Follow Me, Everything Is Alright, I'll Be The One To Tuck You In At Night, & If You Want To Leave, I Can Guarantee, You Won't Find Nobody Else Like Me

--"Follow Me", Uncle Kracker

There came a time when Lucy and I first became friends that it seemed like every other week she was calling me, telling me, "that she couldn't handle it any more," or that this time she "meant it and, hell's bells, she wasn't coming back this time." It became such a common occurrence that I almost came to count on it the way people count on their monthly bills being due; you don't really look forward to the experience, but it would be irresponsible to allow yourself to lapse even in the slightest. In that vein I always approached every time she came to me wanting consolation or even just a shoulder to bitch upon as something I was honored to do. I mean--it's pretty difficult to refuse somebody your ear when they're telling you that you're the only person they trust right then. To be honest, it made me feel kind of special to even be thought of in that category, let alone in practice.

In the end, I always managed to tussle things out with her. Even if I wasn't always able to rein in her impulses "to skedaddle," as she sometimes put it, I always able to at least get a commitment out of her that she would call her mom eventually that day. Even at the height of their troubles, when B was in eighth grade, and hadn't come back home or seen her parents for two days, I still was able to finagle her consent for me to call them and let them knows she was doing okay. That's how it is most of the time dealing with someone like Little Miss Chipper. You can never really give her advice in the same sense of telling her what to do. The most you could ever do is present her with options that she has the full authority to completely ignore, even outright resent. It's more of a challenge with her and with people like her, because there are days where she would come begging for advice and, when I would finally give her some, she would blow it off. Those are the days where I felt like telling her, "why the hell did I waste the last two hours talking to you if all you wanted to do is your own thing anyway?" Those are the days where I felt like it was just too frustrating to even commit to helping her out. All it did was leave me disappointed too.

Here's the thing: I've always thought of myself as someone who liked helping people. I've always made it a rule that anyone of my friends can call me at any hour of the day or night. I would and will always try to assist them as best as I could. But over the years people have abused that policy to such a degree that there have been many times where I thought it was a mistake to even extend that much generosity to them. Even though my inclination is to do what I could do for people I feel are close to me, I possess just as strong of an inclination to remain apathetic and uninvolved. It's a perilous task attempting to balance the two divergent philosophies. It's like I start every late-night plea for help with the intention of caring unequivocally, but after a certain duration of advice-giving has occurred, I myself get frustrated. That's when any ounce of me that once cared at the beginning of the conversation shuts off. I become stoic and introverted. I can only stomach so much stubbornness, so much "but I don't know" or "I don't agree," for so long. I know you don't agree and I know you're thinking of going in a different direction, but isn't the point of you calling me to find out what I would do and what direction I would head? If you didn't want that, then why call me at all?

I've had many discussions with various people about this. Most of them say that I tend to give out good advice, but I get horribly upset when people don't follow through with it. Most can agree with the notion that I would have made a terrible psychologist. I possess the insight and definitely posses the firsthand knowledge of most situations. I simply don't have the patience. As Breanne puts it, "You like listening to people, Eeyore. What you don't like is when people don't listen to you." And it's true. I've always been that way. I love hearing people's stories. I love learning about people, everything in the rich tapestry that they call their history. But I've always had a slight annoyance at people wanting me to care about them and then getting upset when I do. It hurts me when I care about someone and want them to do right, and then they turn around and do it completely opposite of the "right" way to do it. I can stomach people making mistakes. I just can't stomach them making mistakes on my watch, on my time, right after I told them how to best handle it.

I believe I've just gotten worse over the years. Fifteen years ago; with people like Jina, Breanne, and Margaret; I could give advice and walk away. I could. I could totally buy into the concept of letting people lead their own lives and not feel personally let down when they didn't listen to me. But over the years it's just gotten harder and harder. All the same problems start creeping up again. I start handing out the same advice over and over again. It's to the point where it all feels so futile. The same people are going to continually make the same sort of mistakes. No matter what I say, it's all going to turn out the same. There's no point in even my going over it again because it won't make a bit of difference.

Nothing of what I say matters. All it feels like is my words going in one ear and out the other.

I feel sorry for people I just met recently. People like Marion or her sisters, people like Casey and Laurel--they think I'm a good listener. And I just feel like telling them that I used to be so much better in my youth. I used to be this great listener. I used to be this person that was eager to help everyone out regardless of the situation and regardless of how well and how long I knew you. Even on rilokiley,net, I used to read and respond to everyone's problems on there as well, no matter how long they had been a member. Now I just find myself reading about people and lacking the energy to even respond. It's all the same bullshit that I've been hearing for the last twenty years. People are making all the same mistakes I made, or that B. made, or that Tara made. I can hear myself saying what I always say in those situations. I just can't actually bring myself to say it any more. It's like the impulse to empathize with people's plights is still there; just the energy to do something about it has all but disappeared. It's like I still care, but I want it to be somebody else's turn to take up the mantle of being advice giver and confidante. I want my turn to be done with. I just want to focus on me and my own problems for now.

But I can't do that with everybody. Because I still care, some may even say because I still care lot, I still fall into the trap of pushing past my frustration more often than not if the situation still warrants it. I still get those calls or e-mails from Marion that spur me into action. She doesn't know I've heard every one of her situations before. She hasn't heard the words out of my mouth that I've given dozens of people over the last twenty years regarding the same problems. To her, her problems are fresh. To her, she feels like the only one who has ever felt like that before. To her, I'm just a friend who can help her out. That's not the time for me to be petty and selfish, turtle up and say, "deal with it yourself." I can't do that to her. Or, on the opposite end of the spectrum, I can't talk to someone I've known for years and years about a problem they've always had and completely shut off to their pain. I can moan about how they always fall into the same traps. I can wring every ounce of a guilt trip when it comes to receiving the same piece advice I gave you back in the 90's. But in the end, tired as I may feel and annoyed as I may feel, if you're my friend I'm not just going to allow you to twist in the wind. In the end, I'll do the responsible thing and get past my own self-centeredness.

I used to like giving advice. Parts of me still do. But I realized that I'm not cut out for being everyone's rock like I thought I could be. No one can be dependable all hours of the day. No one can go their whole life trying to help everyone out without getting a little burnt out at the process. Maybe this is a temporary stage of withdrawal for me. Maybe all it will take is some time to rejuvenate the old compassionate batteries. I hope so. I don't want to remain this bitter the rest of my life.

I want to see myself getting back to the place where I could be happy helping someone out again rather than relieved that they're not coming to complain any more.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers