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zepskies · 3 hours ago

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Oh yay!! Thank you so much, Wayne!! 🥹 LOLL I'm so glad you vibe with my humor because I had so much fun writing this. 🤣🤣

That already took me out. First two lines. Bravo. You've done it 🤣 I'm guessing this is post Chuck lmao

ahahaha thank you!! It certainly could be. That's also what I like about doing headcanons -- for the most part you can imagine it happening at any point/setting you feel is right.

You know why I picked it 😝 (👏👏👏) And not the flannel and the runny nose, yikes. Loved this exchange (and callback) lol

Oh I knew you'd pick up on that one! loll

Took a brief second from laughing, so I could push tears out of my eyes 😭 But absolutely agree, you'd have to wear Dean down and force him into it lmao

Awww a quick switch up from comedy to feels there. 🥹 I just love some hurt/comfort and fluff with Dean. Oh yeah--you'd definitely have to wear him down! loll

Back to laughing. My God, that was the sneeze of the century 😂😂

Mutually exclusive, obviously 🤷‍♀️

lol right? Germs don't care if you have a full plate at work today. 🙄

Seems like the man flu hasn't swallowed the charm either 🥰

Ha! I feel like Beau would try to still have a good attitude about it, at least at first. 😂

And that's the moment I realized Beau's like my husband when he's sick 😂 (🙄) It's like you were in my house and wrote a transcript of the last man flu epidemic of 2024 😆🤌

Ooooh my God, your man is a Beau!!! 😭😭 That's so hilarious (but also my condolences lmaooo).

(girl you're the BEST at finding gifs 👌🏽)

And oh my God you're so right about those Beau "add-ons." The "very weird right here" specifically took me out. 💀💀

Oh and then, Ben. Ben, Ben, Ben, Ben... I thought for sure he'd be the worst, like this virus is a personal attack on his virility 🤣 But I was pleasantly surprised when you brought in memories of his mother 🥹😭

LOLL that could've certainly been a way to go with him! But I'm so glad you liked that little window of vulnerability there. 💜💜

That immediate fuck got me so hard 🤣🤣

lmfaoo that's how you know it's serious work. 🤣 That fuck came straight from the center of his phlegmy chest.

Ah, yes, gramps 😂🫶 (And he honestly shares that with a lot of old man in hospitals and nursing homes who have to be repeatedly told to stay in bed lol)

Oh my God lol such a good point. 😂😂 Maybe we should get him a life alert. 🚨

He is a brat for real, making himself feel better by doing some online shopping now that he knows how to operate the Internet lmao.

Oh God, all their bickering was amazing! It's honestly always one of the most fun things when writing SB – the sheer frustration of the reader 😭😂🙈

ahaha pulling straight from BMD world on that one. 🤣 That's literally the best thing about writing SB -- all the snappy bickering and the frustration and his cockiness. 🫠

And I loved the addition of Priestly!! 😍💚💙🤘 (I've been thinking of finally writing that one-shot for him lol)

OMG please do!! I would love to see what you'd come up with for Priestly. 😭 He's suck an adorkable, loveable dude. He deserves great writers like you making stories for him. 💓

I could also totally see him turning into a Monica there 😂

Oh, oh, thank God! The relief I felt 😂 I mean, it's so, so sweet, but also you're very sick, dude, and germy... like, it's a lot 😆 (And I also sincerly hope there will be a proposal follow-up one-shot/drabble... maybe? 👀)

Right?! lol very sweet sentiment, but not the right time. 😂

Ooooh you intrigue me, hun. 🥰🤔 I might have to sketch an idea for that follow-up!

Thank you so much for your thoughts on these HCs, Wayne! You made my day. 🥰💜💜

HEADCANON: Man Flu

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader || Beau Arlen x Reader || Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader || Boaz Priestly x Reader

HC: When Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben), and Boaz Priestly get sick, how would they act when you (try to) take care of them?

AN: After reading I Got You by @bettystonewell (Dean x Reader) and The Best Kind of Medicine by @lamentationsofalonelypotato (Soldier Boy x Reader), I realized that I've never actually written a sick-fic before. Here it is in headcanon form, since you guys seem to like these! lol 💜

Also adding Priestly to this lineup for the first time because some of you have been requesting more of him recently. 😉

Tags/Warnings: Established relationship, hurt/comfort, sick-fic, some needy affection-starved men who don't want to admit they're needy, lots of fluff.~

Dean Winchester

He's not sick. Because he doesn't get sick.

Dean claims he has the constitution of a horse, but you still take the beer out of his hand before he can take a sip at 10:00 a.m.

He's too busy interrupting himself, namely by coughing half a lung, wheezing, blinking teary eyes -- the whole phlegmy nine yards.

