I’m the kind of stubborn, endlessly frustrating person who rejects even the notion of help. My mom was raised to tough it out, and she passed that along to me.
I don’t tough everything out, so to speak. I go to doctors for advice and medications that help me manage my autoimmune diseases and migraines. I call my dad so he can walk me through filing my taxes. Sometimes, if I’m feeling especially desperate, I will ask a store employee where to find the damn thing I’ve been searching for.
Part of this is independence, pride, and stubbornness. Saying, “Fuck it, I’m smart, I can figure this out,” even if that means spending six or seven times as long resolving the issue than I would have if I had asked for help (and learned from it).
There’s also anxiety. Not wanting to be embarrassed, look stupid, burden someone else with my problems. Speaking with anyone outside my very small circle of immediate family and friends is something I irrationally avoid.
These issues often prevent me from asking for help. The thing is, I know I need help, I just refuse to ask for it. Instead, I tackle the problem myself – whether that’s finding an item in a grocery store or looking for a new job in a cutthroat field without any leads or referrals.
Maybe I could ask… I think. But everything inside me chokes.
Then we get to bigger problems, more abstract problems. Problems I’m not quite ready to face just yet. Problems like: I’m so depressed I can’t function and I don’t know what I want to do with my life and what if I don’t want to do anything with my life and sometimes I just want to disappear.
How do you even go about asking for help with that?
With issues like these, asking for help doesn’t even occur to me because I’m not sure I believe help is possible. It’s been like this so long – I’ve been like this so long – and I’ve dealt with it all myself. Why do I need help now? Why ask for it, now?
I did see a therapist for a few months in college because of my anxiety. I was having panic attacks in every class and would sweat and tremble so hard that, whenever a professor called on me, other students thought I was convulsing. The therapist put me on anti-anxiety meds and we checked in regularly for a semester. It helped a bit.
That was five years ago. We never talked about much else besides my anxiety. And I never saw another therapist.
I’m scared to talk about anything darker, deeper. I’m scared to let someone else inside my head and get a glimpse of the things I see. I worry about being labeled, being institutionalized. Most of all, I worry about getting better. I fear what life would be like on different medication, what I would be able to accomplish. I worry about not getting better. Will it always be this hard?
When other people envision their future, are they able to see versions of themselves carrying out plans? goals? dreams? Can they really picture it? I’ve never been able to grasp this because everything after tomorrow looks gray and uncertain. A giant question mark. I can’t conjure up images of what I want or imagine my life to look like going forward. It’s like you’re asking me to see what’s on the other side of a concrete wall. No matter how hard I strain my eyes, I don’t see a damn thing.
Psychologists cite several reasons why a person may not be able to envision their future. Whatever, take your pick. All I know is when you are physically incapable of envisioning a future for yourself, and you’ve felt a certain way for as long as you can remember, what reason would you have to ask for help?
Asking for help means you have even the slightest ounce of hope, and want to fight for your future.
My life is about survival. I survive each day by myself, and I don’t need help doing that. Are my days healthy, happy, and productive? No, but I tough it out. I can’t possibly think about the future when I’m focused on getting through each day.
This is how I convince myself I’m fine.
I was very convinced I was fine the morning I went in for my first appointment with a GP in my new neighborhood. I just wanted to get established and transfer my prescriptions; I didn’t have any acute health issues bothering me that day (my specialists handle my chronic conditions). I had showered and put on clothes that weren’t sweats, making me feel especially fine. I was ready for a quick, routine visit. I’ve been to so many appointments; I knew how this would go.
I saw the nurse, then the doctor. They asked about allergies, immunizations, surgeries, medications. But their questions continued well past what I’ve come to know as “normal.” They asked about my medical history, my family’s medical history, why I took each medication, how I’ve responded to different meds and treatments, my lifestyle, my mental health, why I moved, do I have support here, what do I do for work, am I stressed, what are my hobbies…
I had arrived in the office ready to share the dosages of my medications and fax numbers for past doctors. I felt calm, collected, and, most importantly, fine. But the doctor and nurse sat in the room with me for an hour and a half, gently asking questions and listening patiently as I found my impenetrable walls disintegrating, and I began to blabber on and on about quitting my job and moving and being alone and dealing with health issues and – god, the amount that came out of me was repulsive.
They asked me to fill out a depression questionnaire. I got the high score, which is to say I failed, horribly. A social worker was sent in to see me. She asked me more questions, and I listened to myself once again pour out so much word vomit, so much excruciating detail. I don’t know where it came from. Even as I was saying it all, I felt helpless to stop the flow.
She listened. Miraculously, she was kind, never interrupting, never judging. She let me get it out.
Then, she offered to help. She set me up with a team that refers people to local therapists. They got me an appointment for next week. My first therapy session in five years.
The social worker is following up with me regularly to check if I need anything. And I have a follow-up with my new GP in just a few weeks.
I left the office after nearly three hours that day feeling like I had been turned inside out and scrubbed raw. No one, certainly not a medical professional, has ever gone to those lengths to get to know me, understand me, and do everything they can to help me.
For several days afterward, I felt numb and in shock. I cried a lot. I kept thinking, I’m getting help. I’m actually getting help.
I didn’t even have to ask for it.
