Savior complex: You cannot save everyone, save yourself first

I think I heard the term savior complex for the first time over ten years ago. I shrugged it off as that is not me and haven’t thought about it once in the years since.

My thought process was that I heard the word “savior” and thought the overall psychological term had to do with believing that one is God. So maybe I thought the term referred to having a God complex. Maybe I thought the term had to do with being arrogant and thinking that you are better than everyone else. That description couldn’t be further from the truth to describe me back then or now. I am the most humble person in the world, dammit!

I also heard, back in the day, of the concept of certain people being attracted to people they view they can fix. In the following years, after I would tell someone about my relationship history, a person or two would describe me as a "fixer." They would mean it in a negative way, but I felt it was a compliment.

My very first relationship was when I was 19 and it was with a woman a couple years older than me who already had two young children. Let’s call her Christina. I met Christina at work and would hear her stories about how she was struggling to make ends meet. She was a very hard worker which is also something that has always attracted me, but she just couldn’t get ahead. She would call out of work once or twice every week, however, because the kids would be sick or she couldn’t find a babysitter.

Christina was also very attractive, sensual, and flirtatious. Don’t forget I was a few months from turning 20 and still had never been in a relationship. I had never even kissed a girl. I was an athletic, good looking kid, but what I didn’t know then that I know now is that I was abnormally shy and suffered from social anxiety my whole life. Christina would flirt with me every once in a while, but I just thought that was the way she was. I definitely was not one to take the initiative and make a first move.

One day a handful of workers were planning a beach day. I was invited, as was Christina. Actually, I think she was the one that was planning it. I don’t remember anything from the beach part of the day. I’m sure it was awkward for me, but pleasurable in a way to be included in the group. Afterwards, about four of us went back to Christina’s place to hang out. It was her, me, and two other girls. I know it probably seemed pretty bold of me to be alone in an apartment with three girls, but I thought nothing of it. I was firmly entrenched in the “friend zone” with all of them. I knew it and I figured that was the way they viewed me as well.

Christina’s apartment was pretty run down. The carpets were stained, torn in places, and very worn down. There were toys and balled up blankets all over the floor. The gas stove was disgusting and I couldn’t believe anybody used it to cook. The sink was filled with dirty dishes that probably hadn’t been washed in three or four days. The furniture was all mis-matched. The wooden dinner table was chipped and wobbled. The furniture was full of holes with the inner spongy material poking through. The bathroom was one of those where you were afraid to touch anything. Rust, mildew, and mold were everywhere you looked. You get the idea.

Christina did have a nice big screen TV, though. Funny how some things sometimes seem so out of place. It is like seeing a homeless person begging for change at the street corner while wearing Air Jordan sneakers.

The apartment was large, however, and it was positioned directly over a small used car lot which probably had about eight to ten shitty cars for sale. I drove by it every day as it was straight down my street, three blocks away. In all my years I had never noticed there was a livable space above the small dump of a dealership. Of course, I had no idea Christina lived there with her two kids.

So back to the post-beach day hang. It wasn’t long before the fourth person had to leave. So it was just me, Christina, and this other girl. Let's call her Mary. Mary was tiny, cute, and loved to talk. I was naïve and had zero instincts when it came to sexual clues and hints. Looking back now, despite Mary being in a relationship in which she constantly talked to me about their sex life, I think the two girls were actually competing for me. Nineteen-year-old Tony would have laughed at the idea, but looking back now I wonder how many signals I missed, not only that night, but in all my high school and college years. This was, undoubtedly, one of them.

I remember at some point I was laying between them in a bed. Yup, that's right. How dumb could I be? We were just talking and giggling, but there would be playful little kicking, punching, and tickling. The signals were soooo obvious that even I was sensing it at the time. I remember thinking, “What is going on here? Is this really happening? Am I going to have a threesome for my first sexual experience? Holy shit!”

Alas, my shyness did me in again. Next thing I remember is standing in Christina’s driveway, as the sun was setting, with the two of them. Mary was reluctant to leave before I did. I think she sensed that me and Christina were trying to get rid of her so we could be alone. Mary was right. Talk about good instincts. Christina had whispered in my ear moments earlier that I should pretend to leave so Mary would leave, and that I could then come back over in about half an hour and we could “watch a movie” alone together. I am sure the naïve me was wondering what movie we were going to watch.

The plan worked to perfection. Well, almost perfection. When I got back to Christina's place, she was sitting at the kitchen table getting her nails done by some other girl. I waited and waited and waited in the living room. Eventually, the "nail" girl left and I did, indeed, have my first sexual experience that night. I remember, at one point, leftover pineapple juice in a bowl being spilled into her hair while we were rolling around on the carpet.

That was the beginning of a six-year relationship with Christina. That would also have been my first time I can recollect experiencing savior complex. By the end of our relationship we had moved into a very nice apartment in a better part of town with an awesome kitchen and bathroom, and an even better television which was now part of a very expensive entertainment unit. 

Christina went from being thousands of dollars in debt to having a few thousand dollars in her savings account. She was no longer getting calls or mail from debt collectors. Now she was getting credit card applications. She bought, or maybe it was leased, a new car a couple of years into our relationship and then, once again, near the end of our relationship. The first time I needed to co-sign, but the second one she got approved all by herself.

