Tag: assistance

Fair To Middlin’

It was a familiar routine.

Every week, as the sun hovered in the western sky, I would board a city bus. When the bus reached the other side of the park, I would disembark and step into the waiting room of a doctor’s office. About an hour later, I’d re-emerge and head home.

This is a normal scene for anyone seeking treatment in the big city, where parking and rush hour traffic are appointment-busting nightmares.

But I didn’t take the bus by choice. I did so by necessity.

I didn’t have a driver’s license, let alone a car. I couldn’t have either of those things.

For I was only 11 years old.

And that bus? It was ferrying me from my school to my therapist.

Looking back now, it all looks so strange. 11-year-olds are usually playing videogames with their friends. They’re enjoying the final days of youthful innocence, before the trials of adolescence kick in.

They generally are not traveling across town by themselves to sit in a plush chair and talk to a shrink.

But I was.

Depression had taken its toll on me, bringing black clouds to sunny days. I was in a funk, and nothing could cheer me up.

I remember thinking that I couldn’t fit into the world and that I was just wasting space by continuing to exist in it. I remember contemplating taking my own life.

And I remember my parents getting me help.

That’s how I ended up making this trek, week-in, and week-out.

But while I knew my mind wasn’t right, I also felt embarrassed about the whole situation. What would my classmates say if they found out? Wouldn’t that revelation just make things worse?

So, I kept the whole routine a secret. I snuck off to the bus stop when no one was looking. And I would duck below the bus windows until it entered the park.

With the city skyline behind me and a canopy of trees in my midst, I could exhale.

Only then would I feel safe.

The early days were touch and go.

Steering a conversation with any 11-year-old — let alone a depressed one — is like herding cats. So, my therapist mostly asked me to talk about my life.

I suppose the idea was to provide me a release. To let the steam escape from the pressure cooker of my mind.

But I was filled with shame. I was ashamed that I sitting in a therapist’s office, while my classmates were off living normal lives.

The shame permeated. It was all I could think about. And so, I made little progress.

At some point, the topic of medication came up. It seemed to be a way out of my quagmire, so I was cautiously optimistic.

My therapist was more guarded. He told me the drugs would make me feel funny, and I needed to be ready for that.

I wasn’t.

I declined the medication and resigned myself to my new pattern of school and therapy.

The sessions eventually became routine — a messed up version of Groundhog’s Day. While I still yearned to be normal, I started to take a measure of solace in the repetition.

But then, things started to change.

I began to realize that I would need to find my own solutions. That I would need to identify the dark clouds on the horizon before they swallowed me whole.

So, I started working at it. I tossed ideas around in my therapy sessions, and I put them into practice. I took control of my emotions, rather than letting them control me.

By the time I was 13, I felt better. I was out of therapy, and I had a better grip on my life.

I tore through middle school and most of high school with a newfound burst of confidence. I tried new things. I made new friends.

But by the time I was 17, I felt those black clouds on the horizon again.

I knew what to do. I sought help.

Things were different this time. For one thing, I had a car. So, I didn’t have to slink away on a city bus to make my therapy sessions.

But beyond that, I had an agenda. I would come to each session full of questions and ideas. I would seek counsel more than treatment. I would aim to cure myself.

It took patience and persistence. But by the time I hit the home stretch of high school, I was out of therapy once again.

I’ve battled bouts of depression on occasion in the years since. But these days, I have the tools to fight through them on my own.

I am patient. I am resilient. And I am willing to be vulnerable.

Such traits have likely saved my life, many times over.

Fair to middlin’.

This phrase has a long legacy in the heartland.

When we’re fair to middlin’, we’re getting by. The outlook might not be the rosiest. But we’re surviving, day by day.

As I’ve navigated the choppy waters of depression throughout the years, I’ve come to embrace this philosophy.

Life might not be a picture-perfect postcard. And I might not be normal. But getting by is fine enough by me.

I’m more at peace than I used to be. And yet, a part of me will always be restless.

