For almost fifty years, I walked into every relationship carrying a toolbox and wearing a cape.
I didn't know I was doing it. It wasn't until I was in my 40s, sitting in a therapist's chair undergoing regression therapy, that I found the origin point. I recovered a memory of my mother receiving a phone call. I was a small child. I watched her drop into a chair and sob uncontrollably. The call was to tell her that her father had passed away. To a child, your mother is your world. Seeing her despondent was terrifying. I remember trying to rub her arm, trying to say it would be okay, trying to make the tears stop. But I couldn't.
That moment burned a script into my psyche that I followed for decades: I must fix the broken.
The Pattern
From high school on, I was drawn to distress like a moth to a flame. I became the "safe guy," the listener, the shoulder to cry on to many. In my own life, I didn't date women who were happy; I dated women who were hurting. If they had trauma, I wanted to heal it. If they had chaos, I wanted to manage it. My history is a map of this complex.
My first long-term relationship was defined by family trauma and mental health struggles.
My first marriage involved navigating deep grief and loss.
Later relationships involved severe personality disorders that stressed me to the point of a cardiac event.
I thought I was being a "Good Man." I thought I was being a hero. But looking back, I realize it was transactional. I was trying to earn love by being useful. I thought that if I could just fix them, they wouldn't leave. Ironically, the pattern was always the same: I would pour everything I had into "saving" them, and the moment they were strong enough to lift their heads, or got tired of my attempts to save them, they would leave.
The Breaking Point
My last marriage was the final attempt. I walked into a situation marked by tragedy, thinking, "This time, I have the experience. I can wrap my arms around this family and fix it." I couldn't. My efforts only caused friction. When that ended, it finally broke me. I sat in the wreckage and realized the hard truth I should have learned decades before: You cannot fix people. They have to fix themselves.
The Panic of Peace
I spent months in therapy processing this new realization. At first, it was terrifying. When you have spent a lifetime defining your worth by your utility - by being the "Fixer" - the idea of that identity not longer being there...of being in a relationship with someone who doesn't need you to do anything...feels wrong. You feel you will be raw and exposed. You think: "If this person isn't going to need me to save them, why would they be there?"
That brings me to today. I am in a wonderful new relationship. And for the first time in my life, I didn't feel the need to be a saviour. Moreoever, she doesn't need saving. She doesn't need me to stabilize her mental health or manage her chaos. She has her own strength.
Needed vs. Wanted
It took me 53 years to learn the difference between being needed and being wanted.
Being Needed is a job. It is exhausting. It creates a hierarchy where one person is the savior and the other is the victim.
Being Wanted is a choice. It is two whole people standing next to each other.
The Takeaway
I have retired the cape. I am learning to sit in the quiet. She sees me. Not the former "fixer," not the crisis manager, but Me. The guy who loves games and golf and music, who struggles, who laughs, who loves deeply, and who is trying to get healthy. She understands me for who I really am, and she cares for me completely, with all of her heart. And for the first time in my life, I don't feel like I have to earn my peace by putting out fires. I just get to be finally, truly, home.
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