June 19, 2019•329 words
I needed help moving back into our home. With a new child, and with the apartment uninhabited for 4 months, I needed it to be ready for little dude. I felt overwhelmed, and I wasn't sure I could ask for help.
There is, to my supposition, a fine line between asking for help, and being overbearing. I tend to forego the option of asking, because I assume when I do ask for help, either I will be disappointed or I will be ignored.
As I think through it, I might be setting expectations that aren't realistic. By that I mean, I tend to assume, and expect, that because I ask for help so seldom, that I'm privy to it. That I somehow deserve it. It's an arrogant way to live, assuming there's chits you can throw in when it suits you. Or me rather. When it suits me.
My father used to say, if your hand is ever out, it should be with your palm facing down. No, nothing so dramatic as the Roman thumb, it was his way of saying I shouldn't ask for hand outs, but always be in a position to hand out. Like many philosophies, I assume, it's not so healthy to follow it to the letter. It's part of a mindset, or thought process that is black or white, almost a zero sum. I'm either a giver or a taker, and it's not good to take, therefore give until you arrogantly deserve to take.
I keep flipping between 'I' and 'You' because I'm horrified at the possibility that this is just me, so you're along for the ride friend.
I think the anxiety of asking for help, for me, tends to outweigh the act of asking, or the wait for the answer. I think the anxiety of the in-between, between the known and the unknown, is where my ego falters, becomes small, overwhelmed...exposed.
If this leaves you unsatisfied, imagine how it feels for me.