When I was a little boy, I went to sleep almost every night making up stories in my head. I was always the hero.
By the time I was old enough to start liking girls and wanting their attention — about fifth grade, it seems — my stories were mostly about being heroic for a girl. I had a crush on a classmate named Wendy, so she was the metaphorical princess and I was the knight on a white horse.
I didn’t understand it at the time, but I was setting a pattern for much of my life.
I wanted to feel special. I craved the attention and admiration of one woman. Over the years, the identity of that woman changed. of course. When I did something I thought might impress her, I wanted the crowds to love me, but only because that meant she would see.
I wanted her to think I was special. I wanted her to love me for that.

Connection with a child can make routine day feel more meaningful
We hate ourselves for needing other people’s approval so much
Openly gay people in U.S. military? So what? I have no objections
A muse is a crutch for an artist, but some need a crutch to walk
Could ‘free cities’ — existing inside more restrictive states — be a first step toward freedom?
Race discrimination: Sometimes evil, but sometimes praiseworthy?
For first time in my life, I fear not finding love and life I’ve needed
Why do tax dollars fund lavish lifestyles for bureaucrats?