Post by greatcoastal on Apr 23, 2024 15:29:58 GMT -5
medium.com/illumination/i-refused-to-let-people-help-me-when-i-needed-it-most-89548c06b051
I Refused to Let People Help Me When I Needed It Most
This is why it was a mistake
Colleen Sheehy Orm
I’m tired, stressed, and overwhelmed. I’ve just told my husband that I’m leaving him. His torturous response has made mere days, seem like an eternity.
There’s a knock at my door.
It’s my neighbor.
“Here,” she says while pushing an envelope into my hand.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Just take it,” she says.
I look down to see what she’s given me. A lump inches its way from my heart to my throat. I look at my beautiful friend. Her gesture overpowers my response. I can barely speak.
“I can’t,” I say.
“You can,” she says.
“No,” I say. “I can’t accept this.”
Tears find me.
In her signature way, she offers kindness without remaining long enough to be rebuked. I make my way back into my kitchen and sit down. I stare at her gift.
It’s a bank envelope, an extremely thick bank envelope.
I can’t imagine how much cash is inside of it.
I don’t open it.
I tuck it inside a folder on my desk.
My husband is withholding all money from me. I’m unable to buy food or school supplies. My family and friends buy groceries, and make dinner for us. My husband refuses to move out.
He helps himself to the food.
“You can’t do that,” I say. “You can’t eat the food they’re bringing because you’re giving me no ability to feed our children.”
“They owe me,” he says.
I can only guess that’s a nod to dinners he may have picked up over the years, and the use of our beach house.
I don’t want accept help.
But I’m blindsided.
I begin to hock my jewelry. I’m doing everything I can to solve my own problems. I’m the child of a single mother. She taught me well. There’s nothing I can’t figure out.
But I’m no match for my husband.
He creates crisis after crisis.
I can’t keep up.
I’m forced to accept more help.
My neighbor lets me borrow her car. My car remains at the repair shop because my husband refuses to pay the bill. My family and friends ask me what they can do to make things easier.
I’m not comfortable continuing to accept their help.
I begin refusing it.
“Colleen,” says my sister. “You have to let people help you.”
“I know,” I say. “But I’m figuring things out.”
I was to some degree. I was also beginning to drown. The force and intensity of my husband’s financial abuse was extreme. It was causing other issues. My children were not doing well.
They were disturbed by their father’s behavior.
They were shocked to see what he was capable of .
It was his emotional death.
They were grieving the father they once knew.
In his place, was a cold and ruthless man. A man who didn’t care if they had food, transportation, electricity, health insurance, housing, and more. They couldn’t wrap their heads around it.
I couldn’t blame them.
As an adult, I couldn’t comprehend my husband’s brutality.
I wasn’t doing well either.
“Why won’t you let me help you?” asks one of my high school besties.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“I want to help you,” she says.
I continue to accept some occasional help. I refuse much of what is being offered to me. I frustrate those who love me. I realize I’m doing this. I feel bad accepting things from them.
It’s not pride.
It’s a sense that I can take care of myself.
I believe I can figure it out.
One of my high school friends is sneaky. She lives out of state and sends me a letter. There’s a cashier’s check tucked inside of it. I pick up the phone to call her.
“Why did you do this?” I ask.
“I knew you would rip up a check,” she says. “But you have to cash that.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say.
“We were all raised with two parents,” she says. “But after school, wherever we went, you were the one who was willing to pay for us. You were always generous.”
“I don’t remember that,” I say.
“We were all terrible with money,” she says. “But you always had to work, and had money.”
My friend got away with it.
I did cash that check.
I went back to refusing all kinds of help, not just monetary. Again, I shouldn’t have. My life was being ripped apart by a man. It was being thrown into total chaos.
I needed all kinds of help.
Again, I refused the majority of it.
I became worn down.
I couldn’t sleep or think straight. I was distracted by the constant stress, and unpredictability of my husband’s abuse. I never knew what would happen next, or if we would have a home. I worried about my children.
I never stabilized.
I never caught up.
I ran interference.
