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.

If the truth is blurry in your mind, how can you explain it to others?
She’s miserable in life she chose, but she’s too proud to change now
Being hermit looks good as world tries to make me a misanthrope
Marriage is a business decision, not just matter of romantic love
Things you do in life determined by who you decide you want to be
Narcissists use ‘flying monkeys’ to keep victimizing their victims
Narcissists set themselves up for miserable lives and lonely deaths
Unmet childhood needs trigger addiction as I try to fill inner hole