The Time I Forgot To Save Myself

It’s ironic, isn’t it? Those of us who develop a savior complex — feeling an overwhelming need to “save” others by fixing their problems — are often the ones who need saving the most. Yet, more often than not, no one comes to rescue us from our self-imposed damnations.

In nearly three decades of life, I’ve learned to temper my heart’s desires, especially when I find myself falling for someone. But acknowledging this is far easier than putting it into practice. From a young age, I watched my father, a lawyer with an unyielding sense of justice, go out of his way to help the needy. He was well-known among the poor, especially our Moro brothers and sisters, often waiving his professional fees to assist fellow Muslims with their legal battles.

My father was a decent man, possessing a heart vast enough to encompass everyone in need. Clients who couldn’t afford his services would bring fruits, vegetables, and seafood as tokens of gratitude. He wasn’t the ideal father figure, but he was undoubtedly the best man for his role. Growing up, I idolized his selflessness, striving to emulate his generosity at every opportunity. However, this aspiration to be perpetually available for others has often backfired. My accommodating nature left me drained and empty countless times. I became a pathological people pleaser, carrying a God-like savior complex, always ready to sacrifice my well-being for others. In trying to save everyone else, I lost pieces of myself. It’s a lonely realization, recognizing that while I was busy being everyone’s savior, no one noticed that I, too, needed saving.

I always saw myself as an all-or-nothing person, ready to sacrifice everything for love and attention — things I felt deprived of during my childhood. Orphaned at sixteen, I endured a life where my father treated me as if I were invisible, a mistake in his eyes for being gay. Desperately seeking love in places where it never existed, I often found myself racing to the finish line, even when there was nothing waiting for me at the end.

I became a master of self-sabotage, tearing down the very castles I had painstakingly built for myself. This trauma inevitably seeped into my relationships. At nineteen, I ran away and severed ties with my family for a man I deeply loved. It was a dark period in my life. Transitioning from a sheltered upbringing with household help to fending for myself was a harsh reality. I went from relying on my father’s weekly allowances to selling goodies and services to classmates for daily sustenance, even taking up part-time work in a small restaurant while pursuing my bachelor’s degree — all for the sake of young love. That love faded after four years when he graduated and no longer needed me in his life. I was wounded and struggling, yet I allowed myself to be left behind because I didn’t want to be a burden to him. While his life blossomed, I remained with his family, who treated me with kindness despite our breakup.

Was I a fool for letting my impulses rule me? I can’t say for certain. What I do know is that, for a while, I was loved — by him and his family. They went out of their way to save me, even though I felt impartial, afraid of being overwhelmed by love. I will always be grateful to them for their support, but I knew deep down that I needed to move on. Living with my ex-lover’s family, who treated me like a son, was no longer viable. They had no obligation to save me from the troubles I had inflicted upon myself.

I drowned myself in leisure to overcome the heartbreak. I made friends, spent countless hours playing RPG games in internet cafes with my barkada, got drunk, and woke up in various rental rooms and dormitories. I poured my heart into paper, rekindling my long-forgotten love of literature from high school. For a moment, I felt like the king of my world — a fifth-year veterinary medicine student, excelling in the campus press despite the reputation of our VetMed program as one of the most challenging. Friends often asked how I managed to balance my extracurricular activities with my studies. The truth was, I didn’t. I was self-sabotaging, skipping classes, and missing course requirements while basking in the illusion of success. I was editor-in-chief of the campus publication, a white knight trying to beat deadlines, please our overly high-standard adviser, and as much as I could, aim to win multiple national competitions. A year before, I had been a diligent veterinary student, performing surgeries, studying viruses and bacteria, and learning about pathology. Now, I was catching flights to Manila or Pampanga, attending one national conference after another.

I thought I had saved myself from heartache and demons, but in reality, I was only high on dopamine. I had lost sight of what truly mattered — my studies. Fast forward, I was culled from my college program after failing three courses: veterinary surgery, pharmacology, and another subject I can no longer remember. I was left suicidal, pushing back friends who dared to save me, determined to suffer alone.

There I was, the dying savior, trapped in a dark room, crying myself to sleep day and night, wondering why no one came to save me — when, in fact, God had sent friends to help. I was a lost cause. But thankfully, I didn’t take my own life.

Looking back, I see how I used distractions to numb the pain, and how I mistook temporary highs for real happiness. I see how I pushed away those who cared, preferring the darkness of my misery to the light of their concern. In my quest to save others, I neglected to save myself. It took losing almost everything to realize that the first person I needed to rescue was me.

After leaving university, my career started rocky. I tried working in a call center, writing for advertising, and eventually found my way into digital marketing, which became my new career. This path not only provided financial stability but also filled a void in my heart. Understanding the need to be saved, I made it my mission to save as many people as I could. When friends needed help, I was there — emotionally and, when I could afford it, financially. However, this backfired. One situation after another drained my finances and mental health. I had made being a savior my entire identity, constantly rescuing others from heartbreak and trying to fix them without expecting anything in return.

So, how do I save myself? This question haunts me. I often reflect on my journey and the choices I’ve made. I realize that in my desperation to be the hero, I neglected my own needs. I sacrificed my well-being for the sake of others, losing pieces of myself along the way.

I am slowly learning that saving myself means setting boundaries and recognizing my worth beyond what I can do for others. It means understanding that my value is not tied to my ability to rescue. It means accepting help when I need it and being okay with not always being the strong one. In moments of introspection, I see the broken parts of myself that still need healing. I understand that my journey is about finding balance — giving without depleting myself, loving without losing myself, and saving others without forsaking my salvation. It’s a continuous process, but one worth pursuing for the sake of my peace and happiness.