I’ve tried writing this over a couple of days and no matter what, I feel as though it remains lacking in something. I do consider it a foundational story for what’s ahead. Hopefully it will all come together by the end. (That’s what I’m telling myself anyway)
If you read my first few posts, you have a good idea that my life has been disruptive and chaotic since birth. When I was 29, I finally received a partial reason why I continued to fail. My therapist diagnosed me with ADHD. I wasn’t just close to the symptoms, I could have written almost every single one verbatim.
I was also informed that I likely suffered from White Knight Syndrome. Well alright then. Since the info came from the guy with the degree, I eagerly accepted both because in doing so, it allowed me to shed a portion of the blame for the absurdly bad choices I routinely made. I wasn’t a total fuck up on my own. I had a doctor’s note proving I had help.
White Knight Syndrome is a compulsive need to help other people. A person with White Knight Syndrome (WKS) feels a deep attachment and empathy for people they see as vulnerable, damaged, or helpless, and an urge to offer them aid. They also might feel the need to “fix” their romantic partners, friends, or family. Often, they hope to receive validation or praise in response to their efforts. Sometimes, though, those efforts aren’t needed or wanted. White Knight Syndrome
There are subclasses of WKS which further define the syndrome and can help people look at how closely they may fit. If you think you may be one, I strongly encourage you to read up on it and seek professional help. Do not do what I did and blindly accept any diagnosis that allowed me to escape a bit of personal accountability.
Eventually, I met two authentic White Knights and learned that I do not fit the same way a full blown knight fits. While I do display many of the characteristics, I miss some of the major components that deal with guilt and anxiety. I do not process those emotions the way a knight does, or honestly, the way most people do in general.
With a little more digging, I found one that fit a little more accurately.
The Damsel in Distress. An intense desire to rescue someone who may be seriously self-destructive, drug and or alcohol dependent, and/or a victim of perpetrator of domestic violence.” Boblivingstone.com
Although gendered as female, the word damsel is more of a trope based on stories from our childhood. Knights and Damsels can be any gender.
I do not exhibit the extreme characteristics of either, but I own a good amount from both. The one I believe I match closest to is the Damsel in Distress. My major weakness is in fact women in distress. My therapists believe it was born from an unstable childhood. Some sort of subconscious desire to rescue women who find themselves in distress, thereby rescuing my mother…
As psychology tells us, we spend our adult lives trying to fix the holes punched into our childhood development. And that’s what I’ve been attempting to do even after I recognized what it was costing me. I try to save people who appear to be victims of their circumstances, whether they want it or not. I don’t Kool-Aid man into their life and shove my ideas and opinions down their throat. Most of the time people won’t listen to the advice they actually ask for. There is zero chance they’ll listen to whatever is thrown at them from the blind side.
So the most valuable lessons always cost the most. What did this educational experience cost me? Everything. Multiple times.
Wife #2 cost me everything twice. That could be a book series alone. The publication would be something along the lines of sex-laden horror stories – Stephen King writes 50 Shades of Gray.
For you fans of Freud, I’ve included bonus material at my own personal expense.
I don’t know how common the following condition is with Damsel in Distress, but it’s a real mind-job.
When I get involved with a damsel in distress, depending on the type of distress she suffers with, it also wakes up some sort of twisted Freudian connection into the deeper parts of my brain. Rescuing damsels has a psychosexual effect which I uncovered with wife #2 due to the overwhelming intensity her life ran at every single day.
Before anyone wonders if I had “those” types of feelings for my mother or if anything happened when I was a child, let me be clear – 100% No. I had no desires for my own mother. There was also never any inappropriate behavior. My mother may have made her share of mistakes, but destroying my mental health through sexual abuse wasn’t one of them.
When wife #2 was sick and needed me to make her a grilled cheese with miso soup, it was foreplay to me. The more I took care of her, the more I wanted to make love to her – almost to an obsessive level. I would get so excited that oftentimes I would be in pain from it. When that happened, she would give in and allow me to satisfy my urges. I was always gentle and did my best not to move her around alot – I was a freak, not a monster. Part of me genuinely believed I could help her by ramping up her adrenaline and endorphin release. This was well before I had read anything about the orgasm’s actual effects on the body. Most of the time she felt better after she got off, but sometimes it made matters worse until her body calmed down.
Because she was already morally bankrupt and a sexual deviant long before I met her, my oddity was not received poorly. She agreed it was strange, but never denied me because of it. Her ability to overlook my vice aided in lessening my feelings of awkwardness and strengthened by feelings of love towards her acceptance of my quarks. As long as she was ok with it, I didn’t give a shit what anyone else thought.
Out of all the women I had been with up till her, I was unable to think of one that would’ve been ok if she was lying on the couch feeling like death and my dumbass cruised right up to her naked and said, “Hot soup and hard dick! Get’em while they’re fresh.” Of course after we divorced I pulled down the freak flag and tucked it away. Eventually I’d learn that hiding the problem does not solve it. Just makes for a dysfunctional sex drive in later years.
The things I’d witnessed. The acts I’d participated in. They cannot be dismissed, rationalized, or forgotten. Seriously. Once you’ve seen a person hanging on meathooks (Suspension) and a woman set on fire for sexual gratification (Fireplay) in the same night, where exactly am I supposed to go after that… besides therapy?
Just to clarify how damsel in distress works for me. If I see a woman in distress out in public, I feel 100% obligated to help her. There are almost no exceptions. Do I want to have sex with her? LOL No. Have I imagined getting a date or hookup from stopping to help? Of course. And it did happen once. The lesson I received from that encounter changed the course of my entire life.
The arousal aspect of my condition doesn’t come into play until I am in a relationship with the person. The intimacy has to already be established for the sex-copay to form. I continued to subdue that part of me until the wreck occurred. Now that I am barely able to care for myself, the intimate desires for a Did have never returned.
So if I have ever offered to be there if you needed someone to talk/vent/scream, the offer is sincere… and no, I’m not looking to spark my damsel urges. lol
If my silence allows you to fearlessly scream into the abyss and be heard, then in the darkness I wait for your call – because sometimes you need to let the madness out and not be judged for it.
If the purpose of my life is merely to serve as a warning to others, then may the stories I share be of benefit to someone who may need to find them – because at least my existence would have a purpose.
Off The Rails 