Fear of Intimacy & Seeking Help
Fear of Intimacy & Seeking Help
A lot of us struggle with the fear of intimacy, but have you ever noticed it affect your ability to ask for help? I don’t mean asking for directions to a gas station attendant, I mean openly asking for help in a manner that lets another person into your life. This requires a state of humility because with humility comes a willingness to accept the help the other person has to give. If these two things aren’t in check, then most likely you’re not asking for help, but only seeking attention, maybe sympathy, or maybe a partner in crime, someone who can make you feel better. I know I did this. I only asked for help for the instant freedom. But, In a true state of asking for help; you don’t always immediately feel better, I can tell you this by experience.
I got sober in two waves. First, it was painkillers and heroin, then it was alcohol and prescription pills and in both of the instances asking for help was the same. It was painful and the immediate outcome sucked. The immediate outcome was honestly what held me back so long from giving it a try in the first place. I feared the pain of withdrawal and could not face the reality and humiliation. When I finally asked for help both withdrawal and humiliation rolled upon the dark valley of my soul like ricocheting thunder down a mountain side. It was no easier the second time around and it’s still not easy today.
Can I blame my fear of Intimacy for this? Well, only half way. Part of it is really a fear of immediate pain and humiliation. It’s only natural to abstain from immediate pain and opprobrium. The other half, however, is a little bit darker.
Everyone has a certain level of fear related to intimacy. Some have a lot and some have a little. Some have a lot of reservations because of past experiences, maybe a traumatic episode, while others are reserved because they are just bonafide individualistic people. I’m not an individualist. I crave intimacy, I love it more than anything. Unfortunately, I also fear it more than anything.
Asking for help truly pricks at my fear button. This feeling goes back all the way to my childhood, I can feel it like it’s only yesterday. I remember being scared to ask for help with homework from my mom and dad and It horrified me sooo much to realize something was going on bodily that I wasn’t familiar with or that just didn’t feel right. I would have rather allowed something to rot off than to let someone know what was going on. If something came up my skin would get hot and I’d feel my head swell. I felt like E.T. with the back of my head protruding like a Pulaski, only bulbous and hairy.
Luckily, however, I survived childhood with all my limbs and appendages and most of my skin and my head never blew up. I was scared to ask for help because in my experience as a little boy, when I let people in, I was made fun of. The first notable time I remember being made fun of was when I said I like mini mouse more than mickey because of her dress, around 6 years old. The next time I remember being made fun of was when my cousin told me to try on his sister’s underwear and model it for him. He laughed and jeered at me and I shrank back, ashamed, again 6 years old. I was laughed at for asking a girl to come play and when questioned why I wanted her to come and not her brother I said because I loved her golden dress, around 6 years old. I was laughed at because I admitted to having a crush on one of the Hanson Boys, again around 6 years old. I knew I was different, but no way was I going to try to examine with another person. I was confused with what was happening, because ultimately, I knew I would only be laughed at.
This bleed into my affairs like a drop of food coloring in clear spring water. I never asked for help in school or sports and I didn’t ask for help when the drugs and alcohol stopped working and started harming my life and those around me. I went to rehab, that was safe. I asked and was escorted to safety. But, the next time would prove more challenging for me.
I knew I was struggling. I had been clean from heroin, but alcohol and pills were getting in the way of everything. I was losing jobs and then I had a major concussion that left me speaking gibberish for a week. Then through a series of events I don’t have time to discuss here, I jumped into a swimming pool and emerged claiming that I was going to train for an Ironman. I had not idea where to start.
I figured the best place to start would be the running store. I went and bought running shoes, some shorts and some socks. I tore the tags off when I got home, put my feet in them and flew out the door. Well, actually to be honest it was winter in Montana so I flew out the door to my truck and drove to the gym. At the gym I walked up to the treadmill and my knees shook. I had never touched one of these things. I poked at it like a kid touching a dead animal in the forest while peering back over my shoulder occasionally to make sure no one was watching. Once I got the thing started I turned it off. Then, I stood over it, straddling the rubber conveyor belt as I watched it begin to move again and with much trepidation I took my first stride. I ran, and I ran quickly. I began sweating in no time. I ran as fast as I could for as long as I could. Man was I proud!
I had run 7 miles. The longest I had run in my entire life. In my head this triathlon thing was going to be no sweat. Accomplished I felt while laying my head on the pillow that evening, like a baby I slept. I got up, like usual, early in the morning. Swung my feet off the side of the bed and jumped down on my way to the bathroom. Crash! I fell to the floor. My feet didn’t catch me. They had betrayed me and sent waves of pain through my body like I had never felt. I screamed and hobbled to the bathroom.
7 am was near and I wasn’t going to miss my AA meeting. I made it there and like a wounded duck drapped my body over a chair like I was on my last few breaths of life. After the meeting ended a man came up to me and said, “What happened? You’re walking like you just got released from prison.” I chuckled, and responded sheepishly, “well, I decided I was going to train for an Ironman and my first run was yesterday.” This man had done 8 Ironman races and had 30 years of sobriety. He looked me up and down, “why are you walking like that?” I scoffed, and repeated myself and he replied, “Well, running isn’t supposed to do that to you. Do you have a coach?” A coach?! The nerve of this fella, why do I need a coach? I know how to swim, bike and run… okay well maybe I need some help running. He saw my reticence as opportunity, “why don’t you let me coach you till you find someone.” Crap, he had me…
I let him know I’d ponder it. Id sit on the offer. Just like I sat on the offer for a sponsor in AA and kept relapsing. He told me to rest for two weeks and instead of pondering and resting, I ran. I ended up hurting myself and when I did I came back like the prodigal son. “Ok, coach me” my head was low and my hands were raised, “I surrender.”
He began coaching me and I didn’t get hurt again. I also ended up crossing my first two finish lines with this man as my coach. If I didn’t listen to him, I wouldn’t be here today athletically, or sober(ly). It took a humbling instance for me to finally let him in, but when I did the rewards were tremendous, however, it wasn’t easy. The humility muscle has a way of neutralizing fear and we must strengthen it to decrease the power our fear has over intimacy and asking for help.
The tasks he gave me were so much harder than the ones I was giving myself. I remember looking at my training plan and cursing him. There’s no way he’s serious. I called him up and asked if it was a typo. There was no gentle way about it, but without it I wouldn’t have succeeded. Having the accountability and the organization helped me to succeed. The barriers of intimacy were broken and we are now dear friends.
What I learned is that its always better to ask for help and to do this in the beginning. I’m now the first to raise my hand. Before coming out I asked a few other gay men how they did it and if they could help. I hear plenty of coming out horror stories, but I firmly believe that because I asked for help first the process for me ended up being beautiful, challenging and not pain free, but beautiful.
I’m no longer afraid of asking for help. I’ve proven to myself time and time again that it’s worth it in the long run. It started with asking for help with sobriety, then triathlon, then coming out. Tonight, I’ll probably even ask help for dinner.
Love you guys,
If you need help. Ask. You’re not alone and there are people out there who would love to help!