Until I could barely recognize myself. Until I had lost all of the strongest parts of me. Until I had abandoned my optimism and hope. Until I had taken myself down.
I made a mistake.
I should never have refused help.
I should’ve allowed those who loved me, to assist me. I wasn’t being independent. I wasn’t being self-sufficient. I wasn’t doing myself any good. I wasn’t doing my kids any good.
I was being foolish. I was being stupid. There are, and there will be, times in our lives when we need people.
It’s humanity and community.
It’s how we survive and thrive.
I was recently chatting with a friend.
Her husband was diagnosed with a serious illness. She is the caregiver for her mother-in-law, and she has a big career. She’s smart, capable, and self-sufficient.
“You need to accept more help,” I say.
“I’m good,” she says.
“Don’t make the mistake that I made,” I say. “You will have nothing left of yourself, if you refuse to allow people to help you.”
I know what my friend is thinking.
She’s thinking the same thing that I was thinking. She believes she is accepting some help. People are bringing them meals, and helping with a few rides. She doesn’t want to accept more than that.
Sometimes…
We need more help than we think we do.
We can’t keep caring for others, if we don’t care for ourselves.
In some ways, my children saw their mother’s strength. In other ways, they saw their mother disappear. I’m proud of what I was able to do. I am my mother’s daughter.
But in other ways, I did them a disservice.
I think I could’ve escaped my husband sooner, if I hadn’t allowed him to wear me down, and weaken me. If I hadn’t become so sleep-deprived and overwhelmed. I think I could have problem-solved my way out of that five year divorce sooner.
If I hadn’t refused more help.
I would’ve retained more of my strength.
When the dust finally settled in my divorce, I walked to my neighbor’s house, and knocked on the door. My beautiful friend greeted me.
“Here,” I said while pushing a white envelope into her hand.
“What’s this?” she said.
“I will never forget what you were willing to do for me,” I said. “I never opened it. I tucked into a folder in my office. I knew you wouldn’t take it back until you knew I was okay.”
It was true.
I never opened that envelope.
I never knew how much was in there, only that it was too much.
Even now, a lump inches its way from my heart to my throat.
I Refused to Let People Help Me When I Needed It Most
This is why it was a mistake
Colleen Sheehy Orm
I’m tired, stressed, and overwhelmed. I’ve just told my husband that I’m leaving him. His torturous response has made mere days, seem like an eternity.
There’s a knock at my door.
It’s my neighbor.
“Here,” she says while pushing an envelope into my hand.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Just take it,” she says.
I look down to see what she’s given me. A lump inches its way from my heart to my throat. I look at my beautiful friend. Her gesture overpowers my response. I can barely speak.
“I can’t,” I say.
“You can,” she says.
“No,” I say. “I can’t accept this.”
Tears find me.
In her signature way, she offers kindness without remaining long enough to be rebuked. I make my way back into my kitchen and sit down. I stare at her gift.
It’s a bank envelope, an extremely thick bank envelope.
I can’t imagine how much cash is inside of it.
I don’t open it.
I tuck it inside a folder on my desk.
My husband is withholding all money from me. I’m unable to buy food or school supplies. My family and friends buy groceries, and make dinner for us. My husband refuses to move out.
He helps himself to the food.
“You can’t do that,” I say. “You can’t eat the food they’re bringing because you’re giving me no ability to feed our children.”
“They owe me,” he says.
I can only guess that’s a nod to dinners he may have picked up over the years, and the use of our beach house.
I don’t want accept help.
But I’m blindsided.
I begin to hock my jewelry. I’m doing everything I can to solve my own problems. I’m the child of a single mother. She taught me well. There’s nothing I can’t figure out.
But I’m no match for my husband.
He creates crisis after crisis.
I can’t keep up.
I’m forced to accept more help.
My neighbor lets me borrow her car. My car remains at the repair shop because my husband refuses to pay the bill. My family and friends ask me what they can do to make things easier.
I’m not comfortable continuing to accept their help.
I begin refusing it.
“Colleen,” says my sister. “You have to let people help you.”
