The House with Three Doors

The Drama Triangle

There was a woman who had lived in a house with three doors for as long as she could remember. 

Through the first door, she became The Rescuer. She knew how to hold broken things—how to patch, soothe, rebuild. Her hands were always reaching, always giving, always steady. But somewhere beneath the surface, resentment curled like smoke. She never said it aloud. 

Through the second door, she became The Victim. Here, the weight of abandonment pressed against her chest. The echoes of forgotten promises, of hands that did not stay, of people who shaped her by their absence. The walls in this room whispered, but they never answered her. 

Through the third door, she became The Persecutor. The fire lived here, quiet, controlled, sharp around the edges. If she had suffered, why must she always be the one who understood? Who forgave? There was power in anger. But when the embers cooled, there was only silence. 

Three doors. Three roles. A pattern she did not name, but one she walked effortlessly. 

Until one day, she paused. 

She stood at the centre of the house and saw it, truly saw it. The cycle. The stories she had been given. The identities she had worn like second skin. And then, for the first time, she looked up. 

There had always been a window - one she had never touched, never tested. Beyond it, there was something unfamiliar. Not duty. Not loss. Not fury. 

Just her. 

And so, for the first time, she stepped toward the window—not as Rescuer, Victim, or Persecutor, but simply as herself. Beyond the frame, there was no script, no cycle—only the quiet possibility of something new.