The Damsel in Distress

I have a confession to make. Here world, I am going to admit something .  Until quite recently I was addicted to the idea that someone was going to come along and save me and help me with all my problems.  Here I am an intelligent, assertive person who clearly should have an idea that the idea is preposterous… but there you go I found it enticing. I can remember at 14 writing a poem about some guy whisking in the darkness to save me. There. I said it. I have a damsel in distress recovered complex. I used to know too, how to get people to come to my rescue. I had the look down, the helpless quiver… the ability to have someone else carry the heavy load ( literally and figuratively…)

I am not talking about asking men to be chivalrous… but I keep reading the same thing over and over in books lately . It’s like women feel the need to have selective amnesia and act helpless… The books goes something like this

She lay shivering in the corner, the ghosts of her past stitched ever so closely to her side. They would come so. But Chastain came ( they always have ridiculous names) and held her in his big strong tatooed arms and she knew everything would be o.k. from now on.

 

Oh brother. So why do women find this so appealing? Because it’s nice to think that someone else can solve your problems… it’s also quite a condescending mythology right up there with the White Man Solves Problems of Minorities myth. It’s even more intoxicating because it’s done for love.

But let’s not even talk about what it does to women… let’s talk about the effect this has on men. How can men possibly live up to this insane all knowing standard? Let’s look at the fictional qualities this person has to have

 

They know all the answers

So basically we expect them to know how to solve your life when they aren’t in your situation and you yourself  can’t deal with it. You expect them to know exactly how to solve something in a record amount of time…. there is no consultation, give or take, learning organically together to figure this out. We are expecting immediate , straight cut answers.

Usually in this myth it is a problematic and often painful situation of the past.  So this person, without any psychological or psychiatric or medical training will somehow know how to ” cure ” us ???  How dangerous is that? We are letting someone else foster important decisions and rooting our whole self confidence in those answers. For this reason, a man can feel pressured or stressed to know everything and cannot confide when they are unable to handle a situation. This is not a key to a trusting relationship is it? Oh yeah and you can never be wrong.

Men Need to be strong all the time

Men can’t cry, or be weak or even ask for help. They are the strong ones, the ones who need to endure pain for women … Isn’t that a little strange? I mean , technically speaking women endure a heck of a lot of physical pain every month and even while they are pregnant.  What are we teaching men that they have to be closed off emotionally in order to solve our problems???

Enduring a concept of perfection

In order to be a savior one has to be perfect. An adonis , an epitome of wisdom and strength. You have to be this in order to be worthy of love.  Again… kind of messed up isn’t it?

Realizing the archetype

The archetype of the damsel in distress has existed since the dawn of time, and it’s time to change it. We need to realize that perhaps, the damsel is that part of us that needs saving. I remember I had a dream once and there was this huge chasm and I didn’t know how to get to the other side. This guy was on the other side and he said ” Jump I will catch you!” . I did and he caught me and saved me. A friend of mine told me: “what do you think this means?” I told her I thought it had to do with my relationship. But she shook her head and told me to think harder. I then realized it had to do with me saving MYSELF. He was a symbol of my ability to find strength to do something.

And this is the gyst of this : No one can save you from yourself. No one can walk for you. No one can be your voice. You have to make that decision, you have take those steps and sing those notes. Yes, someone can help you walk but ultimately we decide this for ourselves. The only thing that saves you is yourself. Just had to repeat that one.

For me, ultimately I had to continually decide to trust in God, have faith and make my own decisions… but that’s scary because then the responsibility is solely upon yourself.

How a Girl Lost Her Fire

She was once strong and fearless, even if there was nothing that really stood out about her… yet there was a deep throbbing Fire within her. You could hear it in her voice, in her piercing glance, in the stubborn pursing of her lips and the defensiveness of her stance. In every gesture, every glance she would yell a statement : This is Who I am, it does not matter if you accept me or not.
She was one of those who had suffered. Scars traced paths on her pale flesh, war wounds trickling through her like cobwebs. Her body seemed of steel and lead held together with rusted nails. yet if you were lucky to know her you would find that deep inside she was filled with love and compassion.
Yet one day something happened. It is unclear what it was…perhaps she received too many blows, too many people did not see the quiet beauty behind the steel. Her image became blurred. She no longer saw her pride and strength. She glanced at her reflection and blotted red to cover her pursed lips and dabbed mascara to cover her fiery glance and placed foundation on her war wounds. With every stroke she erased who she was and with every soft dabbing she forgot .
One day she became desperate, grabbing hold of anything to shut out the voidless voids of the unknown. In her darkest hour she called for her prince to save her. His poet eyes, his soothing voice and crafty hands calmed her and each stroke caused her to remember. Gently he sliced her iron and chopped her rusty nails and felt her cotton insides, where her poor heart lay quivering for love. He offered no promises magically crafting excuses yet she in her desperation asked for none. She Longed for something…and she found it in his salty lips. As he lay her on the half made bed- a bed that had been of many but of no one- she gave a sigh of relief , thinking salvation and she surrendered.
As their bodies intertwined, as she lay there vulnerable and happy he ripped her core: her fire. As they lay on the bed she felt content, not knowing her fire was gone. She left the apartment quickly the next morning with her hair askew and her shirt rumpled. She could not help but feel a dull ache; a desperation deep within.
She was no longer happy until she saw a remnant of him : his voice, the place he worked, a glance. They exchanged no words, no promises. She knew nothing about him only half told stories and the warmth of his skin.
Yet it did not matter for in every glance she saw her fire. And he, craftily, always backed away leaving her in a quiet chaos, a dull hunger.
All her time was spent pleasing Him. Gone were the shelves of life and the occupation of Other Things. Instead they became cluttered with catching another moment, another inkling to taste his skin and feel his calloused hands around her shoulders. And with each encounter she became more of a shadow of who she was. She forgot her strength, her beauty her pride and she tried to become what he might want her to be ( even if she no longer knew what that was)
As she Became Someone Else another ember died in the stranger’s greasy hand. She gladly gave it, her Don Quijote disguised as a prince.

Written at age 18, dedicated to a dear friend of mine who I hope finally found a way back to herself.

Illustration by Maryam DiMauro