It’s Not Me, It’s You

“The Tragedy of the Heroic Victim”

In my clinical work, I sometimes encounter individuals who carry their suffering not just as a burden, but as an identity. Their pain is real, often rooted in early trauma or emotional neglect. But rather than metabolising these wounds over time, they build their sense of self around them. They embody what is often described as the “heroic victim” - a person who draws strength, even a sense of superiority, from their suffering and whose entire world is organised around the unspoken belief: It’s not me, it’s you.

Let me introduce you to Sophie, a 34-year-old woman who grew up with a narcissistic mother. Sophie’s childhood was emotionally volatile. Her mother oscillated between intrusive control and chilling indifference. Love was transactional – given when Sophie performed well, withdrawn when she expressed independent needs. In this distorted emotional economy, Sophie learned that attention, even negative, was a form of currency. And so, in adulthood, she unknowingly keeps this dynamic alive.

At the age of eleven, Sophie was sent to boarding school - and she welcomed it. On the surface, it was an opportunity: new surroundings, more structure, space from the chaos of home. But beneath the relief was something more complex. Boarding school offered Sophie escape from her mother’s emotional volatility, but it also offered her a space where performance could flourish uninterrupted. Away from home, she no longer had to contend with the daily emotional minefields of family life. She could refine her ability to adapt, impress and manage others’ expectations - and that skill was rewarded. Compliance, charm, discipline, emotional neatness: these became her social currency.

But what she was also escaping was the messiness of real relationship - the possibility of rupture and repair, the discomfort of emotional confrontation, the ambiguity of being known. She left behind not just chaos, but the few, imperfect threads of connection that might have taught her how to relate honestly. Instead, she learned to manage people rather than connect with them. To be liked, not to be vulnerable. The defences she built at home found a new stage and they hardened.

Despite professing her hatred of her mother’s control, Sophie still depends on her financially. She claims it is necessary – life is expensive, jobs are scarce – but something deeper is at play. Each request for help is a tether. The money is not just about survival; it is the only language of care she understands. What appears to be financial dependence is, at its core, a craving for connection - a longing to be seen, held and cared for in ways she never truly was. The money she asks for is not just support; it is a proxy for love. Every transfer, every favour, every reluctant “yes” from her mother is interpreted as proof that she still matters. The attention she receives is not nurturing, but it is attention nonetheless - and for Sophie, that has always been the closest thing to love. Her suffering becomes the currency. Her pain, especially when kept alive and unresolved, is the most reliable way she knows to elicit a response. It is attention disguised as help, connection disguised as crisis.

What appears to be financial dependence is, at its core, a craving for connection - a longing to matter. The money she asks for is not just practical; it is emotional. Every transfer is a thread tying her to someone who otherwise keeps their love at arm’s length. Sophie cannot accept that her mother does not truly hold her in mind – does not think of her, long to connect with her, or want to really see her. So she keeps going back, hoping this time will be different, hoping for proof that she still matters. The attention she craves is not really about being helped financially; it is about being seen, remembered, chosen. It is a desperate bid to feel held in her mother’s mind. And her pain - chronic, unprocessed pain – that comes from not truly being seen, remains her most reliable way to access that fleeting sense of connection.

Clinically, this is not masochism in the pursuit of pleasure, but more a relational strategy rooted in early attachment trauma - a repetition compulsion where Sophie unconsciously recreates the original wound in the hope of finally repairing it; the pain, though agonising, becomes a familiar thread to the mother that she cannot let go of, offering structure, identity and the illusion of proximity to someone who continues to keep her at emotional arm’s length.

Suffering becomes the signal.

Need becomes the hook.

When a Defence Becomes a Personality

In early life, defences are adaptive. They arise to protect us from overwhelming emotion or absence - from the flood of feelings we are too young to process, or from the painful vacuum when no feelings come at all. A child who senses rage but is never allowed to name it might learn to dissociate. A child who reaches for love and finds nothing might retreat into fantasy or self-sufficiency. These defences are not flaws; they are creative, unconscious solutions to a problem the child cannot yet name: I am too small to bear this alone.

Whether it's the absence of comfort or the presence of chaos, the psyche bends to survive. It finds ways to mute, split off, or reframe what would otherwise be unbearable. Over time, these defences—be they avoidance, denial, fawning, or emotional numbness—become woven into the personality. And while they may have once offered protection, they eventually limit our capacity to feel, to relate, and to grow.

As psychoanalytic theory has long argued, defences are not signs of weakness but signs of creativity - ingenious strategies to keep the fragile self intact. Dissociation, denial, fawning, projection - these are all survival tools. But the tragedy occurs when these tools ossify into traits - and so - the defence becomes the personality.

