#refusing help/comfort/sympathy is a silly and self-disrespectful thing to do to yourself at least 90% of the time these things are offered

[hecticcheer]

Chronically and/or mentally ill A catches a cold. They hole up at home for a few days, and when they reenter public life they refuse all their friends’ attempts at sympathy, their considerate gestures.

Everyone thinks A must just fear displaying vulnerability, or that they respect themselves too little to accept help. But eventually B finds out it’s because A resents that their friends dote over each other’s colds but rarely even ask A how they’re doing in a more long-term sense. At first B misinterprets this, reading it as an “Oh I’ve dealt with worse, I feel silly accepting sympathy over a little thing like this” sentiment. So B tries to reassure them, saying something about how ll comfort is worth giving and all discomfort is worth voicing, and A explodes with irritation:

No, that’s not it!! That’s not the problem. The problem is that people think it’s cute and sweet and pitiful when A tries to downplay their cold, like A’s friends are being considerate by noticing and trying to coax A to admit how unwell they feel, as if downplaying is even what they’re doing rather than just not being that fussed. But that at the same time they implicitly expect A to hide the symptoms that actually bother them, actually threaten their happiness and hinder their productivity, because whenever A brings these up people either get quiet and bashful or make suggestions so ignorant it’s all A can do not to snarl and roll their eyes. That they give comfort only when the discomfort they’re facing doesn’t scare them, and that from A’s perspective that fear can’t help but look pathetic. That so many people can seem like they’re more grown-up and well-adjusted than A on the subjects of how to ask for help and how to show empathy for the sick, when really what they are is ignorant. That of course this seems simple to them—everything does from the outside.

So far so repellent, B thinks; they were just trying to be nice, after all. Besides, if A does habitually hide all their real suffering, how is B supposed to know when they want sympathy and when it would just make them feel singled-out, or remind them of things they’d rather not think about? But then A starts crying, and this question stops mattering much. B strokes their back and tells them sshhh; A accepts their touch but curls further over themselves and, between sobs, manages to wail out, “No—don’t tell me to shush! That’s all anyone ever tells me!”

And in the larger context, B still thinks that’s unfair, but right now they figure if they push back on it A will take that as more shushing. So for now they say, “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it like that. Here—your nose is kinda”—and hand A a wad of tissues.

“Oh. Right, yeah. Thanks. God,” scoffs A once they’ve wiped themselves passably clean, “fitting, right?”

“How do you mean?”

“That even now this fucking—nose virus is somehow the most important thing wrong with me.”

B laughs, and pats the back of A’s hand, and says, “Actually I think the inconsolable sobbing takes that cake.”

A sniffs. “Yeah, probably.”