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I was talking to my therapist and mention my addiction to my self-inflected “hero syndrome.” And she, being very knowledgable in her field, understood what I was talking about but urged me to keep going. I told her:
See doc, I know very well that no one can save me bc I know that she will never be able to heal my pain. She’ll just be a well-disguised bandaid. But I crave it. Part of my addiction to my “hero syndrome” isn’t the fact that I’m looking for an actual hero but I enjoy the thrill of thinking I found one. Bc that thrill represents hope it’s the surprise of it all. Can this be it? Should I? Can she? Will we? But then when I realize that she could never be it or when she realizes that she doesn’t want to be it the thrill of the descend back to reality’s shit stains aka my life, is what catches me again. And bc she messed up a good thing, bc she didn’t remain loyal to her original task which was to save me I fall back into this lonely place where I feel uncomfortable. I fall back into the same feelings I had when I realized that everyone who said the “loved” me weren’t who the claim to be. And it weighs me down. So I swiftly run back to that place where are the “Heroes” are and I pick the first one who nipples at my line, completely knowing that they will be thrown back into the sea. But it’s that high from the thrill that keeps the lonelies away. It is that thrill that allow me a mere glimpse into the life of a fairytale. So I give and give hoping that THIS ONE will see my broken heart and want to fix it. But they never do and all I’m left with is broken pieces of a broken heart.

Then my therapist looks at me and purges her lips as if she knows that the words that are about to come out of her mouth will be the most profound and thought-provoking I have ever heard. She says:

Well Kendra, if you know this why don’t you allow yourself to be your own hero? Why don’t you fall in love with yourself? give all of you to all of you and see if that won’t do the trick.

I return her profound words with a chuckle and simply say “See doc, that sounds good and all but I honestly cannot do it.”

She asks, “Why?”

I look at her as to silently signal her to brace herself. I say:
Bc, being s hero takes a certain strength that was stolen from me. I may act tough but it’s all just a lie to keep from breaking down in public. I know I’m weak, insecure, judgmental, combative, emotional, controlling, but in order for me to function I have to tell myself I’m not those things. I have fallen so deep into my own lie that I lie awake at night fighting to keep the lie, or the truth, from consuming me. I wake up each morning not knowing which me is going to be present. But I always know when I look at her, me, in the mirror. I see it in my eyes. The difference. I can’t be the hero. I can’t save me or even try. Bc there is that moment when every hero fails and the antagonist gets to live to fight another day. But Which one would I be? Bc if I’m the hero and I win I take in all the baggage that comes with me. And I gave to deal with, on my own, bags that I didn’t pack nor asked for. But if I lose then I live with the defeat by the hand of my own. And if that happens who’s to blame?