Sam shakes his head, casting you a look that frankly says, Good luck.

He knows his brother is stubborn as hell, and one of the things Dean dislikes most is being fussed over for "no reason." Being seen as weak. Not being able to just shrug his shoulders and shake it off.

To be fair, Dean tries. Except this time it's accompanied by a body shiver and a reluctant sniffle. His pallid face is drawn, and his usually strong and solid frame looks unsteady as he leans a hand on the War Room table.

"Okay, come on, Rambo. Let's get you back into bed," you say, guiding your boyfriend back to the room you share with him.

"I'm find," he insists, even as he begrudgingly accepts the gentle pressure of your hand on his back and shoulder, pushing him down to the bed.

"Sure you are, baby," you say with a smirk. "You're in the primb of libe."

Dean shoots you a narrowed look. Damn you for forcing him to binge-watch all those episodes of Friends late at night when you both can't sleep.

Right now he's Monica, trying to convince you he's in tip-top shape, while you're Chandler, just trying to get him to use tissues instead of his flannel sleeve to wipe his runny nose.

After taking his boots off, you get him to change out of his jeans and back into his sweatpants. Then you manage to get him to lay down under the covers with the promise of coming back with medicine and soup.

"I don't want soup, damn it," he grumbles. You just roll your eyes and rub his arm.

"Just rest. I'll be back with the Vicks."

As you might expect, Dean is not an easy patient.

He refuses to drink tea, but he does down the pills you bring for him, with a measured toss of his head that still makes his head swim. He groans.

He swallows a couple of cautious spoonfuls of the soup, pausing when he realizes that its warmth actually feels good down his sore and scratchy throat. It tastes pretty good too, especially with the warm, buttered slices of bread on the side.

"You made this?" he asks.

"Mhmm," you nod, smiling. If nothing else, good food will pacify this man. "Chicken and wild rice, made especially for you."

"Hmm. S' good," he nods in reply. He manages to finish the bowl.

He has to admit, if just to himself, that he does feel like shit.

He won't admit that the way you're rubbing his back, the gentle pressure of your nails between his shoulders and down his spine relaxes him, makes him feel better.

He knows that you care about him. That you love him. But this is one of those moments where it hits him, just how much.

It's a little overwhelming. A heavy swell of pressure fills his chest, so he tries not to let himself think about it for very long.

(He fails.)

After he's done eating, you take the plates away and help him back into bed. You linger there, slipping your fingers through his soft brown hair and pressing a kiss to his clammy forehead.

"I really need you to rest, okay," you say quietly. "If you need anything, just text me or Sam. Don't get out of bed."

Dean grasps your hand before you can move away from him. Since you're probably going to wash your hands anyway, he lays a kiss on the back of your hand.

"Thanks, sweetheart."

Beau Arlen

Sheriff Beau Arlen is the type to run himself into the ground because he's so damn into his work.

He wants to do well in his station of responsibility, and he feels like he has to make up for his performance during the summer madness of Buck Barnes and Avery...and everything in between.

You just have to make Beau realize that he needs to slow down, before he well and truly burns himself out.

You put your foot down one morning.

He tries to get out of bed but has to pause, his head swimming. He takes a couple of steadying breaths while sitting on the edge of the bed.

You notice with a frown. "Hey, you okay?"

"Fine. Just fine," he answers a little too breathlessly. He raises a hand to his head. His throat is sticky and coarse. He wrinkles his nose when he also feels a sneeze coming on.

"Just need a...a...mugh-ah-ha-hugh."

His coughing sneeze makes you grimace. You didn't even know someone could sneeze and cough at the same time.

"Aw, babe. You're sick," you say as you move over to him, resting a hand on his back. He shakes his head and groans.

"Nah, can't be sick. Gotta lot of work to do today," he says. His voice is like gravel blended with broken glass. It would actually be sexy, if for the distinctly un-sexy way he tries to clear the great wad of phlegm from his throat.

He tries to rock himself onto his feet, but there he sways on the landing. You hurry out of bed to grab his arm and steady him.

"Oh no, you don't. Back into bed," you say.

"Aw, sweetheart. I'll be fine--"

"No. Lay down. You're not going in today," you say more firmly, all while you tuck the man back into bed with the blankets covering him.

"All right, all right. No need to be so pushy," he can't help but tease.

It earns a small smirk on your face. It seems like his man flu hasn't yet deprived him of his sense of humor.

"I thought you liked that though," you reply. You sit on the edge of the bed and rub his chest. He groans in defeat.

"Can't believe this," he grumbles. "Today of all days--"

"There's always going to be another case. This is your body telling you that you need to slow down," you tell him. "So how about this. I'm gonna call in one of my sick days, and we'll bunker in together."