“I know,” I say. “But I’m figuring things out.”
I was to some degree. I was also beginning to drown. The force and intensity of my husband’s financial abuse was extreme. It was causing other issues. My children were not doing well.
They were disturbed by their father’s behavior.
They were shocked to see what he was capable of .
It was his emotional death.
They were grieving the father they once knew.
In his place, was a cold and ruthless man. A man who didn’t care if they had food, transportation, electricity, health insurance, housing, and more. They couldn’t wrap their heads around it.
I couldn’t blame them.
As an adult, I couldn’t comprehend my husband’s brutality.
I wasn’t doing well either.
“Why won’t you let me help you?” asks one of my high school besties.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“I want to help you,” she says.
I continue to accept some occasional help. I refuse much of what is being offered to me. I frustrate those who love me. I realize I’m doing this. I feel bad accepting things from them.
It’s not pride.
It’s a sense that I can take care of myself.
I believe I can figure it out.
One of my high school friends is sneaky. She lives out of state and sends me a letter. There’s a cashier’s check tucked inside of it. I pick up the phone to call her.
“Why did you do this?” I ask.
“I knew you would rip up a check,” she says. “But you have to cash that.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say.
“We were all raised with two parents,” she says. “But after school, wherever we went, you were the one who was willing to pay for us. You were always generous.”
“I don’t remember that,” I say.
“We were all terrible with money,” she says. “But you always had to work, and had money.”
My friend got away with it.
I did cash that check.
I went back to refusing all kinds of help, not just monetary. Again, I shouldn’t have. My life was being ripped apart by a man. It was being thrown into total chaos.
I needed all kinds of help.
Again, I refused the majority of it.
I became worn down.
I couldn’t sleep or think straight. I was distracted by the constant stress, and unpredictability of my husband’s abuse. I never knew what would happen next, or if we would have a home. I worried about my children.
I never stabilized.
I never caught up.
I ran interference.
Until I could barely recognize myself. Until I had lost all of the strongest parts of me. Until I had abandoned my optimism and hope. Until I had taken myself down.
I made a mistake.
I should never have refused help.
I should’ve allowed those who loved me, to assist me. I wasn’t being independent. I wasn’t being self-sufficient. I wasn’t doing myself any good. I wasn’t doing my kids any good.
I was being foolish. I was being stupid. There are, and there will be, times in our lives when we need people.
It’s humanity and community.
It’s how we survive and thrive.
I was recently chatting with a friend.
Her husband was diagnosed with a serious illness. She is the caregiver for her mother-in-law, and she has a big career. She’s smart, capable, and self-sufficient.
“You need to accept more help,” I say.
“I’m good,” she says.
“Don’t make the mistake that I made,” I say. “You will have nothing left of yourself, if you refuse to allow people to help you.”
I know what my friend is thinking.
She’s thinking the same thing that I was thinking. She believes she is accepting some help. People are bringing them meals, and helping with a few rides. She doesn’t want to accept more than that.
Sometimes…
We need more help than we think we do.
We can’t keep caring for others, if we don’t care for ourselves.
In some ways, my children saw their mother’s strength. In other ways, they saw their mother disappear. I’m proud of what I was able to do. I am my mother’s daughter.
But in other ways, I did them a disservice.
I think I could’ve escaped my husband sooner, if I hadn’t allowed him to wear me down, and weaken me. If I hadn’t become so sleep-deprived and overwhelmed. I think I could have problem-solved my way out of that five year divorce sooner.
If I hadn’t refused more help.
I would’ve retained more of my strength.
When the dust finally settled in my divorce, I walked to my neighbor’s house, and knocked on the door. My beautiful friend greeted me.
“Here,” I said while pushing a white envelope into her hand.
“What’s this?” she said.
“I will never forget what you were willing to do for me,” I said. “I never opened it. I tucked into a folder in my office. I knew you wouldn’t take it back until you knew I was okay.”
It was true.
I never opened that envelope.
I never knew how much was in there, only that it was too much.
Even now, a lump inches its way from my heart to my throat.
