Your villain form is aggressive okay-ness. You could be on fire and would tell the firefighter you 'didn't want to bother anyone.' You absorb everyone's crises like a stress sponge and then wonder why your jaw hurts.
The dark math: you've decided being needed is safer than being known. People bring you their heaviest things because you never drop them — and never mention the weight. Your last genuine 'help me' was sometime around the previous decade.
Real strength — the upright kind — includes the sentence 'actually, I'm not okay.' It's five words. The lion in the picture isn't being wrestled; it's being petted. Let someone pet the lion.