Sophie’s victimhood once served a purpose. It helped her survive her mother’s tyranny. It gave her a coherent story: I am the one who was wronged. But over time, that narrative hardened. It is no longer just a story - it is who she is. The defence of victimhood has become an identity fortress. She is quick to find fault in others, mistrustful of help and skilled at recasting any disappointment as betrayal. “People always let me down,” she says. And they do - because she unconsciously ensures it. The original perpetrator - her mother - may no longer be present, but in Sophie’s world, she has never left. Anyone who challenges her, misunderstands her, or simply makes her feel uncomfortable is swiftly cast in the same role. She can make anyone and everyone the perpetrator - the cashier who is abrupt, the friend who forgets to call, the partner who asks too much, the therapist who gently pushes, or a sister who sets a boundary. Each encounter is filtered through a lens shaped by early pain and the pattern repeats: she is wounded and someone else is to blame.

As Freud suggested with his concept of character armour, when defences become rigid, they lose their flexibility and imprison us. Wilhelm Reich built on this idea, noting that psychological defences can become somatic as well - held in the body. Melanie Klein and object relations theorists later showed how early dynamics become internal templates: if a child grows up expecting neglect or aggression, they will unconsciously re-create those dynamics in adult relationships. They will provoke them if necessary.

Sophie, for instance, often finds ways to turn even kind people into enemies. Why? Because she needs a persecutor to remain the heroic victim. If there is no clear antagonist in her life, the narrative begins to fall apart. Without someone to oppose, someone to cast as the cause of her pain, she is left with the unbearable task of looking inward. But Sophie has built her identity on being the one who is wronged, the one who endures. To maintain that sense of self, she needs someone to be the perpetrator, the source of the wrongdoing. So she will subtly sabotage intimacy, distort intention, or misread neutrality as cruelty - anything to conjure the feeling of being hurt or mistreated. This is not manipulation in the conscious sense. It is a psychological necessity because, without the familiar role of the victim, she would not know who she is.

Sophie’s sense of identity has been built around the idea that she is the one who suffers at the hands of others. As painful as that position is, it also gives her life a kind of structure, purpose and even moral clarity. It tells her how to see the world, how to interpret other people’s behaviour, and how to explain her own difficulties. Letting go of that role would mean stepping into the unknown - facing the possibility that not every disappointment is a betrayal, that not everyone is out to hurt her and that some of her suffering may be self-inflicted. That is a painful truth to face. So instead, she clings to the familiar pain because it keeps the story intact - even if that story keeps her stuck.

Two essential components of emotional health - communication and trust - are particularly fraught for Sophie. She finds it difficult to express her needs or disappointments to others in a way that invites understanding or repair. In her relationships, instead of using language to bridge the gap between herself and others, she will often either retreat into silence or lash out with counterproductive rage. There is a pendulum swing. At times, she feels overly entitled to be heard, expressing herself through criticism, accusation, or emotional outbursts. At other times, she withdraws completely - avoiding communication, stewing in resentment that no one understands her, without realising that in fact she has not made herself known. The people around her are often left feeling confused, stonewalled, or subtly gaslit - caught between her unspoken expectations and unpredictable reactions.

This is not simply poor communication. It is a defensive strategy. In Sophie’s early world, speaking up may have been ignored or punished. Expressing need did not bring comfort, but confusion or shame. So now, pain gets internalised and then acted out rather than spoken. She may not know how to say, “That hurt me,” or “I feel unseen.” But her body knows how to withdraw, her tone knows how to accuse and her psyche knows how to turn pain into proof that others cannot be trusted.

And trust itself is a battleground. Sophie struggles to feel safe in the world, which often feels one step away from things going terribly wrong. People are not experienced as fundamentally good or safe, but as unreliable, unpredictable, even dangerous. In love, she clings tightly - not because she feels secure, but because she really does not. Letting go, even slightly, feels like opening the door to abandonment. And so, she holds on. Too tightly. In ways that sometimes strangle the very connection she longs for.

Her trust issues are not about being suspicious by nature, but about having lived in an emotional environment where consistency was rare and rupture was routine. She expects to be disappointed - so she often is. She anticipates betrayal - so she acts in ways that provoke it. The world feels too risky, too unstable to lean into. So instead of building mutual trust with others through vulnerability and truth-telling, Sophie defends herself - and she does so automatically. She anticipates rejection before it happens, assumes betrayal before it arrives and wraps herself in suspicion rather than risk the raw exposure of being truly seen. She trusts no one fully - not because she wants to live this way, but because at her core, she does not believe she will survive another letdown.

