my peeps & asking

While in the hospital, two of my 9th floor cohabitants were sitting in the window overlooking the city. Hands in my pockets (as I'd finally been given my street clothes in lieu scrubs) I walked up behind them, assuming the same posture of observing as they were. I saw nothing particularly strange outside.

"What are you looking at?"

"We're counting people," as if this was a common game.

"Oh," I said. Then I succeeded in convincing one of them that a game of chess was far more entertaining.

I was counting people too though. Not people out on the streets below our hospital perch, but people I knew. People who were on the outside of my mental lockup. People who were THERE in the best possible sense of the word.

I was, and am still, finding out that people want to help me.

I don't like asking for help. Who does? But let me tell you --and then a few other people I know will confirm this-- I really don't like asking for help!

It has always profoundly embarrassed me that I need help. Asking for help in some areas is mortifying. I try to get on my feet as soon as I can when things go badly, because to do anything other than that implies too much.

Staying down for the count implies that I am weak. It implies that I am broken. It implies that I want to be successful less than I want to be a burden. It implies that I am weaker, the weak link, the guy who gets voted off the island first.

The reality is that my condition, not unlike that of any other physical condition, requires me to seek help and assistance. I have manic depression, and I do need help. I just rarely ask for it.

But the simple fact, for all of us, is that there are always people who want to help and we're always in need of assistance. Fortunately for me, these are people I know. People who know me. They have waited, and waited (for years in some cases), for me to ask for their help and assistance.

That's the golden ring...asking.

I didn't go calling every person I'm close to. Mind you, I was in the psychiatric unit. My energy was limited, and my time was spent attending to my brokenness. Not every person who cares for me knew I was in the hospital. For the time I was in the hospital, that crucial time, I relied heavily on the care, advocacy, and concern of those who knew where I was and those professionals devoted to my getting better.

My peeps.

If I take all the essential elements of life into consideration, I am blessed and highly favored by the Lord God.

Again, my peeps.
Let's take my cousin for example.

Let us just call her my sister from here on out, since neither of us has siblings anyway. She was there to guide me, by way of listening to what I needed, from the moment I asked for help. She advocated for me in the ER. She called me every day. She visited me almost every day.

Mind you...I have NEVER asked her for help before. Not this kind anyway.

It wasn't easy for her either. When the ER psychiatric doctor came back saying he wanted me to go into outpatient care, I cried. Why? I wanted the security of a psychiatric unit! I knew I had looked too good...that maybe I should have acted more crazy!

She said to him, in her straight-forward manner, "Are you not admitting her because she seems less needy? Don't let her fool you. She's used to looking better than she is."

"Well," he said...and then tried to explain something that sounded an awful lot like they wouldn't admit me because I didn't have insurance.

"I'm sorry," she said in a less than apologetic tone, "did you just say that you won't admit my cousin because she doesn't have insurance?"

And then she said some more things on the subject that made the doctor sort of stammer and then excuse himself to go, "make a phone call."

When he reappeared at the door a half hour later, excusing my "sitter" (all psych patients are sure to get a sitter in the ER) he informed us that I was admitted into the hospital. I cried again, because they heard me.

We celebrated too, which, I guess is sort of an unusual response in these cases, as the ER staff looked at us strangely, not knowing whether to celebrate for us.

But it was a moment to be celebrated! I had asked for help and I was getting it. I was so scared I would not get the help I so needed.

That is precisely why I don't like asking for help.

My sister/cousin came and saw me almost every day. Even when I was nearly comatose she came and spent time with me...I think. See, her work was just down the road and she had literally picked that particular hospital due to it's proximity to where she was everyday.

I know that my stay took a toll on my family. I think they must have been scared. I know they would not have let me know that they were. But for the first time, ever, they were involved in my crisis and recovery. Their involvement was frightening for me! They could disown me, or question me, or not understand at the very least. But it turned out very well! They all supported and still support me.

Inside.

On the inside swarmed many a professional who cared, with a Socratic oath, that I get better. My doctor was a man who smiled and joked with me. He also gave me drugs that finally worked. Nurses, OT's, and social workers hovered around me with refreshing boundaries and appropriate sentiment. They laughed with me and told stories. They sat with me when I was hardly there and they played games with me when I finally came to.

You may never know what this is like. But for me they were life savers!

Who are your peeps? Do you let them know when you need help and assistance? Are you embarrassed by your needs in some areas? Let me be your star in this matter --as Emerson said to "hitch your wagon to a star". I don't know if I'm a red dwarf star or a super nova, but you can heed my words when I tell you...ask for help.

It may very well be the best move you ever make!