Stretch Armstrong was an extremely popular toy in its heyday. The reason why it was so beloved by children was because it was far more sturdy and pliable than any and every other toy out there. You could stretch it, smoosh it, kick it, tie it in a not, let the dog play with it, even throw it off the roof. It's biggest selling point was that it was virtually unbreakable. But there were always a few kids for whom "virtually" wasn't enough. So, as opposed to enjoying the many features that already made the toy far superior than all other toys, these few kids decided that it was more important to find out exactly what it would take to break the toy.
And through sheer, blind determination, they eventually would break the toy, reveling in seeing its guts spilled out and its head severed. But that joy would last just briefly before the eventually reality would set in: they no longer had this awesome toy to play with.
So, as their parents would dare not buy their kids another Stretch Armstrong—since the young ones couldn't and didn't appreciate the one they had—these kids were now left to spend their days joylessly playing with their less awesome toys. And in their continued self-absorbsion, they disguise the sorrow of their own failing in transitive blame; they blame the toy for not being even stronger.
There are grown-ups (*women*), who are presently exacting the same behavior with my patience. Instead of being grateful for the uniquely high level of patience I possess and provide, it very much seems that they prefer to actively demonstrate that they can and will eventually find my breaking point.
Although they benefit greatly from my extreme patience, they don't offer gratitude, and they rarely express appreciation. Instead they feel more rightfully safe to continue the behavior that strains my patience. Their sole agenda, it seems, is to prove that I couldn't handle or put up with everything that they could possibly throw at me.
My patience is to help fix them—allow them to let their true selves be, without judgment, criticism, or ridicule—not help them break me. My patience allows them to let loose, let go, let off some steam, and let them be truly happy.
But by breaking me, they're going to lose all that. They'll be happy that they proved that they couldn't depend and rely on my being 100% "unbreakable". They will think that they saved themselves from future disappointment.
But quickly, disappointment will set in on their "present", as they by then would suddenly have very little "fun and happiness" look forward to. They will have no one to express and be themselves with.
And if they remained self-absorbed, only thinking of themselves, they will be without their favorite Stretch Armstrong. They may very well wind up toy-less, boy-less, and joyless.
And that's when they realize that, they may have finally become broken themselves.