I Wasn’t Looking For a Lover, But Someone to Save Me

Introduction

For the longest time, I thought I was just a hopeless romantic. Ever since I was a kid, I hoped that one day I’d meet the one.

Someone to keep me company, to make all my pains go away, to hold me when I’m feeling down.

You know, if I could just find her somewhere in this world. My world could finally be ok.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from all the burst bubbles and broken hearts, it’s this:

I wasn’t really looking for love.

I was wishing that someone would save me from myself. And that was never her job.

There’s a Hurt and Lonely Little Boy in Me

After projecting my little love fantasy onto what felt like the 128th girl I thought could be the one, and having that bubble burst yet again…

Even a dumbass like me had to pause and reflect: Hold on, what the fuck is going on? Why do I keep doing this to myself?

Because let’s be honest.

There’s just no way every girl I met could’ve actually been the one like I made them out to be.

If that were the case, I’d probably already be married with five kids and a minivan by now.

There was a pattern, a compulsion. And it didn’t feel like attraction, it felt like hunger.

I’d meet someone, maybe flirt a little at the bar, maybe go on a cute date or two, and my “hopeless romantic” brain would kick in gear.

And you gotta admire how consistent that little fucker was.

Even if she was emotionally unavailable or had red flags the size of Texas…I’d find ways to rationalize her into “the one”.

Like seriously. I can’t make this shit up.

Hell, I once almost stayed in Serbia for a girl I’d only known for a month. It even seemed romantic to me at that time.

But now, looking back, I see it for what it really was: A lonely, hurt little boy who was silently screaming.

Hoping someone would finally come and rescue him.

Where Did This Lonely, Hurt Little Boy Come From

Listen, I’m not gonna ask for sympathy or anything here. And you’ve heard of this same old story before. So I will make it quick.

Little James was born into a working-class family with two very functional and healthy parents. Sarcasm intended.

They fought like cats and dogs, left little James in the care of everyone else but themselves because they were often nose deep in the bills.

And little James learned very quickly that he’s either perfect or he’s a worthless mistake. Ouch.

And love came with terms and conditions and a side serving of physical discipline, if it did at all.

Not saying they were bad people, but they just raised little James the same way they were raised. And did the best they knew how.

Eventually, they built a middle-class lifestyle, bought little James lots of fancy toys.

But the one thing he never got and wanted the most?

That never, ever came.

Not like anyone could give what they never received themselves.

That Hurt Little Boy Grew Bigger, But He Never Grew Out of His Pain

It doesn’t take a psychologist to see that those early childhood experiences would haunt me into my adult life.

And in a way, I guess I knew it too. Even at the age of 22.

Of course, I was too busy chasing the idea of love to actually slow down and practice any healing work at that age.

“Yeah, whatever this inner child shit is, it can wait. I’m going to the bar and talking to girls tonight. Because I’m not ok, I feel empty, I feel worthless. Unless someone finally loves me.”

And that madness was rinsed and repeated with every girl who had the misfortune to like me.

Until I hit rock bottom and realized that I had to put a stop to this.

The Rock Bottom That Finally Made Me Face My Wounded Inner Child

It was that one night, me sitting on my couch, alone. In a silent apartment that was shared by two people, not too long ago.

Now, it was just me and my guilt running around in my head, and eating away at my conscience.

Why did I do all those things I did?

Why do I always push away the people who love me the most?

Am I a horrible person, and do I deserve to die for breaking someone’s heart like that?

I had to find the answers. Not because I was just trying to make sense of it all.

I had to swim to shore before I drowned in an ocean of guilt and shame.

Then I saw him. The scared little boy that had been inside of me all along. Maybe for the first time after years of pretending I didn’t see him.

Big angry man, who was just scared all along and wore an armour made out of sarcasm, manipulation, and self-medication.

He didn’t need to be saved. He just wanted to be seen and held.

I felt the grief, and part of me was also relieved.

I wasn’t a bad person. But I had done shitty things.

And all those toxic behaviours…

They were just my unhealthy ways of trying to protect myself.

Trying to earn love, trying to earn safety.

The things I should’ve given to myself in the first place.

So no. I thought I was looking for love. But I was actually looking for someone to save me from myself. But it was never her job.

And maybe I could’ve started healing earlier, and spared others from the devastation I caused.

But my stupid pride wouldn’t let me.

If I admitted to myself that I did get hurt, then I’d have to admit that those people indeed hurt me. And I was too stubborn to give them the satisfaction.

At my rock bottom, I surrendered.

And finally came to see the truth.

The first step to healing is putting down my armour.

Conclusion

I used to think that love would heal me. That if I could just find the right woman, all the pain, all the loneliness, all the mess inside me would finally disappear.

But love was never supposed to be a rescue mission.

It took breaking hearts, both mine and others’, to realize that no one was ever coming to save me.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because now, I’m learning to sit with that sad little boy instead of abandoning him. To hold him. To tell him he’s safe.

That he doesn’t need to earn love.

That he is love.

And if one day, someone comes along, someone kind, someone real…

I’ll meet her as a man who’s no longer begging to be saved.

But simply ready to give love unconditionally.