i wanna save you

6/19/2007

I have a complex.

I like to help. I like to be helpful. I like to listen to people’s problems and be there for people. I like to dole of insightful pieces of advice. It’s my mother inside of me. She liked to fix things, even when her idea of fixing wasn’t necessarily needed nor wanted. Her constant involvement in the inner workings of my brother and my respective lives is evidence of that.

But whatever she had, I caught it.

I like to be needed. It’s how I feel wanted. Girls sometimes dress in provocative outfit for attention. Helping someone out is my low cut shirt. Feeling needed and being the person that they turn to is the attention that I desire.

Its kind of sick, isn’t it? It’s the superman complex. Over and over again, I get involved in relationships with girls that are broken somehow and I feel the need to fix them. They grow enamored with the devoted attention I give them and I grow dependent on constantly being needed and wanted.

I thought I stopped. I really did. After I saw how unhealthy it was, after I realized that the girls that I were with quickly grew detached helpful insights and wise words that I thought I provided, after I realized that people don’t change unless they make a conscious effort, no matter what I say, or do, or show them, after all of that, I thought I had enough.

But I have complex. I need to feel wanted. I need to be someone’s strength. I need to be someone’s hero.

It started off so innocently. I just helped the girl, in a time of need. Anyone would have done it.

And like a recovered addict that has dabbled again in his addiction, the flood gates began to buckle, as the waters behind it swelled. It felt great to be needed again. It felt wonderful to have someone say that she loved me. And after time after time again, I almost let myself believe that it was true.

You can only hear some things oh so many times before they linger and affect you, no matter how high your defenses are, or how sensitive your bullshit detector is.

So now I’m knee deep, stuck in a puddle of shit. In too far to walk back, but I don’t know how long this will go for.

I’ve caught myself in a lie again. But the strangest thing was that I’ve found that I’m the one telling the lies. I used to think I dove head first into things, eyes closed tightly shut.

My eyes are wide open now. And I can see the pavement below. And it is not any softer than the last time I plunged for a dive.

Maybe I need a superman to save me.

White Russian

1 oz. Vodka
1 oz. Kahlua
1 oz. Cream