My friend suggested that I don’t tend to ask for help –
in the middle of things.
Maybe afterward, after I’ve cleaned myself up a bit,
after I’ve come out of the crap a bit
(or a lot).
But not when I’m in the middle of whatever it is.
She may be right.
Jeff and I have a similar argument. He would probably say same. But it’s not.
He gets upset that I don’t ask for help – for things I don’t need.
I do ask.
A lot.
But not enough – according to him.
I love that he wants to be needed.
And I know he needs to be needed.
It’s so clear on my end: Of course I need him. I have never said or thought or insinuated anything else. I have only affirmed that need over and over. Internally and outwardly.
Sometimes I think I might need him
too much.
I ask for silly things: For him to pick up something from the store on his way home from work. I tell him about a problem with the computer or car or fireplace so he can fix it. I ask him to take the laundry out of the dryer because a kitty is cuddling with me and I don’t want to miss out.
And real things: When my back is killing me, I ask him to vacuum the stairs. When anything bad happens – or anything good happens – I tell him. And ask for his thoughts. First. When I am not sure what to do about a situation, I ask him. When I’m insecure, I spill those things to him. I cry on his chest about him dying and leaving me here without him.
How else do I define need?
Because I don’t need someone.
I need him.