My Worst Nightmare: Asking for Help (Sometimes It Backfires)

Me at Age 7

My family was at the 1964 World’s Fair in New York. We had been walking all morning, and my lucky little brother, age four, was being pushed in a stroller. I was seven. Because my mother was a would-be stage mother, my nine-year-old sister and I had just performed our songs to polite applause at the Arkansas exhibit — mine was “Whistle a Happy Tune,” complete with the whistling. We’d even met Donna Axum, the Miss Arkansas who later became Miss America.

Hungry and tired, we headed to the cafeteria, where people behind the counter handed us our burgers and drinks on heavy plates as we slid our trays along. I was used to our school lunch trays, but at checkout, I realized that my tray was too big and heavy to carry. I told the young man who handed it to me, “I can’t carry it.” He glared at me and barked, “Yes, you can!” I think I told my mother, who was sympathetic and found some help for me, but I was humiliated, and I may have cried about it.

I was a highly sensitive child, and I came to believe that sensitivity was a character flaw. I cried when we sang “God Bless America” in a school program and people laughed — I didn’t understand that they thought it was beyond sweet; I cried when I was sad; I cried when I was scolded or criticized; and sometimes I didn’t know why I was crying. I was told to stop crying more times than I want to remember.

Somewhere along the way, my sensitivity blended with my strong urge for independence. I’d been one of those toddlers who always said, “ME do it!” As a middle child, I learned to take care of myself much of the time and tried hard to stop being a cry-baby.

Children need to learn to be self-confident and carry their own water bottles and backpacks, when they can. But they also need to ask for help when they need it and learn how express their feelings. When I needed help, I came to feel as if it wasn’t worth it to ask. My independent streak made it easier to figure problems out for myself, and my shame about my sensitivity led me to protect myself by hiding my vulnerability.

I realize that there are at least two kinds of help-seeking: the practical kind, such as asking for help with a heavy load or bumming a ride, and the personal kind, such as seeking advice or comfort when life is painful.

Even worse than being told no, asking for help and being given misguided aid or incorrect answers developed a pattern of putting me in an awkward position, one that continued to play out as I grew up.

If “help” that was offered felt wrong, I’d accept it (and get a disastrous short haircut), or stealthily disregard it and do what I wanted to do. I wasn’t allowed to stand up to authority figures until I was fifteen and figured out that I had to seize that power for myself, an arduous task.

Over time, I began to live by the maxim, “If you want something done right, do it yourself.” The downside occurred when the “something” didn’t get done at all because I didn’t ask for help.

In college at the age of eighteen, I spent five weeks traveling around France in a study program where we attempted to speak French as much as possible. I could pronounce the French words, ask questions I’d formulated ahead of time, and sound fluent, but I couldn’t understand the answers or the fast-speaking tour guides half of the time. I found the French people I met in stores to be delighted that I was even trying, but one day we were each sent out to explore Paris by ourselves.

I set out to do some shopping and encountered a clerk in the Galeries Lafayette who spoke to me harshly when I asked her to repeat herself.

She huffed, “Je vous ai dit! [I told you!] . . .,“ and at this point I can’t remember what she or I said next. I only remember her impatience and lack of courtesy, but I shrugged it off and managed to pay for the sweater I’d found. Maybe she thought I was a native French speaker; I could take that as sort of an unintentional compliment.

My next stop was the Paris Conservatory of Music. The men I saw in the foyer were gracious when I asked what was required for me to study piano there, and even though I didn’t understand much of what they said either, I answered a few of their questions as well as I could and thanked them for their time. I didn’t want to admit my listening weaknesses since they seemed so happy to be helping. Besides, I’d only ventured out to that area of town because my piano teacher had urged me to. I checked the visit off as a successful step in my French-speaking scavenger hunt and went next door to buy some Faure, Ravel, and Debussy pieces to learn.

Despite my trouble communicating, this day was a step up the ladder of confidence because I’d taken the Metro, found my way around the city, and succeeded in getting back to our camp with souvenirs and piano music I would always enjoy playing.

In my late 20s, I broke my own emotional barrier and decided to find a therapist to help me with my unhappy marriage. Another therapist I knew recommended a “Christian” marriage and family counselor twice my age, who gradually gained my trust as a father figure and then made advances towards me, which I wasn’t sure how to interpret at first.

It took a moment of clarity on a quiet morning for me to realize that his increasing attention was a violation. I stopped the therapy, which hadn’t given me any implementable tools, except for this declaration: “I am not the maid.” I then told my husband I would separate from him if he didn’t find a therapist himself. (We entered therapy together, with a clinical psychologist he found in the Yellow Pages, and divorced ten years and two children later.)

My original therapy crisis had at least one positive outcome: I learned that no one else could ever tell me what was right for me, that not all professionals were trustworthy, and that I would always have to make my own most difficult decisions.

Since then, my experiences in therapy have been mostly positive. They’ve given me answers to questions I didn’t even know I had and opened a world of possibilities up for me. I’ve also ditched one or two other therapists in order to find a better fit.

My mother has taught me, too, throughout my life. For example, as a child of about ten, I disliked calling people on the phone, partly because I couldn’t see their nonverbal cues, but also because I had trouble figuring out how to ask for help or information. My mother noticed my anxiety and helped me plan what I was going to say before I picked up the phone. I’ve had invaluable help from my sister and brother, my friends, both of my husbands, my children, and my many teachers and colleagues.

As for the ever-present strangers today who give me unsolicited advice — I usually listen respectfully and ignore them. If I’m never going to see the person again, I don’t waste energy by explaining that I didn’t ask for help and I’ve got it covered.

I still hate to ask for practical help when I think the answer is likely to be no. It’s a barrier I continue to struggle with. But I‘ve made a pact with myself to accept a “no” from the other person as their right, instead of as rejection or lack of concern, and look for another helper or solution.

I’m still learning to trust myself throughout complexity, but I’m no longer that sensitive little girl or that naive young woman. I have more confidence in my own judgment, but I also have a therapist I can call on when needed. If someone I care about points me in a direction I feel is wrong, I’m learning to chart my own path without necessarily explaining myself. I’m the one who knows me best. I have the right to have my own opinions, follow my instincts, and say no, too. And I’m no longer ashamed to let myself cry.