Even beyond the materialistic stuff, I noticed a huge change in Christina’s personality. In the beginning, she was a street-tough, party girl. She was the complete opposite of me. I didn’t set out to change her. I didn’t even want a relationship. It just happened, and I wasn't complaining.

I also never set out to be a parent. When I first met the kids, they were five and three years old. The five-year-old was her daughter. We’ll call her Judy. If I were to ever have a daughter, I would have wanted her to be exactly like Judy. The son was the three-year-old. We’ll call him Johnny, and he was a terror.

Without getting into too many details about the kids, I like to think I left a positive impact on them during their formative years. I know I did. To this day, I don’t miss Christina, but I do miss and think about the kids, randomly, especially Judy.

I took great pride that I like to think I helped to …. I am struggling to think of the right words to use. Put her back on her feet? Get things turned around? Straighten out her life? I don’t want to come off as too arrogant. I don’t want to come across as some kind of “savior.” And there you have it. One who suffers from the savior complex doesn’t think they are being a savior or being arrogant. They just think they are helping people.

But, maybe, Christina didn’t need saving. Maybe she would have improved her life on her own. Doubtful, but maybe. There I go again.

The thing is it wasn’t my job to “save” her. In the end, she cheated on me not once, but twice. She reverted back to her party girl I-don’t-give-a-shit ways. She neglected a lot of her parenting duties. She would often leave the daughter at home alone while she went to hang out with friends. I would find out later that Judy would end up being a teenage mom just like her mom and favorite aunt. Johnny would become a tatted-up drug dealer who I wouldn't be surprised is in jail right now. It broke my heart when I found that out.

The bottom line is that I was the one who suffered. I would never have said, back then or now, that I was “in love” with Christina, but I was devastated for months after I broke up with her. Looking back now, I think I was devastated because I viewed myself as a failure. It had nothing to do with the relationship or wanting Christina back. I failed to save her and the kids. Christina had gone back to her dangerous lifestyle and there was nothing I could do.

But that didn’t stop me. My next relationship was a short lived relationship with another young mother of two. Same story. She had a tough childhood. She got pregnant young. She was a hard worker, but was struggling to make ends meet. She initiated our first kiss. And – sigh – she cheated on me.

I then went through a phase where I frequented gentleman’s clubs. Over the years, I came to discover that I wasn’t going to these clubs for the sexual aspects of seeing boobs or getting lap dances. I would have the hottest girls in the club come up to me asking if I wanted a lap dance and I would dismiss them, quickly and easily. I found I gravitated to the dancers who had stories to tell. I would sit and just talk for hours with dancers that were struggling to get through college, or take care of their kids, or recover from addictions. I became friends and had purely platonic relationships with a few of them outside of the clubs.

I’d like to think I helped a few of them with my words of wisdom over the years. It is just a trend with me that I am drawn to these kind of women. Maybe I don’t want to feel inferior to someone who has their life more in order than I do. Maybe I like to feel that I am in a position to help. Maybe it is about power. Maybe it isn’t all altruistic, but, in many ways, selfish that I am doing it to feed my ego. I never thought of it like that.

Even now that I am out of work and mounting up debt of my own, I find myself still needing to help others. I will still give the beggar at the corner of the street a dollar even though it may be the last one in my wallet. I will still leave more than a 20% tip if I think the service warrants it. These are signs of a dangerous case of savior complex – when you feel the need to help others even when you can't take care of yourself.

Finally, the reason I got to thinking of writing this article. I link my savior complex to the grief I feel over my mother’s death two years ago. A lot of the guilt I feel to this day is that I could not save her. She died of Lewy Body Dementia. It is a combination of Alzheimer’s and Parkinson's disease. It pained me to see her slowly deteriorate over the years, and there was nothing I could do. I felt like a failure when I had to resign myself to putting her in a nursing home. Then COVID hit and I was unable to visit her. I only got to see her three times in her last year alive. All these things were out of my control, and it continues to severely depress me to this day.

Those are the dangers of the savior complex. One is setting themselves up for failure. Not everyone can be saved. There are things that are out of our control. I always said I would never put my mother in a nursing home, but I never anticipated a disease like dementia which required 24/7 monitoring and care.

A big part of the savior complex is not putting yourself first. The last two years have taught me the importance of self care – putting myself first. It goes against every piece of my DNA. In my 50 years on this planet, I have never allowed myself to think like that. It is not the way I was raised. It just wasn't me.

However, now I go for massages and therapy on a regular basis. Most importantly, I don't feel guilty about it. I take vacations. I go to the park by myself and read. I meditate. I try not to watch or read about the news as much. I cannot help every tornado, tsunami, earthquake, or hurricane victim. I cannot bring peace in the Middle East. I cannot end hunger in Africa. I cannot save every homeless person I pass, begging on every street corner. I cannot make people not vote for Trump. That last one is tough to accept.

Now I am the one who needs to be saved, and that is okay. It is okay for me to admit that. There is no shame in it. I am no less of a man, or a human being, for saying or writing that. Help is out there. There is someone out there waiting to save you. We like to think we are strong enough to save ourselves, but sometimes we just need a rope to help pull us up.