Won’t go into detail, but I met an impressive person yesterday. A “helper.“ Spent less than 15 minutes with her but she left her mark. Wow.
I want to have that effect on people. I‘ve been in many helping positions before. Sometimes inadvertently. I remember a vulnerable, sick teenage girl (can’t disclose how I knew her) once telling me “I was an accident. My parents never meant to have me. My younger sister was planned. I’m a mistake.”
She was permeated with too much angst to resolve in one conversation (I can’t say I would have had more insight than her at that age.)
BUT... I told her “if your parents thought parenthood and raising you was so awful, why would they have had more kids?”
I have no idea if this was helpful to a person in the middle of their self-pitying era (been there) but no one can say I didn’t have a point.
I think genuine, empathetic energy matters more than words. I did have that, and I hope she soaked some of it up.
I’ve been paid to directly help people at most of the jobs I’ve held, from the Lifetime Fitness Child Center on. I’m even doing it now as a medical case manager for personal injury victims.
I’ve always thought that since writing only made sense as a side hustle, making a career out of being a helper was the next best plan. I’ve done a lot of flip-flopping because I think I’m a born writer instead of teacher, nurse, etc.
There’s so many ways to be a helper, which sounds good in theory - until you factor in that many helpers end up abused and exploited. As a helper, you witness the best and worst of (or in) people.
I’ve seen people die. I’ve seen families grieve. I’ve cleaned up little kid throw-up (BIGGEST, SCARIEST PHOBIA.) I’ve been yelled at. Hit on by creepy, malevolent men. (Anyone notice how the world “malevolent“ starts with “male”? It can’t just be me who noticed this, right?)
But I’ve seen so much love and strength in people that making a career out of being a helper has been worth it. It‘s symbiotic because I’ve learned from them too.
I haven’t thrown my writing aspirations in the trash. If anything, the shades of extreme scenarios I’ve witnessed have given me more to think and write about. I’m not trying to exploit the people I’m trying to help, but everything in life is writeable.
Living comes before writing. And I’m a hermit. I can only scrape so much out of my own head and four bedroom walls.
I don’t measure my life in degrees, academic or otherwise. I have always said I wanted to be one thing. That doesn’t mean I have to “do” just one thing/play one role. To hell with defining myself by my career or some maternal role/relationship.
Is “human” love worth the compromises? (I do realize that it’s very case specific.)
What’s so bad about doing and getting what you want, when you want it? I don’t care about a legacy in the sense of imprinting my personality or values through some future generation that’s already doomed. I only want one me. I’ve never understood how people look at their children as extensions of themselves. Reflections, maybe. “Lawyer daddy wants lawyer son.…“
Doesn‘t get more selfish than that.
Just rambling now. Gotta head to the hospital.
- Caitlin out
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