The Rescue That Made Me See
When I was a kid, my dad spanked me regularly.
My interpretation at the time: I was doing my homework too slow. He thought I was trying to get out of it, or being oppositionally defiant, or throwing a fit. Whatever he saw, it wasn’t what I was experiencing.
What I was experiencing: trying my best. And it not being enough. And being beaten anyway.
I tried to communicate. I tried to say I was doing my best. He didn’t hear it. He was certain he knew what was happening and what I really needed—and he was wrong.
His Story
Years later, my father and I talked about it. He sees it differently now.
He was in Rescuer mode. He was afraid for me. He saw a son who couldn’t handle pressure, who would crumble when the world didn’t bend to his needs. And the world doesn’t bend. He knew that. He’d lived it.
So he tried to toughen me up. Prepare me. Make me strong enough to survive what was coming.
His intentions were love. His methods were violence. And the outcome was the opposite of what he wanted.
The violence didn’t teach resilience like my father intended. The story I carried away was that no amount of effort could keep me safe. That I couldn’t trust my own experience. That my emotional needs didn’t matter and would only be met if I earned them through performance — and I never could perform well enough. That showing what I actually wanted was dangerous. That defending myself and setting boundaries never worked. That those in authority could do whatever they wanted to me, and nothing would be done about it. That asking for help from the people who were supposed to create a sense of safety usually created the opposite. That the people who loved me could hurt me while believing they were helping.
The Dream I Lived In
I felt small. Helpless. Terrified of a world that seemed designed to crush me.
I developed a victim mentality. Everything happened to me. I had no power. I couldn’t protect myself, couldn’t change my circumstances, couldn’t do anything but endure.
That mindset ran my life for years. And it wasn’t limited to my father. I was a victim everywhere. Powerless with women—terrified that talking to one would confirm I was unlovable. Powerless with money—terrified I couldn’t take care of myself. Powerless with my own mind—hostage to thoughts I couldn’t control, feelings I couldn’t stop, patterns I couldn’t see. Every dimension of my life was filtered through the same lens: I can’t. It’s hopeless. I have no power here.
I was the most victim-ish victim I’d ever seen. And I believed it with every cell.
Then, at 25, it culminated.
Multiple traumas I’d never processed came up at once. I developed PTSD. I had eight-hour panic attacks every other day. I felt like a helpless slave—broken by my past, unable to get the connection and intimacy I desperately wanted, terrified of rejection. I was resentful. I was borderline suicidal.
That’s why I’m so passionate about what this book teaches. I know what it’s like to live in hell—not because the world is hell, but because perceiving yourself as a powerless victim turns it into one. I lived there for years. The world wasn’t actually crushing me. My stories were. But I couldn’t see that from inside the dream.
I was stuck in the Victim position. And I didn’t even know there was another option.
Waking Up
Eventually, I was in so much pain that I made a decision: I would do anything to change.
That’s when things started shifting. I did therapy—five hours a week for a year. I dove into personal development: Landmark Forum, Tony Robbins, anything that promised transformation. I learned the language that separates story from reality. I started seeing how much of what I believed was just… belief.
But the biggest shift came from somewhere unexpected: play parties.
I’d never been to one before. The idea of going to anything sexuality-based terrified me. When I imagined expressing attraction to a woman, I saw her face turning to disgust, the room going silent, everyone staring — Logan, you’re a creep, get out. I had stories of helplessness, of unlovability. The thought of talking to a woman with romantic interest made me want to disappear.
As a result, I’d been in a dry spell without sex for seven years. Seven years of those stories getting stronger, more terrifying, more painful.
Going to my first play party was the biggest leap of faith I ever made.
At that time, the smallest sign of sexual rejection would send me into an eight-hour panic attack. And every panic attack reinforced the story: I’m unlovable. It’s hopeless. When you actually believe that, life is hell.
But I was in so much pain that I knew I wasn’t going to last long if nothing changed. And eventually, I became more afraid of what would happen if I stayed the same than I was of the rejection. The fear of walking into fire became smaller than the fear of burning where I stood.
So I went.
And I kept going.
Sometimes someone would say no, and my body would spiral. Dissociation. Panic. The whole physiological storm. But afterward, I could analyze what happened. I could see that the rejection wasn’t death. That my stories about being powerless with women and sex weren’t true. That my body was reacting to ghosts.
The more I was there, the more my body relaxed. I gained control over my actions. I discovered I had a fawning pattern—from being afraid of my father growing up, I’d developed a pleasing reflex. My body did things automatically that I really didn’t want it to do. Seeing that was the first step to changing it.
I met people. Lots of people. I built relationships. I learned how humans actually work—not from studying them at a distance, but from being in the mess with them. I saw all the different ways people think, react, protect themselves, hurt each other, love each other.
Eventually, at a retreat, I saw the same pattern play out that had shaped my childhood. Someone, through distorted beliefs, thought they were protecting someone—but all they were really doing was deeply harming someone else. It was my father and me, replayed in a different context. And in that moment, something crystallized.
I saw how much we need clear eyes in this area. Sexuality, intimacy, connection—this is where our culture carries the most distortion, the most unprocessed fear, the most potential for harm done in the name of protection.
Why This Matters
Here’s what that journey taught me:
Most harm comes from love.
My father wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t a predator. He was a scared parent who loved his son and believed—with absolute certainty—that he knew what that son needed. His certainty was wrong. His love was real. The harm was real too.
This is the Rescuer pattern. Good people, harmful beliefs, devastating outcomes. Not despite the love—because of the certainty that comes with it.
Victim mentality is a prison.
I know what it feels like to believe you’re powerless. I lived there for decades. It’s not a moral failing—it’s a trap. And you can’t see out of it while you’re in it. The bars are invisible.
That’s why I empathize with people stuck in that mindset. I was them. I believed what they believe. And I know it’s possible to wake up—because I did.
Responsibility is freedom.
The moment you see your power, everything changes. Not because the world gets easier—but because you’re no longer a passenger in your own life.
Why I Wrote This
I was angry. Someone looked at me and saw a monster instead of a person, and it nearly destroyed me. I used that anger to start writing.
But anger isn’t why I kept writing.
I kept writing because people are causing each other pain that doesn’t need to exist — and they can’t see it. A father hits his son because he can’t see a child trying his best. A community exiles one of their own because they can’t see a person who made a mistake. Good people, everywhere, hurting each other over stories that aren’t real. And none of it needs to happen.
Every person is a human being — not a monster, not a label. And when people can see that — in themselves and in each other — they’re free. Free from the stories. Free from the unnecessary suffering. Free to create something good.
I see the way out. And I won’t leave without you.
That’s why I wrote this book.