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You can’t save anyone from themselves. You will lose everything, attempting to play saviour. You will never, ever heal the terminally wounded. You cannot repair the damage already done by selfish parents, vicious ex-lovers, child molesters, tyrants, poverty, depression, or chemical imbalance. You can’t undo psychic wounds. You can’t bandage old scars. You can’t kiss away ancient bruises. You can’t make the fucking pain go away.
You can’t shout down the voices in other people’s heads. You can’t make them feel special. They’ll never feel beautiful enough, no matter how beautiful they are to you. They’ll never feel loved enough, no matter how much you fucking adore them. You’ll never be able to save the battered from battling back at a world they’ve grown to hate. They’ll always find a new way to pick up where the bullies left off. They will, in turn, become bullies. They will turn you into the enemy. They will always find a new method in which to punish themselves, thereby punishing you.
No matter how much you’ve convinced yourself that you have done everything in your power to prove your undying devotion, unfaltering commitment, unending encouragement; you will never, ever be able to save a miserable bastard from themselves. They will always find a way to spread their pain over a vast terrain, like an emotional tsunami which devastates the surrounding landscape; an ever-expanding firewall which singes everything and everyone in its wake.
The longer that you love a damaged person, the more it’s going to hurt you. They will mock your generosity. They will abuse your kindness. They will expect your forgiveness. They will try your fucking patience. They’ll sap your energy, and eventually they’ll end up killing your fucking soul. They won’t be happy until you’re as miserable as they are. Then, their incredible self-loathing will be justified by the perpetuation of a cycle, from which there’s absolutely no recourse. Once you enter their freefall, it’ll be nearly impossible to turn your back on them, and you’ll be racked with guilt; you’ll be frustrated by your own impotence; you’ll be made furious for ever buying into their fucking bullshit in the first place. And of course, the more damaged they are, the more charismatic, the more brilliant, the more sexually intoxicating, the more dangerous to your own mental health.
from “will work for drugs” by Lydia Lunch
