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.

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Ruthless impersonal judgment is typical tool of cultural conformity
FRIDAY FUNNIES
My father’s narcissistic abuse led to my mother’s attempt to kill him
I’m drawn to tales of brokenness, rescue and ultimate redemption
There are times we need to quit; what do you need to quit today?
Want to feel happier, healthier? Try cutting back on deception
We can’t have real freedom without also allowing discrimination