"none of us are getting married here."
//
Yesterday, someone asked me why I didn't like asking for help. "It's... difficult," I managed to murmur. It really is. I despise asking for help. I don't know why, maybe it's just the way I've been brought up. I think I'm similar to my mother in that respect. We are both middle childs who have been left alone to ourselves, a lot of the time. The only persons I truly ask for help from are probably Huda, Andy and Flea. Maybe it's because they've been with me for so long and seen me at my best and worst. Maybe it's because they actually listen, and don't judge anything I say or do. They aren't passive, however, there's a difference. They help. Family's supposed to be the first people you turn to for help, I think. But parents will always be parents; they scold and chide you first, make you realise that there are other ways of doing things, ways to be a better person, before providing help to you. I don't like that part of it. It makes me feel like I've let them down, regardless of how slight it is. I tell my brothers stuff. Being on the same level (of being kids), they understand. They understand the temptations, the pains, the lies and the difficulties. Still though, being family, they have to protect you, and that involves a lot of scolding and disappointment as well. I don't like that part.
I'm digressing. What I wanted to really say was - even with such people whom you can turn to for help, sometimes, you're the only person whom can help yourself. Sometimes, I just retreat into myself. Relating my experiences, having someone provide consolation, suggestions of alternative behaviours... as well-meaning as my friends may be, sometimes I just can't deal with it. The times when I really just need some quiet in my life and not think, I read. Books are amazing. Novels are incredible. I'm articulate, but I'm not a writer. I don't write beautifully; nothing I say is poetic or lyrical. That's why I love authors like Diana Wynne Jones, Neil Gaiman and Haruki Murakami. Jones and Gaiman do wonderful fantasy, weaved into reality... Then Murakami brings fantasy and rawness to mundane reality.
I digress again. Help. Let's go back to help. This is how I help myself. I read. I read about these experiences, be they fictional or fragments of reality, and I drown in the emotions that they bring out in me. I read what those characters did in their stories, their stupid actions, their insignificant emotions, their thought processes, and I think about my stupid actions, my insignificant emotions and my thought processes. Then I realise that... Life doesn't have to be so difficult. I think you live in the moment. I think you need to embrace uncertainty.
So, help. Maybe I do ask for help a lot. By reading a lot. Maybe it's not that difficult. I don't know.
//
Goosebumps, fairy tales, sparkle dust and all that.
When in doubt, throw phone in sock drawer. Put on Jamie xx, dream koala and Nicolas Jaar. Cry if you need to. Throw things around if you need to. I don't know.
Labels: help, Life, of pain, of reading, seeking help
