Three Words Not in My Vocabulary: I Need Help

Estimated read time: 12 minutes

In many ways, I am a typical male. Like most of us, I have been raised to follow some strange code that tends to make life a little more difficult for people around me, most often Nina, my kind, loving wife, and, at times, myself.

One of part of this strange, male code is that I detest going to the doctor. Partly, because if I do go, then I will have something wrong with me. Forget making regular appointments so that whenever they find something it will be easily treatable. Not this guy. There is this idea that runs through my head that if I don’t know, it doesn’t exist. And, real men, after all, don’t need medical treatment, we can just “walk it off.”

For example, I “walked off” a fractured leg for two weeks despite Nina’s attempts to get me to a doctor. I was sure I could walk enough to work out whatever was wrong, despite the sick feeling in my stomach every time I stood up, the wincing facial expressions when I walked even a short distance, and the inability to lead with that leg when walking up the two stairs to get in our door at home. Nope didn’t need to go to a doctor.

I went, finally, and fortunately, the fracture had not moved. If it had I would be walking around with a metal rod and a few screws keeping my leg together. I have since been all about going to the doctor… well, when I need it. (I can literally hear your eyes rolling guys. Not cool!)

Another issue that I attribute to being a guy is that I never quite clean the house. I will make an attempt at a few minor cleaning tasks, get distracted and leave the jobs unfinished. Then, days later, when I see Nina finishing what I started or planned to start, I exclaim that I was just about to do that.

I also constantly pretend that there is nothing wrong with me. No matter how disgruntled I look, I always say I’m fine. (If you count F-‘d up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional, I really am fine.)

I refuse to ask for directions when I lose track of where I am attempting to drive. Thankfully, GPS makes this less likely, but I have driven around in circles refusing to ask my wife, who is patiently watching my futile attempts to find a parking lot, hotel, or restaurant, to search directions in her phone so we can actually get where we are going.

The worst, absolutely, worst male-oriented problem I have is asking for help.

My inability to say, “I need help,” has kept me in difficult situations for far too long, left projects that require two people to complete them simply abandoned for months if not years, and this lack of ability kept me in active addiction until I nearly died.

Yet, I have a blind spot when it comes to this particular flaw that continues to this day. Despite repeated attempts from others to show me a different way to handle things, I occasionally backslide. In early sobriety, I was much, much worse.

When I was three weeks into treatment, I had sobriety figured out. (Stop laughing the punch line comes later.)

I had already begun helping others who were in the same boat by listening and asking questions that would help them see the flaws in their thinking. When I would see the light bulb come on over another patient’s head after they came to a new realization, I would get the warm feeling that comes from helping others.

Still, when it came to facing me, my light bulb was in a black hole. So much so, that when I saw two counselors conferring before one of our group meetings, and occasionally staring at me, I sat blissfully unaware that I was about to be forced out of denial. (Okay, so I caught a drift that something was going on and walked nearby to try to eavesdrop, but they finished their conversation before I could figure out what would happen.)

At the beginning of group, a few patients brought in what must have been every classroom copy of the “Big Book,” the “NA Big Book” and the “Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions” in the facility. I was asked to stand in the middle of the room and the 20 other patients grabbed multiple copies of the various books and stood in a circle around me.

“Okay,” the counselor said. “Each one of you is going to think about a problem you have or a fear of getting sober, and that book is going to represent it. Stan, I want you to go to a person when they hold up a book. They will say the problem or fear and you will take it from them.”

DUDE! I was totally on board! Even the counselors knew I was winning recovery! I was the perfect person to help with all of the problems of these other losers, (well, that seems harsh) perhaps slightly lower-performing students of recovery.

The first person said her problem and I collected the book. Soon, a guy professed his fear, and I nabbed his book. Then, two more said their problems, and I cautioned them to slow down and go one at a time. I collected their books making sure everyone knew what they shared. (See, I was even helping the counselor conduct group correctly.) And now, with more books than hands, I had to move the books to where they were sort of cradled in front of me.

The other patients, one at a time shared his or her problem or fear, and I kept collecting the books. At one point, I started looking for a place I could set a few down, and the counselor asked if I was okay.

“I’m fine,” I said.

I was not going to admit that the weight of the books was testing my strength. (I have always had a fear of being too weak to hold off an attacker in a fight or keep someone I care about from being harmed because I was unable to lift an object.) There was no way I would admit I couldn’t carry the load.

But, the IDIOTS, I mean friends and fellow sufferers, kept coming up with problems and handing me books when they could see I had my hands, which were now nearly touching my knees, full, and the books were being kept in place by my chin. One more book breached my chin-hold and I was trying to flex my nose muscles to hold it in place when the counselor asked again.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I grunted.

“Sure you don’t want a person to help you?”

“That would be nice,” I said through clenched teeth. I could feel sweat beads forming on my forehead and lower back.

