Some times I find it hard to ask for help.
It’s not that help is hard to come by, for me at least. The standard things that one would normally need help with, like moving house, getting to the hospital with a broken leg, making it to the airport for stupid o’ clock in the morning, and changing light bulbs that I can’t reach, people have all volunteered for.
People lend me things that I need to borrow, fix my gadgets when they’re broken, and sponsor me for the most trifling of sporting exertion. They forward me information about job vacancies and put in a good word for me where they work.
When I lose things, people will search their homes to make sure I haven’t left them there, even though they know before they start looking that the thing will be right in front of my face.
I didn’t even have to ask more than one person if they would mind being nominated, under my advance directive, as being in charge of making any medical decisions that might need to be taken on my behalf in the, not at all unlikely, event that I ever lack the capacity to make them for myself.
But some things just seem too much to ask.
Like, ‘Can you help me find the will to live? I seem to have misplaced it somewhere’.
Calling someone up out of the blue in the hope that they might be able to supply me with a reason to go on living because I can’t quite seem to find any of my own today sounds so hugely unreasonable when I rehearse the scenario in my brain.
And the more I try to rephrase it the more unpalatable it sounds.
The leaden weight of emptiness feels just too heavy to share. A care too great to be put, unbidden, upon just one person.
So, rather than ask another person, and then another, and then another, until there are enough shoulders to manage the burden, I don’t say anything, to anyone, at all.