You stroke his bearded cheek. He quirks a smile, grabbing your hand and squeezing warmly.

"How long until I'm allowed out, warden?" he asks.

"Until you can stand without keeling over," you dryly reply. A smile tugs at your lips. "Remind me to stop by CVS to grab you a Life Alert."

"All right, har har haugh--" His sarcasm ends on a very real, wheezing cough. Your amused smile drops. You relent from your teasing and stroke his chest once more.

"Okay, just rest. Let me get you some actual medicine and I'll be right back."

He stops you by grabbing your wrist. "Hey, uh...can I have some chicken noodle soup later?"

"Of course, baby. I'll swing by the store now and get some stuff for you."

"And some saltines?"

"Saltine crackers on the side. Got it."

You're about to head to the bathroom to brush your teeth before you start getting ready to go to the store, but once again, Beau's needy hand stops you.

"Before you go, some tea with honey and lemon would be good. Just something for my throat," he croaks.

You smile and nod. "Yeah, for sure. That'll be better for you than coffee."

"Oh, and can you gimme that quilt over there?" he asks, pointing to your favorite knitted blanket at the edge of the bed. You graciously lay it over his form and drop a kiss onto his forehead.

"And some cough drops. Thank you, darlin'," Beau adds.

Your lips begin to press together, but you nod and continue getting dressed.

You can already tell this man is going to settle into you taking care of him just fine.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Neither of you thought it was possible, considering his super genes that allowed him to eat and booze and drug harder than Andre the Giant and Keith Richards put together.

But one day, your over six-foot super soldier goes down hard. The warning signs came the night before, when you could hardly sleep with the way he was snoring like a grizzly bear.

In the morning, he wakes bleary-eyed with a runny nose and a coughing fit hard enough to shake the bed.

"Fuck," he groans, dragging a hand over his face before he turns onto his back. "This's gotta be some kind of bullshit hangover."

You move over to him in bed and feel the intense warmth of his clammy forehead. Your brows draw together in concern.

"No, I think you're sick."

"Not possible," he grumbles. "I haven't been sick since..."

Well, since he was a kid, probably. He won't admit it, but he's surprised he still has that memory lodged in the back of his mind.

It comes to the forefront now: your hand on his cheek unknowingly mimics his mother's gentle touch, her soft, kind voice.

"Aw, my sweet boy. Let's get you feeling better."

He can almost recall the floral scent of her perfume, echoes of it in the shampoo you use.

Ben claims he's fine, that he doesn't need your help or want the medicine and tea you bring for him. (He tries the tea, grimaces, and spits it out when you're not looking.)

He's a sourpatch grumbly patient who only begrudgingly stays put in bed when you ask him to. He doesn't mind lying around and watching movies all day, not to mention episode after episode of Below Deck. It reminds him that he wants to get back into boating.

"Hey, sweetheart," he calls to you from the bedroom, his voice croaking all the while. "I'm getting you a yacht for Valentine's Day. You want it all white, or throw in a bit of gold? Actually, check out this one with the navy trim."

You roll your eyes to yourself when you step back into the room. You're carrying a tray with a large bowl of soup and a fifth of whiskey. He claims the latter will help soothe his throat, and you don't have the heart to argue with him when he's clearly feeling so shitty.

"You mean you're getting you a yacht," you reply wryly. "We live in the city. Where the hell would we put a boat?"

"In a yacht club, where it belongs," Ben retorts. He hooks an arm around your waist and peruses what you've brought him on the tray. He doesn't look all that interested.

"Look, I know you're not exactly a soupy kinda guy, but this'll make you feel better," you say.

"Why can't you put some fucking steak in it or something?" he grouses. He tries and fails to hide another wet cough.

"Why can't you just eat what I lovingly made, just for you," you snipped back.

He rolls his eyes at your attitude, but he pipes down. In that silence, he's conceding that you have a point. There was a time were all he had to do was glance in someone's direction, and there'd be some fucking moron to fulfill his every whim.

Now, you're probably the only one in the world that would actually do what you're doing...

Cooking for him, putting your heart into it, for the simple reason that you do care.

Ben takes the bowl of soup from your hands. Raising a brow, you offer him the spoon as well.

He eats without further complaint.

You smile and reward him with a sweet kiss on his forehead, brushing his hair back as you do so.

"See? That's not so hard, huh?" you can't help but needle him. "It's okay, baby. I'll take care of you."

He eyes you dryly, but he won't admit that there's a different kind of warmth coiling in his chest.

Boaz Priestly

"Uuuughhh, babe," he groans. "I feel like death on toast."