For I’m still trying to play detective. I’m still aiming to uncover precisely what sent things south when I was young.

There’s lots of research on both the Autism spectrum and introversion these days — much more than existed when I first encountered depression. I don’t know if these factors led to my issues, but I have my theories.

Still, while the roots of my ailment remain a mystery, my mission is crystal clear.

No longer can I hide my tribulations. There is no shame in sharing my story; on the contrary, the biggest danger is in keeping it silent.

There are others out there who are struggling now, just as I once was. I need to be there for them.

Especially now.

There is a silent epidemic sweeping our nation.

Much like the pathogen that’s turned our lives upside down, this epidemic can’t be seen by the human eye. But it can certainly be felt.

Forced isolation and economic stagnation might slow the spread of a deadly virus. But they also carry a heavy toll.

These practices separate us from two core pillars of society — social connections and breadwinning. When we lose the ability to share with others or earn our keep, we find ourselves lost and without hope. The dark clouds roll in.

There’s been a lot of talk about mental health recently. These have been tough times, and many are looking to make the discomfort go away.

I don’t think everyone discussing mental health concerns is battling depression. But there certainly are many who are.

Yes, some of these people will seek assistance, as I once had. And some will find the strength to claw their way out of the pit of despair, as I once did.

But banking on those outcomes across the board is reckless. There are still many in the throes of depression, who need our help to get out of the rut.

It’s on us to be there for them. It’s on us to listen to them. It’s on us to provide a guiding light.

Now more than ever.

Our mission is clear. Let’s make it happen.

How Can I Help?

These are the four most important words in our toolset.

The question “How can I help?” isn’t just meant for customer service anymore. Nor is it restricted to our corporate identity. It resonates in every aspect of our lives.

Making ourselves useful never goes out of style. There is always more that can be done to make the world a better place.

But a spirit of utility goes further than promoting productivity. It can enrich our lives through the connections it builds, the goodwill it spawns and the positive outcomes it makes possible.

You see, every opportunity we come across is a learning experience. But we learn more when we’re active than when we’re passive. In other words, when we’re taking the initiative to provide assistance, we’re putting ourselves in position to learn by doing. We’re taking ourselves out of our comfort zone in order to improve our world, and gathering a bevy of actionable takeaways at the same time.

This is far better than sitting back and waiting for learning experiences to be given to us. While both assigned tasks and sporadic bouts of adversary can provide us powerful lessons to iterate and grow from, they are explicitly out of our control. So, if we learn exclusively this way, we train ourselves to be reactive instead of proactive.

And this means we sell ourselves short.

I say this because our society is built upon utility and connection. That is, the more useful and connected we are, the better off we will be.

With these constructs in place, why would we settle for only the opportunities we’re given? There are so many more opportunities to be had, if we only have the stones to seek them out. And it starts by offering to be useful.

This is a prime reason I commit to asking how I can help as often as I can. It’s not about boosting my ego or padding my resume. It’s about being a better person.

Indeed, offering assistance has helped me gain valuable knowledge beyond the scope of my job function in two separate careers. It’s helped me meet new people and endear myself to them quickly. And it’s made me a better family member, friend and colleague.

More importantly, it’s helped me become a better citizen. Twice in the past decade, I moved to a new region where a hardly knew a soul. But both times, a spirit of utility has helped me forge a foothold in my new home — and quickly.

It’s worked both ways. I learned how to build authentic and lasting connections with my new community simply by being helpful. In turn, I earned a reputation of being empathetic to the everyday trials and tribulations my new neighbors faced.

In fact, I believe the life I’ve built for myself is a direct result of my willingness to put myself out there and lend a hand.

But this principle doesn’t apply to just me. It can work for all of us.

Offering assistance at every turn can make us better employees. It can make us better spouses and parents. And it can make us better friends and neighbors.

Plus, when we all commit to this together, it can make our society more connected and conscientious. When we’ve all got each other’s backs, there’s no limit to what we can do.

It all starts with us. So, let’s use those four powerful words whenever we can.

How can I help?