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Ya, I said it.


Bold, italicized and not underlined because I’m not there just quite yet.

[What in the blue hell?]

Snuffleupagus, to some of my more in-the-know friends…means, “help.” Keeping in mind I did not underline the word, it is in no way to be construed as, “HELP!!!”…no, bold and italicized merely needs to be read as, “Help!”

Enquiring minds want to know, “How can I help you?” which *I*, in turn, translate to mean, “Hey, do you need anything?” because as most of my close knit pals know…I do not need “help.” Ever.

What I merely require, in my evident Type A personality peppered with high functioning OCD, is “assistance”…and by “assistance”, I mean that perhaps you could throw me a suggestion or two at your convenience of which I may be able to best utilize at times when I feel like I’ve been hit by a Mac truck and am functioning at a less-than-stellar level (which I’ll never outright admit to you…just so we’re clear).

Here’s a list (because I like lists and lists conform to my Sheldon Cooper’isms):

1. I have anxiety that people will just show up to “assist”. Serious, daily, anxiety.

– Define: I eat, sleep, breathe, share intimacy, raise children, express emotion – all in my house. My house is my sanctuary. It does not get entered into without the expressed written permission of (okay…..maybe not, but it illustrates clearly the extent to which I ponder this plight)….so as much as it would be of incredible assistance to have extra hands fold laundry, sweep floors, wash sinks…this just ain’t gonna happen. (Again, only until Snuffleupagus becomes underlined. Then we’ll talk.)

– Therefore: it assists me to know that people are finding alternate methods to “check in”…social media is awesome. Rock it.

2. I spend a ridiculous amount of time researching on the Internet.

– Define: I expend copious amounts of energy researching things of all kinds. Lupus is a disease that mimics 100+ other conditions, syndromes, viruses, infections…yadda yadda…it takes time to a) educate MYSELF (because we all know that our doctors are oh-so-very-knowledgeable-and/or-willing-to-help) and b) find things I can do to alleviate and/or help myself (because then I’m less likely to encroach on the chaos of everyone else’s busy lives by asking for…y’know…assistance. It’s a vicious circle. I’m a daily freak show without the tent, I’m well aware).

– Therefore: I require assistance in the following areas – I would love people to send me meal plans suitable for diabetics. THAT, my friends, would be the freakin’ schizzle. In the alternative, send me recipes. For ALL meals. Breakfast, lunch, holy-crap-on-a-cracker is this day over yet, dinner…

Why does THIS help? Because I’m freakin’ TIRED. My eyes hurt, my head hurts, my fingers hurt…from typing things into Google (tattoo…coming soon) all damned day. As IF I have energy left over (or a spare 2.2 minutes) to not just select food items, but also incorporate them into a recipe, into a damned meal plan AND thus be able to formulate a grocery list.

[starting to get an idea?]

3. I am a WAHM. I refuse (and by refuse, mean I would rather eat my own arm off) to inquire about disability. I believe I am still a productive and functioning individual that can do what I do without the government’s “assistance”.

– Define: I work from home. I am in my home the majority of the time. This has lead to an unfortunate side effect of hallucinations. I see dirty things. They’re everywhere.

I require cleaning products that are either so bloody efficient I hardly have to do anything (like my fantabulistic steam-mop), or are so fun and kickass that it makes cleaning these dirty things away oh-so-much-more bearable. The shit’s gotta get cleaned. I’m the one it falls onto…so let’s just get’er done!

4. Oooooo, this is a toughie…I still (and by still, I mean I think blue hell would freeze over before I actually figured it out on my own) have yet to incorporate “ME” time into my day.

– Define: I have pumped out the entire essence of “me” on a daily basis for the last 15+ years. I concede that I am *takes breath in* incapable at this point in my life to purposefully make 10-20 minutes of downtime that I require after doing what I do all damned day enduring what I endure. Not saying I can’t…hell no!! No, I just don’t know how.

