When Even Asking For Help Is Too Much To Ask
When you’re out for the count, you can’t see past dark
Depression is a debilitating disposition that can be breathlessly alluring if you sit in it long enough to be mesmerized by how quickly you can make that steep fall — without warning or anything tangible to hold on to for the deathly plunge.
When I imagine how long it has been since I sat on my bed as a pre-teen and briefly considered burning down the house after exhaustively wading through the options that would provide permanent relief — I can’t help but stare at my parents as they casually entertain the day — without any clue of what their only daughter suffered under their care.
It wasn’t their fault, and it wasn’t mine, but what remains is the residue of a stolen childhood and the formality of surviving the worst and preparing for the ultimate showdown between dueling spirits.
I’m winning so far, but the war is far from over as I contemplate how easily I succumbed to the temptation of free falling from my friend’s high-rise apartment after a lone session on the treadmill. The bright beautiful sky with fluffy white clouds was offensive, and the last song I heard was eerily dramatic with a tempo that could match a loud thud.
The confusion came from the familiar desperation that’s borne from exiting a zone that no longer beats to the drum of progression. When you don’t know who you are anymore and can’t reconcile your present with what you hoped for, when hoping was a privilege, there’s a constant nagging that keeps your dismissal — activated.
Of course playing with your emotions with such recklessness is abhorrent, and even recalling these moments makes me hate myself even more because if I really want out so bad, why the fuck am I still here — baiting the soreness of my soul into the realm of the unknown — the peaceful calm after a violent demise.
I’m still here because I want to be, and also every second of my being is a victory that could swiftly turn into what most would consider — defeat, even though that aspect of my journey was completed years ago.
Not too long ago, there was a tweet from a user that I don’t follow, but one of my followers retweeted it, and the message was grim as it detailed the passing of someone who seemed okay, but hours later proved that he had been quietly flatlining.
The bereaved friend shared his thoughts about how vital it is for sufferers to get the help they need before it’s too late.
He meant well, and I was touched by the brutality of his loss and the subtle anger he was harboring against a loved one who betrayed him in a moment of extreme pain — that could only be exorcised with a rapid escape route.
But those who can’t relate to the daily grind, that doesn’t involve waiting for overcrowded trains to carry you to your too-small cubicle — and everything to do with clinging to imaginary crutches when an attack hits in social settings, that can’t accommodate the stream of tears and the loud declaration of how your heart beats need to stop so you can catch your breath — are absolutely right to assume that asking for help is a lifesaver.
The problem with this blanketed solution lies in the disabling of the senses when you’re out for the count and can’t see past the dark.
If seeking help were as easy as it sounds, more of us would be lining up for the counsel that will equip us with tools of survival — in order to guarantee the unlikelihood of becoming victims of our own devise — at the expense of those who are counting on our ability to permanently defeat those demons.
Asking for help is the very last thing I can conceive of when I’m drowning in the debris of accumulated pieces that don’t fit into the landscape, that represents all the reasons why I can’t stop relying on the threats to my life — and how it provides the safe antidote to a healthy mind.
The acidic flavor of fragile emotions doesn’t suit foreign palettes, and so it’s quite challenging to champion the assumption that dictates the simplicity of bravely seeking the assistance you deserve when the obvious is hard to ignore.
There are sufferers who still haven’t succeeded in the quest of fully grasping the weight of their trauma, and the notion of doing so is so frightening that they would rather stay in the functional coma that allows them to be here — far longer than they anticipated.
I’m probably part of that crowd.
Either way, the tweet that meant well, rubbed me the wrong way, even though the pain was clear, the anger was clearer, and it jolted me into the realization of the relentless mystery of mental disarray.
The taboo scatters us into fragments of helplessness because outsiders can’t contemplate the notion of a cureless fate, while sufferers embody a realm of understanding that’s intertwined with seasoned turbulence.
Asking for help can be the narrow bridge between life and death and don’t ask me to explain because I can’t.
That’s the thing, there’s nothing that can be said to assuage fears or paint a more graphic grid that will guide you through the ups and downs and the roundabout ride that can end at any time, anywhere, and in any way — planned or unplanned.
Getting the help that is warranted can be just what the doctor ordered, and they certainly do their very best to provide relief, and if they’re lucky enough to read between the blurry lines, then God bless them!
But we have to accept that regular visits to highly qualified professionals will never keep the worst outcome at bay, just as we have to respect that some of us are hanging in there with personalized methods that are tricky at best, but seem to be working for the time being.
Triggers are bitter motherfuckers that can switch moods with such ferocity that blacking out seems to be the only way to weather the gathering storm.
When we discuss the ultra-sensitive topic that basically nobody knows enough about to solve the pending equation, we have to be wary of the suggestions we make — and how we publicly assess those who definitely don’t need extra pressure to navigate their way out of the ruggedly terrifying terrain.
Everyone needs a break from the rollercoaster of life that begins with a cry and ceases with cries of those we’ve left behind. In that fact we are the same and share in that designated ritual.
The split happens with the willpower to engage through the avalanche of items that question whether or not our reserve can last long enough to keep us committed to what so many take for granted.
The right thing to do is to ask for help, but what if that’s too much to ask?
The fear in that question is exactly why none of us want to answer it.