Sometimes It Shows Up As Presence

For pretty much all of my life, I’ve been the fixer of things.  The guy folks call when things ain’t working.  The guy who figures things out.   Restoring broken things has always been a hobby of mine.  I have restored old cars, old tools, rebuilt old grills and other things like that.  I have built a career on the back of fixing gadgets, high power radar systems, TV transmitters, computers, and all sorts of electronics.   I’ve spent just as much time fixing processes and workflows, growing teams, and chipping away at workplace cultures that create unnecessary stress and frustration.  I consider myself a fixer of many things.

I try very hard to put as much effort into fixing myself as well.   Using therapists, executive leadership and life coaches, as well as many mentors over the years.  All of those have required a lot of deep diving into who I am and how I can be a better version of me tomorrow than I am today.  I have made it part of who I am, to show up for those who are important to me.  I think this was never more true than it was for Bride, through her addition, and recovery journey as well as through her journey after the bipolar diagnosis.  Showing up almost became a reaction, and almost a response and the truth is it is probably somewhere between those two.

I was led to believe early in life that strength meant handling my own problems and not becoming a burden to others.  That is why I put in the work on myself, trying to be strong enough to carry my own load.  And then one day, life handed me something that was just too fucking heavy for me to carry by myself.  When Sandy died, the outpouring of support was overwhelming, and still is in many ways.  The texts, the random uber eats meal showing up, the daily check ins, the friends who call and sit with me in discomfort because none of us know how to talk about any of it.  And even the readers of this blog, all showed up.  I didn’t even have to ask, y’all just showed up for me in all the ways I needed someone to show up.

For me, and I suspect others, giving of ourselves feels comfortable.  It is a muscle I have built for those hard moments chosen and real family need support.  Receiving help, at least for me, makes me feel vulnerable and uncomfortable.  That is not necessarily a bad thing, it is just not something I am used to, not a muscle I have built up.  That got me to wondering, why does accepting help make me uncomfortable?  Why did I feel like I should be able to manage this on my own?  Why did every act of kindness feel like a debt I had to repay.  Was there some deep need to carry an invisible ledger, like there was to be some reconciliation at some future point by some unknown thing or person? 

I found thinking about this was weird and make me feel odd.  Was there some need to pay this back?  Or some feeling of indebtedness?  Or did I just not want to inconvenience anyone.  I know that no one is keeping a ledger, or somehow calculating the “cost” of friendship with me.  It is a silly premise, never once in my whole life have I thought about that when supporting those I love.  I kept coming back to what the fuck, where is that completely illogical bullshit  coming from?  

The longer I sat with that, the more I realized that my discomfort wasn’t about anyone owing anything.  I am beginning to think it is about identity.   Somewhere along the way, I started tying strength to independence.  I knew who I was when I was the one bringing the meal.  I knew who I was when I was working on the problem.  I knew who I was when I was carrying the weight.  I wasn’t nearly as sure who I was when I was the one needing help.  I doubt I am the only one who has ever felt this way.  I suspect a lot of folks who spend time taking care of others learn some version of that same lesson.  Strength meant managing problems.  Strength meant not asking for much.  Strength meant making sure everyone else was ok before worrying about myself.

That mindset worked well for me for most of my life, or at least I think it did.  Then life handed me the biggest load of shit to date.  Somewhere in the back of my mind, accepting help felt too much like admitting I couldn’t handle it.  Like needing help and failing were somehow the same thing.  That’s where I think I had it wrong.  Maybe it is really not as complicated as my over revving engineer brain is making it.  I am pretty durn sure that the people helping me are not trying to solve anything at all.  I am pretty sure they are simply trying to love me in the best way they know how.  Maybe receiving help isn’t about accepting what someone can do for me.  It is really about me allowing people who care about me a way to express that love in ways that don’t require awkward words to fix what hurts.  I don’t think I was ready for that at the beginning.  I know how to be the one showing up, or at least I thought I did.  I am still learning how to let others show up for me. 

As I write this, I am sitting in a kitchen in a small town outside Fresno visiting a dear friend, actually one of the oldest friends Sandy and I had.  The three of us met back in 1988 when we were all stationed in Annapolis.  She invited me out to hang out with her and her family,  and I came.  There has not been some grand moment of wisdom, no profound speech, no attempt to fix anything.  We’ve talked, we’ve laughed, we’ve shared memories and we’ve sat in comfortable silence.  Mostly she has simply been present.  And I’ve realized that presence may be one of the purest forms of love there is. 

From here I’m headed to Oregon to see another dear friend whose Bride is currently in hospice care.  In an odd way, this trip feels like both receiving and giving at the same time.  Allowing myself to be cared for by those who love me, and offering the same presence for someone walking a difficult road of their own. 

Maybe that’s what this trip is really about.  Not miles on a map or checking places off a list.  Maybe it’s learning how to let people I love show up for me in the same ways I have tried to show up for them over the years.  Sitting on Jennifer’s patio, laughing about stories that are forty years old, I’m beginning to realize that love does not always show with all the answers.  Sometimes it shows up as presence. I am still learning how to accept that.  And for the first time, I think that is perfectly ok.