In the human psyche, familiarity often feels safer than freedom, especially when freedom demands uncertainty, accountability and change. Familiar pain is predictable; it asks nothing new of us. It allows us to remain in known territory, even if that territory is lonely, limited, or full of quiet despair. To abandon it would mean dismantling the narrative she has used to survive and stepping into a version of herself she has never met - one who is no longer defined by what was done to her, but by what she chooses now. For many people, staying in a state of suffering feels safer than stepping into freedom - not because they enjoy the pain, but because the pain is familiar. It’s known, predictable and oddly comforting. Freedom, on the other hand, demands something far more frightening: transformation. It asks them to step away from old patterns, to confront uncertainty and to become someone they’ve never been before. That kind of change requires not just courage, but a willingness to let go of the identity shaped by their wounds - and that can feel more terrifying than the suffering they have grown used to.

Finding Meaning Through Suffering: An Adlerian Lens

Drawing from Alfred Adler’s Individual Psychology, we are reminded that individuals are not determined by past traumas, but by the meanings they assign to those experiences. For someone like Sophie, her early emotional injuries were not just experienced - they were interpreted, internalised and then used to build a worldview in which suffering equalled identity.

Adler believed that people sometimes, without realising it, adopt the role of a victim in order to get certain emotional needs met. This might be to get attention, to avoid taking responsibility for difficult things, or to explain why they stay stuck. Their pain and feelings of being ‘less than’ may be very real, but instead of using those feelings to grow, they use them as a reason not to change. In this way, the pain becomes part of their identity. This is exactly what we see in the idea of the 'heroic victim' - someone who draws a sense of purpose and even pride, from having suffered and who builds their whole story around that suffering.

The wound becomes a badge.

The story becomes a shield.

And the person stops living beyond the narrative - because, in their eyes, the narrative explains everything.

It defines who they are, what they deserve and why things never quite work out. It becomes a script they return to in every relationship, every opportunity, every moment of self-doubt. Rather than engaging with life as it unfolds, they interpret it through the lens of what has already happened. New possibilities are filtered through old wounds. Growth feels disloyal to the past. So they stay inside the story - repeating it, defending it and mistaking it for truth - never realising it has become the very thing that limits them.

Narcissism and the “Specialness” of Suffering

Sophie’s configuration also raises a deeper clinical question: can someone like her develop narcissistic traits?

The literature would say yes - particularly traits associated with vulnerable or covert narcissism. Unlike the grandiose narcissist, who dominates with charm or arrogance, the covert narcissist draws others in with fragility, hypersensitivity and the need to be seen as misunderstood or special through suffering.

Attachment and developmental theorists such as Bowlby, Fonagy and Gerhardt have explored how early disruptions in attunement - being either ignored or over-indulged - can create a fragile self that is deeply dependent on external validation. Sophie was only ever seen when she performed or pleased. As a result, her adult self constantly scans for signs of rejection or disinterest.

Love feels dangerous.

Help feels patronising.

Independence feels like abandonment.

From Heinz Kohut’s self psychology, we understand that narcissism can emerge not from grandiosity, but from injury. Kohut would likely describe Sophie as a fragmented self, wounded by a lack of empathic mirroring. Her apparent entitlement or hypersensitivity is actually a cry for recognition. She seeks to feel whole through the gaze of others. But no amount of attention is ever enough - because what she truly longs for is something she never got: unconditional, attuned, emotionally available love.

The Addictive Pull of Victimhood

You might wonder: If Sophie wants to feel more fulfilled or at peace, why doesn’t she just stop repeating the same painful patterns? Why doesn’t she let herself have healthy relationships, stand on her own financially or truly work on understanding herself so she can grow?

The answer is complicated. Because while she might say she wants change, part of her is terrified of what that change would mean. Because in fact to change anything at all would dismantle the identity she has built. And for someone like Sophie, that identity is everything. It would mean giving up the familiar role of the one who suffers. It would mean stepping into unknown emotional territory - where she can no longer blame others, where she has to take responsibility, where she might even feel exposed or unworthy. And that kind of growth isn’t just hard - it can feel unsafe when your whole identity has been built on surviving pain.

Sometimes, what often looks like a desire to grow is, in reality, a way to avoid it. In my clinical practice, I see many people who talk the talk of doing inner work - immersing themselves in personal development, spiritual healing or soothing practices - but never touch the raw psychological material that actually needs attention. Instead of doing the deep, confronting work of therapy, they bypass it with polished and brief self-awareness workshops or retreats and pursue emotional rituals that comfort but do not transform.

There is a kind of narcissistic investment in suffering - not in a conscious or self-aggrandising way, but in the sense that suffering becomes central to the person’s identity. Pain is no longer just something that happened; it becomes a performance, a rehearsed script that reliably elicits sympathy, attention and even a quiet sense of superiority. For Sophie, suffering makes her special. It sets her apart. It explains her life, her disappointments and her place in the world. The fact that she has endured so much becomes a source of meaning - and because of that, she guards it fiercely.

