My husband has always known me as a strong woman. The first time he spoke to me during my freshman year in college, I chastised him for calling me a girl. “I am a woman,” I corrected him.
I was not a confident teenager in high school. I was quiet and always had my nose in a book. I hid my body under baggy clothes, believing I was fat because that’s what I’d been told since I was little. Even with all that stereotypical teen baggage, I made a conscious decision to take charge of my life and not depend too heavily on anyone who could control what happened to me. I’m sure part of it stems from being the oldest sibling, but a great deal was influenced by a tumultuous family life. The happy face I put on during school hours–in the public eye–was a mask I dreaded removing each day as I stepped off the schoolbus. If I wanted my situation to change, I was the only one who could change it. I couldn’t wait to leave home and go to college, where I would be the master of my domain.
I worked hard in high school and earned a full ride to a small state college. No college loans for me. I didn’t want to be dependent on anyone. I was a very serious 17-year-old when I packed up for a school four hours away from my parents’ home. You might think I went buck wild when I left home. My college experience was pretty tame, except for the fact that I got engaged to a black man, much my my parents’ horror.
My future husband was not turned off by my bluntness. My future mother-in-law was the strong woman in his life. So is his aunt. He’s surrounded by opinionated, independent women. The first time he offered to carry my bookbag after a class, I scoffed “You don’t think I’m strong enough to carry my own books?” Always the southern gentlemen, he never stopped asking if he could help me with something.
This has been our relationship for over 18 years. My stubbornness. His selfless giving. My refusal to ask for help. His persistence in offering it.
Lately we’ve been like ships passing in the night. His increased workload meant more hours away from home. When he was home, he was exhausted. I had a full plate as well, with loads of freelance projects to juggle and being the primary caretaker for the kids since I worked from home. Somewhere along the way, I decided that I had to do everything myself. I didn’t want to further burden my husband who was already stressed about his workload and office politics. I was going to keep this family going, dammit. And without help.
Of course one can only carry the world on her shoulders for so long before everything crashes. Being strong takes a lot of energy and concentration. I was not happy. I resented doing so much. I caught myself yelling at the kids too many times. At the end of the day, I just wanted to sit in the quiet, all by myself. Not my finest moments. But if you spoke to me, you wouldn’t know. My happy mask was on.
My husband and I had many late night conversations after everything came tumbling down. I tried to escape in a book, as I have done since I discovered the bookmobile. Towards the end of Laura Lippman’s mystery Hush, Hush, a conversation between two of the male characters jumped at me:
What I’m trying to tell you is that these women, who seem so together, who act as if they don’t even care if you show up every day? They need you, too.
Who knew two little sentences would hit me so hard?
I have to learn how to ask for help. My husband loves me because I am feisty and independent, but he’s seen my vulnerability. He knows that asking for help does not mean I am weak. Why do I always forget this? If someone constantly offers help but the offer is rejected, they will stop asking. He hasn’t stopped asking, but he’s stopped asking as often.
I took a step back and thought about the other people in my inner circle. I don’t like asking for help because I worry I’m imposing. I worry that they think I’m only a taker and never a giver. Any of my close friends who are reading this will probably laugh at the idea that I am only a taker. I give off the impression that I can handle everything myself. Which probably makes me seem standoffish.
Last night, I reached out to several friends to ask for help. Some I haven’t spoken to in months. I was scared because I didn’t want to be such a big taker. But they all responded. Some could help, others apologized for not being able to help. And they meant it.
I will do better. I will remind myself that needing help isn’t a sign of weakness. Needing help means I exactly that. I need help. There’s nothing wrong with not being able to juggle everything by myself.
I will remind myself that strong women need help too.
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