I want to be rescued.
I’m not supposed to want that. In this day and age, I am supposed to be satisfied with being a strong, independent woman who “doesn’t need a man to complete her.” I am all those things, but there is a difference between need and want, and I want to be rescued.
Sometimes, the world is winning and I am afraid. Sometimes, I want to be swept up and carried and held and protected. It would be nice if someone else would slay the dragon every once-in-a-while. I’ve slayed enough of them. I know my value and my worth and the power that lies within me, but does that mean I have to wield my own sword every second of every single day? Can’t someone else, a hero, a knight in shining armor show up, and at least have my back, if not relieve me altogether, just for a minute?
I don’t want someone else to fight all my battles for me. I don’t need to be coddled and patronized, but to have someone that wants to be there, that wants me but doesn’t suffocatingly need me in return, that would be nice. Someone to trust and depend on, who won’t suck my soul from me with his constant black hole of negativity and intense, overwhelming need of me. Someone with whom I can breathe freely. That would be nice.
My codependent tendencies draw me to those who are most dangerous to me, those who are most broken and emotionally demanding. I want to heal them, to fix them, to help them, to save them.
And sometimes I do. And I don’t regret it. I understand that I am not actually doing the saving, but helping them on their own way to healing, to the One who actually can heal and save.
But then I find my way, inevitably, to those, one in particular, whom I “save” over and over and over and he just needs more and more and more and I am sucked dry and empty and shriveled and curled up on the floor, and still he’s draining me and needing, needing, needing. Finally, I find a way to escape, and he’s still there, always there, my Grendel showing up every night to feast at the hall of my fears and insecurities,
and I am no Beowulf. I want a Beowulf.
The irony is that I trained my Grendel. I showed him how to devour me and that I would put up with it. I showed up at the hall every night, like clockwork, waiting patiently, forgivingly, loyally,
and offered him my throat.
I don’t want to do that anymore, and I’m learning how to stop, but it takes time to retrain monsters. It takes skill to retrain monsters and not become one myself. The temptation to hate is strong. The path to become bitter and jaded is wide and smooth. The instinct to put up my walls and protect myself is, well, instinctual.
But I just started feeling again and, while it hurts, it’s also marvelous. I don’t want the walls back.
They squish my wings.
It’s just that I could fly faster and farther if someone would help me hold my sword.
Maybe someday I’ll find my Beowulf. Maybe I won’t. All I know for sure is, even though the sword is heavy and my arms are getting tired, my muscles are getting stronger. And that’s all I need, for now.