After something truly bad happens to someone we know, a common response is “why didn’t they say something?” Why didn’t they ask for help?
Something truly bad is happening . But, even though you might not know me, I’m saying something, anyway. Just in case it makes a difference that I am asking for help.
If you know God, or if you happen to be God, I really need some help.
I need help right now because
- I’m not a duck, water doesn’t roll off my back and this is Portland, Oregon. Rain. Lots of rain;
- I’m not insulated quite as well as a house and it’s cold at night;
- I’m not an octopus, motorized nor especially endowed with super hero powers. I only have two arms to carry, two legs to transport and a pile of kryptonite stuck to the bottom of my shoe.
A middle aged woman carrying around two parrots outside in the rain is a ridiculous outcome. I like nothing better than a good joke, but, not being one. Would I deserve it? Depends on what is asked, I suppose, but I’m not blaming or denying accountability.
Regardless the circumstances, ultimately, I made choices that did not serve me well. Hindsight keenly reveals my mistakes. Free agency can have undesirable results. I own this all day long. And it doesn’t change the fact that ‘yes, I erred in my judgement and I need help to manage the consequences.”
The alternative is that I succumb to the principles of survival being solely for the fittest. In that world view it would be some duty on my part to buck up buttercup, and head to the elephant graveyard without making a scene. What would the neighbors think, after all?
I’ll confess that I can be accused of being somewhat obstinate. I’m too proud and because I’m too proud, I try to do for myself what I can’t do alone. I am guarded so my vulnerability isn’t revealed. I refuse to back down long past the moment I should concede. I’ve always been a fighter, a solitary boxer standing naked on the shore, balled fists raging against an angry sea. Beaten back, again and again, just like the rocks eventually become sand, its pulverized my pride, my willfulness, my rebellion to this.
It’s impossible to make a dignified cry for help. I had to choose: the facade of dignity or the chance of restoration. Like the saying goes, you can save face or save your ass but you can’t save both at the same time.
Post-Immediate needs are securing shelter and a way to transport the very little I have from here to somewhere better than here because here is gone.