function, over-apologize, or over-give in order to feel safe.

So when someone offers affection—even if it’s conditional or fleeting—it can feel like salvation. The truth, though, is that real love never demands you shrink to fit inside it.

There’s a moment that comes quietly—sometimes months, sometimes years later—when you look back and realize: That wasn’t love. That was survival.

It can be painful to admit. You might grieve not only the person, but the version of yourself who believed in them so deeply. You might feel foolish for staying too long or for mistaking control for care. But that realization is sacred. It’s the moment you stop rewriting your story to make someone else’s behavior make sense.

And here’s the truth: the fact that you can now see the difference means you’ve already grown. You’re not who you were when you accepted less than you deserved. Awareness is the beginning of liberation.

Reflection isn’t about assigning blame—it’s about understanding your patterns with gentleness and curiosity. When you look back on a relationship that hurt you, try asking yourself:

• What part of me was seeking love, even at my own expense?
• What red flags did I explain away—and why?
• How did that relationship mirror something I learned about love early on?
• What did it teach me about what I truly need, not just what I want?

Honest reflection helps you separate the idea of love from the experience of love. Love, in its healthy form, doesn’t leave you anxious, confused, or small. It expands you. It steadies you. It nourishes more than it depletes.

Healing from “what you thought was love” is like learning a new language—one built on truth rather than fantasy. Here’s what real love begins to look and feel like when you start healing:

You no longer feel like you have to earn someone’s affection. Your worth isn’t on trial.

It doesn’t disappear when you disappoint someone or express a need.

You’re free to have opinions, boundaries, and individuality. You’re not punished for authenticity.

You give and receive in equal measure. Emotional labor isn’t one-sided.

There’s no guessing game, no constant need for reassurance. Safety replaces intensity.

Relearning love takes time—and courage. But every moment you choose truth over illusion, you strengthen the part of you that believes in real connection.

When you finally see what you once called love for what it truly was, it’s not failure—it’s awakening. You didn’t lose love; you outgrew illusion.

Honest reflection turns pain into wisdom. It allows you to enter future relationships with open eyes and a full heart, no longer chasing validation but welcoming respect.

So the next time you find yourself wondering, Was that love? ask instead, Did it bring me peace? Did it make me feel seen? Did it allow me to be myself?

Because when love is real, you don’t have to question it. You just know.

This reflection was inspired by the healing work of Bell Hooks, Brené Brown, and Ross Rosenberg, whose writings remind us that love and worthiness begin within.