My therapist once told me that what I was going through at the time was called «Cinderella Syndrome». This made me sad.
Was I the only one that wanted to wear the glass slippers? Was I the only one waiting for the prince to arrive on the golden chariot, Romeo and Erotokritos to serenade me below my balcony, the seven dwarves to take care of me, the moster to magically transform into a prince, the big bad wolf to drown, and Odysseus to come home?
I've been trying to figue out through years of self-reflection why I had been looking for fairy-tale endings in real-life situations.
Why did I fall for all this stories?
I'll let you know if I come across the answer.