“What should you do?” the counselor asked.

I was stumped. I stood there straining to hold the books, my back arched to keep the tower I had in front of me from toppling into the floor. Anyone looking at me could see they should help, I thought. I began to get frustrated and embarrassed, if only I was stronger this wouldn’t be a problem, I thought. WHY WON’T SOMEONE HELP ME! They can see how weak I am!

“Are you okay?” the counselor asked again. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you had someone to help you?”

YES! DUH! I screamed in my head. Anyone holding this many books would need help!

“So why don’t you ask someone?” she said.

I stood, stubbornly, a second longer, and then mumbled. “I need help.”

“What do you need someone to do for you?” the counselor asked.

“I need them to take a fucking book,” I said. The rest of the patients burst out laughing.

“So ask someone.”

Finally, begrudgingly, I asked the nearest person, because I couldn’t take a step, “Can you come over and take one of these?”

“Sure,” a friendly voice said. The load lightened. My nose was free.

“Now, ask someone else,” the counselor suggested.

“Can you take a book, please?” I said to the next nearest person, and the load lightened more.

I caught on as did members of the group around me. I asked the next person to take a book, and a couple of group members walked up to me and asked if they could take books. Soon everyone was holding a book.

“So what did you learn?” the counselor asked.

“I need to ask for help when I am moving books,” my smartass answer escaped.

“Half right,” she said. “You have to learn to ask for help. And to help you with that lesson, for the next 24-hours you have to ask for someone to do everything for you. You can’t get your own food, pour a cup of coffee, open a door. Everything that you do outside of your room, you have to have someone help you.”

I was flooded with shame and embarrassment, and my pride took a new turn. I decided I wouldn’t eat or drink for 24-hours and that would solve the problem.

Fortunately, those “losers” and “idiots” who were behind me in recovery and could not see when a person who needed help without being asked, refused to allow me to not learn my lesson.

They opened the door for me as we left the classroom, forced me to sit at a table at lunch, and brought me a tray of food and a drink. They opened doors for me everywhere I went all day. Someone was ready to fix new cups of hot tea (I had a pretty bad cold at the time) every time I finished a cup. One or two people escorted me everywhere I went, even to my room.

They seemed to be everywhere and ready to help all the time. And to this day, I am still grateful for their love, support, the roles they played in the classroom, and throughout that 24 hours. They literally dragged me toward recovery instead of allowing me to stay lost.

After the pride-crushing 24 hours were up, the counselor sat me down and debriefed all of my feelings and thoughts from the day.

“Sometimes, we have to get out of our comfort zones. We have to put down our guards and be vulnerable. It is not easy, but it is worth it,” she said.

Feeling wounded, bullied, and ostracized from my rehab-mates, I asked, “I get the point of the exercise, but why did you pick me?”

“Because you needed it more than anyone else,” she said. “You are going to have to be careful when you leave here. You are going to have to start asking for help. If you don’t you will relapse. It’s not that you are a bad person, and it is not that you are doomed to failure. It’s your personality type. Instead of admitting your struggles, you hide them. Keeping secrets will get you drunk.”

I walked out of the room determined to be more open and ask for help more often. I had newfound information and was not about to let someone slap me in the face with this character defect again!

That determination lasted exactly two more days.

Slowly, I began to slide closer to my old pattern. At some point, I noticed it and changed my behavior by asking a counselor if he could talk with me when I was having a particularly bad morning.

After I left treatment, it became harder to avoid old patterns of trying to do things completely on my own. But, I did call someone to find the location of an AA meeting, instead of following my usual pattern of circling aimlessly until it was too late to go. I did share my early sobriety insanity with other alcoholics, which I never would have thought to do in the past.

Once, I called another alcoholic when I was on the road to relapse and he helped me turn off the road and into a meeting. (See Chemical Free Not Sober for more on that story.)

Still, there are signs that I have a lot to learn. One of them came when a hurricane blew a tree onto the roof of my house.

I had zero power tools, and despite offers of help from people in my home group, I let them know that I was FINE. I nibbled away at the tree with a brush saw and hedge clippers for two days before finally calling a tree service to remove it, which took them all of 20 minutes and took a huge dent out of my bank account. Could I have gotten it done cheaper with the help of friends? I will never know.

I will say in the last three years; I have progressed in asking for help. (Nina might say there is a screwdriver bit sticking out of a light fixture over our sink that speaks otherwise.) I tend to ask for help two steps before disaster strikes instead of just one. I do feel like I have improved enough to understand that many alcoholics are like me and struggle to ask for help.

Whenever I see an alcoholic that I think is suffering, I ask them if they need help. I check in with people around me to see if they are doing okay mentally or emotionally. I reach out to newcomers and share how I tried to seem fine on the outside, but only got better by sharing about my insides. I am learning to accept that it’s not a weakness to admit…

(gasp) That I need help.

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