The Helper Complex

There are certain people in this world who have an insatiable need to help. Teachers. Doctors. Nurses. Paramedics. Social workers. Tech support personnel. Lawyers. (Just kidding. I didn't think my list was long enough, but come on. I hope one of you would have called me out on that bullshit. Who am I kidding? The last two are just assholes.)

Think about those people. You all know them. They always want to help. They need to help. They have a solution or advice for everything. Perhaps they are in a helping profession. Or perhaps they only date people who suffer from at least three psychiatric disorders, regularly quit taking their medication, and have at least five different dramatic interpersonal conflicts to discuss when they run out of other things to rant about--such as, inter alia, work, school, living arrangements, traffic, groceries, wind, killer leaves, scheduling, useless extracurricular activities, paper cuts, mice, drugs, and, of course, the ever-annoying drama queens they know.

But there is one distinct characteristic that we rarely acknowledge in the helpers around us: they don't know how to accept help.

I'll repeat it: they don't know how to accept help. Now let it sink in.

They spend their lives helping other people, but they can't let anyone else help them.

Try it sometime. It's really quite hilarious. The helpers spend the majority of their time trying to help you, and then, when it's clearly obvious that they need help (for example, they've broken both wrists, developed blinding eye infections in both eyes, and been quarantined to a single room because they contracted the plague), they won't let you do something as simple as bring them a beverage or ask if they want to talk about it. "No, thanks. I'm fine. I'll get it myself."

And don't even try speaking rationally. "Suzy, I know you're a ridiculously independent and stubborn asshole, but you can't see, you can't use your hands, and you're locked in a room by yourself with CDC officials guarding the door, which has been sealed off with plastic, along with every other crack in every wall. Clearly, you're not going to get yourself a drink and you're not fine."

Suzy's not going to listen. And don't be surprising when she turns on a faucet with her toes and drinks from it like a dog lapping at a hose. She's doing it to spite you. Then, she's going to start singing happy songs from her childhood. And if you're still standing there when she's done, she's going to turn (probably in the wrong direction) and say, "See? I'm fine. I told you I could do it."

So, non-helpers, you selfish bastards you, if ever you get the urge to help the helpers, quash that urge as quickly as you can. You're only going to end up feeling futile and giving the helpers something else to talk you through when your insecurities lead to another nervous breakdown. Helpers, quit trying to deny that you need help. You know you're fucked up. Every now and then, let someone hold your hand. You won't die. I promise.

Author's Note: If you even expect me to follow my advice, most succinctly expressed in the previous paragraph, then you are kidding yourself. I'm a helper. I don't accept help unless I'm dying. And even then, I've really gotta be dying. So get over it. I don't follow my own advice.