A little less selfish

“You realize,” I said out loud though I was the only one in the car, “that I got lost because I don’t really want to go.”

Receiving no response, I continued. “I’ve put it off for about a year. Had the idea, liked it, made a contact, then backed out with my metaphorical tail between my legs. Then I liked the idea again, asked if I could start and now that it’s time to go, I feel sick. I got lost – I must have written those directions down wrong, but I didn’t have to follow the same road for 10 minutes before turning around when it dead ended – and really want to go home. Just like I’ve felt all afternoon.”

I reached the interstate – the place where I started heading in the wrong direction about 25 minutes ago – and asked for help in resisting the impulse to head home without attending my appointment. I clenched my teeth and passed by the entrance ramp, moving south toward where the building must be. I slowed to go through a school zone, smiling when the crossing guard offered a friendly wave rather than the shrill whistle I’d have received had I been speeding. Then I made a U turn to reach the correct address, parking on the street in front of a gray building and waiting for a break in traffic to exit my car.

It wasn’t a terrible part of town, separated by a few miles from the center of downtown. Then I frowned at myself – it’s not as if I feel unsafe downtown either. I was just being resistant for some reason. I walked toward the discrete sign and pressed the buzzer so someone could unlock the door for me. I told the woman who opened it my name and whom I was there to see. Then I shook hands with a man I’d met about a year before.

After exchanging pleasantries, he told me I’d entered the family portion of the shelter and that the women’s division was located adjacent to this structure.

“Oh, OK.” I said, glancing around at the tiny lobby that contained a single suitcase. I wondered if someone was coming or going.

“I’ll give you a tour.” He said, and I smiled. When I’d first met him at the men’s shelter, he’d done the same thing – we wandered around the building and talked while I smiled a bit awkwardly at the residents. The director of education had decided I’d do better at the women’s shelter, but I never actually got there. I invented a number of excuses, but couldn’t make myself find the building and go inside.

But God and I decided today was the day so I arrived on schedule, having allowed an extra 30 minutes in case I got lost. I’d used every moment.

We walked through the chapel – a dimly lit room that contained several long pews that curved gently as they faced a simple altar. Exiting the other side, we walked to enter the other building and he showed me where I could park next time. I nodded, resolving that there would be a next time. I would show up next week, unsure as to why I felt it was so important when the dread was so strong.

I peeked in the computer room, congratulated an older woman who’d finished her GED in December and stepped quietly inside a generously sized classroom. There were rows of wide tables with folding chairs – plenty of room to spread out books and papers so proper studying could occur. As Director explained the class schedule, I watched a young woman look up from her large GED study guide.

She met my gaze evenly, then shyly smiled when I let my lips curve in greeting and apology that we were disturbing her. Something about her – her solitude in the large room while everyone else was in the computer room next door, her dark hair and eyes, heavy-ish frame, her too-large sweatshirt, overall manner – reminded me of me.

That, I think, is why I want to be there. I understand bad decisions. I get crawling out of a hole you dug without realizing it. The difference with me is that there has always – without a single exception – been someone to help me when I fall down. Sometimes they catch me and I avoid hitting the ground completely. I haven’t been punished nearly as much as I deserve. I catch more than my share of breaks. I know that.

I have fallen though. Even at my lowest – the very worst post that I wrote when I was so depressed – I recognized that I was surrounded by people who loved me and wanted me to get better. I drew strength from their very existence. Good was out there and I would find it in myself again.

I dislocated my knee in undergrad while visiting another campus to do research. I stepped wrong when going down some steps and my knee popped out and stubbornly refused to go back in. I had two friends with me at the time – they attempted to give me Advil (which I took), and tried to put me in a car to take me to the hospital (I couldn’t get in – my knee wouldn’t bend since the kneecap was located near the back of my leg. Seriously. They took X-rays and everyone was very impressed.)

“Call my cousin.” I finally said.

“No.” One friend said. “We don’t want to bother her!”

“Call. My. Cousin.” I bit out, insisting with narrow eyes. “I need her and you’ll call her and she will come and fix me.”

Older Cousin arrived shortly after, full of sympathy and brisk competence. “You’re OK.” She said, smoothing my hair briefly before ordering me into her car, supporting my leg while I maneuvered it in her Jeep. She stayed with me in the ER for four hours, holding my hand when they finally wiggled the kneecap back in place. Then she took me back to my dorm, helped me up the stairs, and went to fetch me dinner that she insisted I eat.

I’m grateful for friends – people I love dearly and enjoy very much. But at the basic level, my family shows up. Regardless of how bad it is or what is needed, we will figure it out. There’s some basic comfort there. I’m never alone because Mom introduced me to God. And if I need them, they’re a phone call and fastest driving route away. That’s comfort – something I don’t know how to live without.

Were it not for that – for choosing labs where people would tolerate my depression and fits of productivity, for having family who loved me regardless even as they nudged me toward what was best, for finding friends with whom to laugh and plan and be myself – perhaps I would have ended up relying on people at the shelter. These women, I think, are trying to make progress. To learn what they missed having left high school while eating simple food and living in a rather shabby dwelling.

I want to be someone who shows up. Who offers attention when they struggle with math. Who reads what they write and offers suggestions (I mentioned that I’m not trained in that area. Though if anyone wants to pen an overly dramatic blog, I could certainly offer aid.) I’m prepared to admit that I likely won’t understand the depth of their struggle, but I can go there and try to listen.

The overall experience is also a reminder of feminine resilience. How we’re strong and capable and willing to make a life for ourselves. How we can find room in our routine to help each other. And now I know how to get to the building, where to put my car and which door to use. Perhaps I’ll figure out the rest from there.