Accepting Help...
She dropped into her chair, arms hung loosely over the edges. A deep breath in, a slow breath out. It felt good to be done. Good. Right? She’d spent the whole morning tackling her desk and cleaning up her corner. She was glad to have done it, but it didn’t fill that void in her heart. She knew she was still doing so much she shouldn’t. Yes, she had cleaned, but she’d done it stoned out of her mind, snacking all the while. Yes, she’d gone to the doctor, she’d gotten started on meds, and she’d been so diligent about taking them thus far…but she’d gorged herself the entire week.
Sinking deeper into her chair, she gazed emptily up at the ceiling. Some days, she didn’t know who she was. Who she was meant to be. If her bad habits and flaws didn’t define her, what did? If she wasn’t the body she inherited, what was she? Who she was had been so up for debate as of late.
On one hand, she knew. She knew what she liked, she knew what traits made up her personality, what made up the person that loved her. But all these things that felt so integral to her, all this poison eating her inside and out, people had talked about it as if it was simply something that could be reprogrammed. Could it? Was it that simple? Just…rewriting her code to make her be exactly as she wanted to be?
Was that something she could do, or was she left up to the whims of the others inside her, aching to be let out and make a difference. Save the day. She liked their intentions. She appreciated their effort. They were so kind, so reassuring. They took her and lifted her up, dusting her off, saying “Let us help you.”
But was she worthy of that? Would she be worthy of anything if rather than picking herself up and doing it all, kicking every bad habit, and fighting against it all, she just lay down and let someone else do it for her?
“Of course you are…” They’d argue. “You are not this vessel, but the way the world perceives it means so much to you, let us help you maintain it. Let us help you build the life you wanted. Be seen the way you wanted. You don’t have to do it alone.”
And it would be so, so painfully tempting. But she battled. She couldn’t move past those feelings. That nagging, needling sensation of “I am not enough.”
Those few words, there was so much inside them. A thousand different meanings, wrapped into one small phrase.
“It can’t be right to take the help. It can’t be right to call it help. I have to do this. I have to be the one.”
Sadness twinged the ones watching her. It was hard, seeing her in such a state. Feeling the waves of defeated, disheartened concern washing off her and spilling out into their shared world.
A gentle, faded presence sat beside her as she closed her eyes, squeezing them tight. One after the next, they sat around her, encompassing her in the strange dimension they all inhabited together. Not a word was spoken, not one inch moved. It was her choice, her call. They would never force, nor demand, they remained quiet by her side as they waited.
I can’t do it. I have to be alone. I have to handle it alone. The words felt hollow. She could not face it alone. She could not make it out of this hole. She had tried for so long, and she had fallen. She had failed. But the thought made her so sad. If someone was always around to save her, what worth did she have?