OK. It doesn’t happen often, especially now that my mum has gone. But occasionally, and I do mean occasionally, I am forced to turn to others to ask for advice.
I don’t like it. I’m not a good asker of anything.
I seem to have been born with a gene that does not mind giving but I don’t really like asking.
This is not a good thing.
Not at all.
No, no, no.
And I’ll tell you for why, if you’ll bear with me. (Hold on. Bear? Bare? Brrr?)
Here’s why not asking for help is not a good thing.
This could get complicated.
I’m just warning you.
If you like giving help there is the suggestion that you get a buzz from that. OK. I can deal with that. I like giving help.
If you don’t like asking for help, you want to be independent and self-sufficient and crap like that. Yup. That’s me.
Apparently, my inability to ask for help from those I give help to leaves them feeling like shit.
Now, no matter what my hang-ups are, and I have a few, never is it my intention to make anyone feel like crap. (Sorry, Opinionated Man. I like your style and your writing and your honesty but I’m not big on the whole, ‘please look in the mirror’ thing. No, that’s not true. I just don’t want to be the one to say, ‘Please look in the mirror.’ God, I’m so weak! I’m obviously looking for approbation and have no wish to directly offend anyone.)
The point is, and I do eventually get there, is that my inability to ASK FOR HELP from the people I give help to leaves them feeling like a taker with no opportunity to be a giver.
Now that sucks.
If I like giving, for whatever dark and mysterious reasons I have not completely analysed, and enjoy doing so, why then do I continually deny others the opportunity to experience the same buzz?
I’ve been told this by people dear to me.
They’ve said things like, ‘You’re a shit. Why won’t you let me help?’
And sometimes they’ve just said, ‘You’re a shit,’ with no further explanation. Not good. Not good, at all.
(No wonder I liked that guy’s post. Insert http://poesypluspolemics.com/2013/06/19/the-most-versatile-word/).
((And I’m truly sorry (no, I’m not) for reblogging this post once again. This man is a genius with words. I bow to his knowledge and ability. But, I’m sorry, I can’t help it. THIS post takes the biscuit. I really, really want it out there.))
Back to present.
Asking can be a good thing. Other people get to inflate their egos as much as you. Did I mean to say that?
Geez, I need a psychologist.
OK. Back to point.
I’m really enjoying this whole blogging thing I’ve got going on here. Reading posts, having people read mine, reading more posts, having people read mine. Having people read mine.
(How much approbation do I need? Anyone got a good psychologist’s number?)
My God, it does take me ages to get to the point.
No wonder my brother goes ape-shit on me when I’m talking.
Do I come out of the closet?
I have not yet connected any of my posts to the big, bad external world outwith WordPress. And, if the truth be known. I’m kacking it. (That’s shitting it, for those who don’t know.)
I like the anonymity. I’ve never been this verbose except when I’m pissed or with people who know me so well I can’t hide it.
I’m enjoying ranting away with all these lovely people. You’re all very positive, btw, I really appreciate that. (Fucking approbation again. I’m going to kick his head in if I find him.)
So, stay private and enjoy?
Go public and mortify myself and my children and, quite possibly, my husband?
I love them all to bits and back. But, I just don’t know.
I’ll give you an example. (There’s no shutting me up once I get started. Ask anyone who knows me.)
My eldest son asked me today what exactly I found to blog about. Now, for a young man who has xillion people on facebook I find that a strange question. If I were asking this of myself, it would make perfect sense.
I told him I was blogging about him and all his disgusting habits. It was a lie. Well, nearly. (Watch this space).
A few weeks ago I asked him if he would like to come camping with me and the rest of the crew.
‘I can’t think of anything I would hate more than sharing a tent with you lot. Except maybe (having my testicles removed)’ The words in parenthesis are to prevent me from quoting my darling eldest son directly who actually said something somewhat less acceptable. It did involve balls but we weren’t playing tennis here.
So, you see, my decision to ‘come out of the closet’, as it were, reflects on so many more people than myself.
What do I do?
Sorry. I have to insert this here. The myriad ways our minds work!!!!
So, to cut a long story even longer. What would you do?