In praise of asking for help

We all have friends on social media who choose for one reason reason or another play out their daily dramas or grieve deeply or sort through their issues in the public eye. I find myself often rolling my eyes at such posts, but perhaps there is something to it. It's emotional honesty, whatever it's source or motive behind it. It's a certain fearlessness that whatever they are are going through, it deserves attention. They deserve well wishes, and pick-me-ups. They obviously feeling a great need for things, and they are basically unafraid to ask for it.

I'd say most of us, project a positive face. Smiling pictures, successes. No matter what's happening off-line. No one, I think, truly enjoys posting about how their child is having real anger-management issues. That their child deals with sometimes crushing anxiety about the the most routine of things. That, as a parent, these things affect everything you do, every decision you make - and can take a toll on even the happiest and most loving of households. Sudden outbursts of raw emotion seemingly out of nowhere can take your breath away. And when it comes from your child, this piece of your heart- this tiny, developing human that you'd do anything for - well, it breaks that heart in the truest sense. And then realizing that even as a parental unit you can't overcome this alone, that you need help, can feel utterly defeating. Like you've failed your child in being that steadying, guiding force in their life- and was it something you've done to have brought on this behavior? But pushing past ego, you reach out and get the help- because you want more than anything for your child to relish in her deserved strength. To be sure that there's nothing she can't do. But the help is work, progress is slow, and sometimes you can see a flicker at the end of the tunnel- sometimes not. Yeah, I don't think anybody enjoys posting about that kind of stuff.    

I'm not saying that it's all we want to read on Facebook, or the like- I want the smiling faces, I want the accomplishments and celebrations. But there is place for it- for emotional honesty on social media, other than anger (that's one emotion almost no one seems to have trouble expressing online these days). It's a way of reaching out into the ether to let that others know that if they are going though the same things, they aren't alone. The best thing about social media is the community it creates, but without some personal honesty to bring us back to earth, that same community can feel terribly isolating- a place where it's easy to "compare and despair," a wise lady once put it to me.

So I'll try and be a little more accepting to those reaching out. And I'll make an attempt, even if only once and a while, to be brave and ask for that pick-me-up when I need it.     

Issues (A New York[er] Romance)

It's begun again. The anxiety. The fear that you can't keep up. That no matter how many hours are in a day, it's just never going to be enough. I could be talking about life- sure- but what I am specifically speaking of is that I recently renewed my print subscription to the New Yorker.

I had been getting the issues delivered to my old-school Kindle. Couldn't be more convenient. And good for the environment. Every week a mostly text-based version of the current issue, showed up on my Kindle's home screen. Great!

But... if I'm reading a book on the Kindle, I may not regularly visit the home screen- and weeks go by and I haven't even clicked on the New Yorker- which auto-archives the back issues as the new ones come in. Again, so super-easy and space-saving. But however easy and convenient and green it was- I wasn't reading it, and I missed it (even though, yes- it was right there for me at all times, just waiting for me to click). 

A good offer came my way, and so I dove back into the print version! The first issue came- the smell, the tactile feel of the pages, even the old formatting were like coming home. As I thumbed my way through the familiar pages, the dread began. Was today the day I would go to the mailbox and I find the next issue, when I had but begun to make a dent in this issue? Would it be tomorrow? And then another? How long before the pile begins- mocking me that haven't even made my way through "Talk of the Town" yet- from a month ago. "Town's not talkin' about that anymore," the pile snickers (and maybe spits some tobacco into an imaginary spittoon). The pile gets moved, reshuffled- organized by date, by articles within I wanted to read. Eventually the pile gets recycled, passed on to friend- with the self-encouraging thought that I'll read those articles on the Internet- more broken promises. 

I should mention at this point that I'm only two issues into this current fling. Things are going okay. I haven't started the second issue- but I've got a a few days before the next one comes. So we're in a good place. I've pratically read the first issue cover to cover...ish. Honeymoon's not over yet. The second issue hasn't yet given me the glare of the mistress on Valentine's Day. But I know what a fickle friend this publication can be. And much like the ocean- you don't want to turn your back on it.  

I can't decide if the moniker The New Yorker is fitting, or an contradiction in terms. Sure, making your though the grid-like, tall columns takes a lot commitment and energy. But in a place where expedience is prized- these issues force you to slow down and languish. 

So it's another New York(er) romance. Sure there will be issues, the trick is to not let those issues pile up.