Now, once the twins start school in the fall (you wanna watch someone who can barely climb stairs dance a jig?? Be there.) I will have UBER amounts of “free time.” This scares the shit out of me. But that’s a post for after-the-jig day. Right NOW is where I require assistance.

It gets talked about in “theory”…but as I can clearly confirm…theories only happen on paper. And I will actually tell you why. If I were to take 20 minutes to sit in the massage chair after work, I would be leaving the entire household to run to my fiancé. He can accept this for 20 friggin’ minutes. I, on the other hand, cannot.

I require assistance in compiling a tool box of mantras that I can use without spending money I clearly do not have on therapists who clearly do not have a clue how I do what I do while enduring what I endure.

I need (and by need, I mean to the extent that one requires air/food/drink) to be able to think about “me.” *shiver-shudder-discomfort-weird*

These kinds of ways to throw out a few suggestions in my general direction when you hypothetically find a few minutes within the chaos of your reality are really, in my humble opinion, kickass.

In the alternative, you could also find me a Snuffleupagus t-shirt that I could proudly wear and not have to say/type/write anything at all ;o)


  1. Shane

    You are very right on one thing…I can handle it for those 20 minutes, and if it means I have to drag your ass up the stairs, strap you into that massage chair using duct tape and 12 gauge stainless steel wire and MAKE you take the time for the massage, well, I guess I'm stopping at the hardware store tomorrow for supplies.

  2. Janice

    I think I fell a little bit in love with you reading this 🙂 I am a fellow type A, OCD-ish, independent, can count on one hand how many times I out and out asked for help, SLE and fibro suffer. And as my t-shirt says — "you say stubborn like its a bad thing" — that's just how it is going to be. I was diagnosed at the age 30 and my mom begged me to move in with her. Instead I got a tattoo of the chinese character for strength and moved to Charlotte by myself. When I finally got back to work full-time I chose faith. And recently having be laid off, facing losing my house, and flaring I added happiness. Because somehow, someway, I am gonna get through and thrive despite all the obstacles (and the oh-so-helpful-doctors). Cause that is what we type As do. It is very nice to "meet" you, I am happy I have stumbled in to your blog.

  3. Brynn

    Thank you so very much for an awesome compliment, Janice!! If people are appreciating what it is that I'm writing about, like yourself, and how…then I'm doing what I'd originally set out to do…and so much more!! YAY! ;o)

  4. bastdanica

    No lovey, you never ask for help, but on those odd days when you say certain things, I, who seldom reads between the lines, decides that that is a tinyvoicecryforhelp. Even just a wee bit of "bringmeasmile."

    Others folding your laundry makes you twitch, people visit your home and don't see the dirt you see, but that doesn't mean we can't pick up a cloth and help you scrub something. Even house sit for 30 minutes while you take yourself out for a coffee and a 20 minutes of "ahh silence".

    I like the word "assist" – it suits you far better than HELP (didn't I say that oh so many weeks ago?)

    Anywhoo… I'll throw some recipes at you and see where they go.

    xo Love your post, as always. You are definitive and clear.

    I like Janice's comment it leads to – the power of focused intent.

  5. Kelly

    If only more people understood why it is so hard for people like us to ask for help, let alone accept it. I am type A, OCD and am the one that always offering to help and get others back in control while my life spun into the crazy madness that I loved. Living my life as a soccer mom, PTO president, fund raising chairperson, and full time police/fire/ems/911 dispatcher operator was what I loved and lived for. Come the crashing disaster of fibro that knocked me off my oh so well planted feet. Not giving in to the pain, fatigue, weakness for years until I absolutely had no choice. Funny thing, I still hate the idea that I am not in complete and total control. I love knowing others that feel the same. I will shudder when I say I had to finally give in an apply for disability. Not being able to find a job anywhere, after being let go from my old job due to getting sick and ending up in the hospital totally sucks. Does not mean I have given up. That won't happen til I am dead. Love your blog, love chatting with you on twitter and love your spirit. Fighting the fight with you! Of course when I remember, lol.

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