helping people

We live in the real world. It’s no fairy tale. In real life, sometimes things get tough. And sometimes when things get tough we take it out on the wrong person, lash out at someone we like and care for. And sometimes, we are that someone. We are the ones being used as scape goat, the one to blame for someone’s troubles, for their hard times.

Tonight I was that someone. Unexpectedly, shockingly, I found myself the target of harsh accusations, of a one-way screaming match, of mean words and the worst possible complaint, the one you never want to hear coming from a friend’s mouth, someone you care for: “You don’t give a damn about me.”

That’s a tough thing to digest – especially so when it comes from someone we were trying to help. My first reaction: second guessing myself. Was it true? Could I have done more? Could I have done better? Were my efforts totally useless? Was my attempt to help unsuccessful and pointless?

I am my own worst critic. I tend to second-guess myself, and I often find myself at fault – I can always do more, help more, go one step further. And like most Italian (and Latin in general, I believe) women, I kind of have a “mom complex”. I want to take care of people, and I never feel like I am doing enough or just as much as I should. And yet, this time, a little voice in the back of my head said “Even if that was true, even if your efforts didn’t pan out, your support should still count for something. You don’t deserve this.” What? Me, in defense of me? Never happens. Must be a mistake.

After the upset, another followed, a private one. I literally could  not stop crying. I wasn’t crying because  felt sorry for myself, I was crying because I felt sad, ’cause this wasn’t just a fight, it was the end of a relationship. No going back from here.

And I felt bad, guilty. I had quickly shushed that little voice that was coming in my defense, and I was back to the accusations, which rang in my ears and echoed in my head. I’m a bad friend. Tears. I let my friend down. More tears, a sea of tears. Hard to stop now. Thank goodness the girls can’t see me, they would get very upset. Sarah will have bad dreams. How am I going to put them to bed? I have to stop crying. But I couldn’t. For the first time in a long time, I coulnd’t stop crying. And I felt stupid and pathetic and whiny, which only made me mad and caused tears of anger, which together with the tears of guilt, of self-doubt, was now making it really, really hard to do anything but cry.

I have to talk to someone. But I can’t. I don’t want to badmouth my friend. Inevitably, when someone is crying, you tend to take their side a little bit already from the start. I felt that was unfair. After all, I was the one who did a poor job at helping my friend. Her outburst, no matter how harsh, was caused my my not being up to the task. I hadn’t been the friend she needed.

Maybe I can tweet. Just one tweet, no reference to anyone or anything specific. It could be even rhetorical. But at least a little outlet. For the girls. So I can take care of them. If Sascha was here, I could tell him I need a moment and he could take care of them, but he won’t get back until tomorrow. So I did. Just one little tweet. No one is probably even going to reply now, especially not to such a banal, cliché line. But someone did. A friend, who should have been having dinner with her family in peace, who had just ended a very busy day and yet had offered to help with something already. A friend who promptly called and didn’t mind me being a blubbering mess, didn’t judge me as harshly as I was judging myself, didn’t seem to think less of me for being miserable and heartbroken. A friend who said all the right things, all the things I already knew, but needed to hear. A friend who gave me a virtual hug, when I needed it most and I didn’t have the courage to ask. A friend who didn’t let me go until she could hear in my voice that I was better, that I was going to be ok.

And I am. Ok, that is. Heartbroken, too – still. It’s a fresh wound, but it’ll heal in time. Heartbreak happens. This is real life, after all.

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