Any challenge to that identity - any suggestion that she might have agency, or that she is contributing to her current struggles - feels not just uncomfortable but deeply threatening. It is experienced almost as betrayal. To imply that she has a choice, that she might respond differently, is to imply she is no longer entirely a victim. And that unravels the very foundation upon which her self-worth has been built. So instead of risking that loss, she doubles down on the story. She stays loyal to the narrative that made her special, even as it quietly steals her freedom.

This is not laziness.

It is not manipulation.

It is psychic survival.

Victimhood is how she ensures connection, deflects shame and avoids the terrifying realisation that she may be repeating her own harm. But what she cannot see is that the very thing she clings to - her identity as the wronged one - is now the source of her suffering. She is no longer simply traumatised. She is re-traumatising herself, daily, in her relationships, her choices and her refusals.

The Cost of an Unexplored Self

If this pattern continues, Sophie risks becoming someone who is emotionally stuck - what some therapists describe as having a narcissistic style of coping. This does not mean she is arrogant or attention-seeking in the way we often associate with narcissism. Instead, it means she becomes increasingly focused on her own emotional experience and unable to truly see others as separate people with their own perspectives.

She may come to view people in extremes: either they are completely on her side and willing to rescue her, or they are against her and seen as a threat. Anyone who gently challenges her perspective or encourages her to reflect on her own behaviour may be pushed away. Over time, this makes real connection and growth nearly impossible - because instead of building mutual understanding in relationships, she is locked in a world where she cannot be wrong and others are always to blame.

This is where narcissism becomes a defensive structure. It protects against dependency and shame. It avoids the terrifying vulnerability of being known. But it also isolates the person. What begins as a strategy for connection ends as a trap.

One of the key differences between someone with narcissistic traits and someone with a full narcissistic personality disorder is their ability to reflect on themselves. If Sophie can pause - even for a moment - and consider how she might be contributing to her own suffering, there is still a chance for growth and change. But if she loses that ability entirely - if that fragile thread of self-awareness breaks - she risks becoming completely locked into a story where everyone else is always to blame and she will forever remain the one who has been wronged.

The Wound Is Real - But So Is the Work

If you see yourself in Sophie - or know someone like her - know this: the original wound was real.

It hurt.

It shaped you.

It mattered.

But the person keeping it alive now is no longer your mother, your father, or the partner who failed you.

It’s you.

And choosing to re-edit your identity, to rewrite the script, is not a betrayal of your past - it’s a step towards freedom.

Psychotherapy, when entered into willingly, can help a person untangle the threads between what happened and who they have become. But most people who fall into this pattern often do not make it into therapy. They are too loyal to the story. Too afraid that giving up their pain means giving up who they are. And so they live tortured, lonely and impoverished lives, protected by the very defence that now imprisons them.

What Can Be Done?

If you find yourself stuck in a pattern of chronic disappointment, rejection or unmet needs, ask yourself:

• Do I feel secretly validated by my suffering?

• Do I hold on to the idea that no one really gets me?

• Do I push people away who try to help and then resent them for leaving?

If the answer is yes, consider the following:

1. Distinguish the original injury from your current identity.

You were once powerless. You are not now.

2. Recognise the addictive pull of being ‘the one who was wronged’.

Ask yourself: What do I gain from this role? And what does it cost me?

3. Be willing to grieve the identity that pain built.

It kept you safe. It served a purpose. But you do not have to live that way anymore.

4. Find a therapist who can sit with your defence without colluding with it.

You need someone who sees your strength beneath the suffering - and can tolerate your rage when they challenge it.

Final Thought

To change is not a betrayal of your past - it is a refusal to let it keep ruling your present.

It is drawing a line between what was done to you and what you do to yourself now.

Yes, pain shaped you.

But it does not own you.

Not unless you let it.

Not now.

Not anymore.

References:

Adler, A. (1931) What Life Should Mean to You. London: Allen & Unwin.

Bowlby, J. (1988) A Secure Base: Clinical Applications of Attachment Theory. London: Routledge.

Fonagy, P., Gergely, G., Jurist, E.L. and Target, M. (2002) Affect Regulation, Mentalization, and the Development of the Self. New York: Other Press.

Freud, S. (1937) The Ego and the Id. In: Strachey, J. (ed. and trans.) The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Vol. 19. London: Hogarth Press, pp. 12–66. (Original work published 1923)

Gerhardt, S. (2004) Why Love Matters: How Affection Shapes a Baby’s Brain. Hove: Brunner-Routledge.

Klein, M. (1946) Notes on Some Schizoid Mechanisms. International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 27, pp. 99–110.

Kohut, H. (1971) The Analysis of the Self: A Systematic Approach to the Psychoanalytic Treatment of Narcissistic Personality Disorders. New York: International Universities Press.

Reich, W. (1949) Character Analysis. 3rd ed. New York: Orgone Institute Press.