This blog post will come as no surprise to my family, and certainly not to my children. It turns out that I’m an impulsive person, and have the tiniest bit of OCD. Unfortunately, its not the kind that ensures a clean house or a job well done. It’s the type that fixates on something until it swirls around in my head and drives me crazy. On the plus side, I may have been granted a small glimpse into the world of serial killers.
Except I don’t kill people. I over empathize. I used to think this was a good thing, but apparently, its not. If I’m walking down the street and I see someone who looks really glum, I send a little prayer their way. But I want to do more than that. I long to hustle over to this complete stranger and ask, ‘What’s wrong?’ I also feel bad if babies are crying in their strollers and moms and dads are too busy with their phones to notice. (This is hardly anyone, so these people stand out.) ‘I’ll hold your baby for you,’ is what I want to say. What I have actually said. Only a few times, but the response has never been good.
Here’s a better example. During our choir production, many of us had chairs on the stage for those times when our guest soloist would take over, or when other members would step forward and burst into song. (For those not from here, it was a lovely concert.) Instead of fully immersing myself in the moment, all I could think about was the people whose risers were too narrow for chairs. They looked so uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot while the rest of us sat like lumps. One of the standing women is in her eighties, and though she’s very fit for her age, I’m sure she would have liked a rest. I suggested they sit on the risers, which they did for the first half, and then they must have made a group decision because they all stood for the second half. It was like they were naughty school children undergoing punishment. Or, as one audience member said to me later, like they were going to perform their own piece but never got around to it.
I really dislike this about myself. Why can’t I mind my own business? I know that most of us are haunted by the terrible things going on in the world. But when I see toddlers with their scarves, hats and coats still on during an hour long indoor shopping trip, and the parent’s coats are off, I really, really want to say something. Maybe its the ex-teacher in me. The whole crowd control, let’s coordinate so everyone’s comfortable but mostly so I feel okay, thing.
I really dislike bossy people. Nothing gets my back up like being told what to do, unless that person is in charge of me, like Tracy at the gym, or Crystal at choir, or the minister at church. When he says ‘please stand,’ I don’t think, ‘No thank you, I’d rather not.’ I stand with everyone else. It’s those times when someone like me tries to tell me what to do. ‘You’re not the boss of me,’ I think to myself. So why do I have to be the boss of other peoples feelings and situations? I don’t picture myself walking a mile in someone’s shoes. I’d rather take their shoes away and give them a pair of comfy slippers. Whether they want that or not, of course.
It’s time to end my neurotic behavior. From now on, I’m going to ignore everyone else and just go about my business. If you’re on fire, I’ll probably help you. I’ll still pray for people, because that is in my DNA. But I’m going to loosen up a little, let the world slide by and do its own thing. I don’t have to get involved in every single thing happening. Right? Unless you need help. Or look sad, or even bothered by someone. Me? It’s me bothering you? Oh. I feel so bad about that. Let me help you.
One thought on “I Can’t Help Myself”
Being an empathetic “helper” seems to me a Canadian thing, maybe even a Western Canadian thing, I’m not sure. A few years ago I attended a weekend choir workshop in Saskatoon led by two African Americans. While the man played piano, the woman wept copious tears as we sang and all of us Saskatchewaners were chagrined at her apparent sorrowful suffering. The moment the music stopped, I swear every one of us in the choir went up to comfort that woman.We went one at a time, patiently waiting our turn, to give that poor lady a hug and help her feel better. One of the choir women even handed her her baby, as surely that would be a comfort? She looked surprised, like what was wrong with us? Didn’t we know her weeping was just her witnessing to the Lord? They do things differently down there. Hee! -Kate
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