You're standing beside the bed with a smile playing on your lips. You brush back his for once un-gelled hair back from his face. It's weird to see it all limp and lifeless, slightly damp with sweat.

"Unironically, I should make you some toast," you reply. "What kind of medicine do we have?"

Priestly unearths his head from under his pillow to look up at you with miserable red-rimmed eyes and a sniffling, stuffy nose. "Can we count the tequila in the mini bar?"

"Maybe later," you laugh. "How are we on groceries?"

Priestly struggles to think. He takes your hand and rubs it back and forth across his chest. Maybe your sweet, loving touch has the power to clear away his congestion without him needing Vicks. Too minty.

"We have that pastrami I brought back from the shop," he says.

"That's six days old already," you shake your head.

"Aw, that's still good," he argues. "But uh, other than that, I think I have half a cheeseburger left from last night."

Last night's date at TGI Friday's, he means.

You heave a sigh. "Okay, clearly I'm going to the store. You just stay in bed and rest. Drink your tea."

He grimaces like a child. "I don't like tea."

"I know you don't like tea, but you need to drink it. It's good for your throat and your immune system."

He groans and flops back over onto his stomach. You bite your lip against a smile. He's such a whiny baby when he's sick.

Talk about Man Flu.

"Come on, be a good boy for me," you say, smacking him lightly on the ass. "Soon enough you'll feel better."

A smile creeps across his face where it's pressed against his pillow.

"Know what would really make me feel better?" he hedges. He tries to guide you down to him by tugging on your hand, but you resist him.

"Oh, no. You're not gonna get your germs all over me," you say.

"Hey, what happened to in sickness and in health?" he croaks. Even while under the weather, he's still plenty strong enough to grapple with you. He manages to yank you down. Laughing, you stumble into a seat on the edge of the bed.

"Huh, I don't remember exchanging any vows. You see a ring on this finger?" you tease, flashing your bare hand in his face to try and distract him and weasle out of his grip. "I can jump this ship anytime I want."

Priestly pouts. His arm hooks tighter around your waist. "Huh, guess you got me there..."

He turns his head and coughs roughly into his arm. Your amusement fades into concern and sympathy. You lay a hand over his chest while he struggles.

Once again, he clasps his free hand over yours. He glances up a bit hesitantly into your eyes.

"Well, maybe it's time there should be something on this finger," he murmurs.

You blink your eyes wider. Your head tilts, wondering if you just heard him right. Is this delirium fever talking, or is he serious?

"O-Oh yeah?" you ask.

Priestly tries to gauge your reaction. Seeing your face break out into a cute, shy smile raises the corners of his lips. Hope blooms in his chest, right beneath your hand.

"Yeah," he says, trying to clear his cracking throat. "I mean, if you're okay with that. If it's not too soon--"

You slip your fingers over his plush, chapped lips, and your smile brightens.

"When you're feeling better, you can ask me that question properly."

AN: 😆 I hope you liked the first ever addition of Priestly!! It was so fun to try and write him again (it's been a while lol). Feel free to imagine this vignette in the same storyverse as The Miracle Man and Code Red.

But I also hope you enjoyed the "Big 3," as I call them, even though Russell is starting to give Beau a run for his money on one of those slots. 😂 Let me know which guy you had the most fun reading on this one! 💜

And if you want even more fluff before Valentine's Day, check out my friend @waynes-multiverse who just posted her set of V-Day headcanons with Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau, and Russell: Headcanon: Valentine's Day 💕

Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

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#lovely review 💕#reader appreciation #lovely mutuals #headcanon: man flu

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gatheringbones · 11 hours ago

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[“When we are possessed by the self-hater in any form, what we think, and do is not spontaneous and free but preset in predictable patterns. We know those patterns and respond to them, for the most part, as predictably as the mesh of gears in a well-maintained transmission. John offends Joan, so she runs out of the meeting and Jean follows to placate her hurt feelings. Jean will not criticize John directly but complains about him to Joe. Joe agrees with Jean and then tells John that Jean doesn't like him. And so it goes.

As we identify patterns of oppression, we can refuse to perpetuate them. Groups often come to grief with the King of Victims. We want to be nurturing, but find more and more of the group's time and energy taken up with one person's problems. The person seems to use the group to confirm her or his stuckness. The group can never do enough, and when people express resentment or boredom, they simply reinforce the person's King Victim stance. Pointing this dynamic out does no good at all. We may be accused of blaming the victim, or may find ourselves speaking in the voice of the Judge.

Anne Cameron, in her novel Daughters of Copper Woman, tells the story of a women's society among the Indians of Canada's Northwest Coast. If a woman came to the group with a problem, others would listen, offer advice and help. If she came back again, they would listen a second and a third time. But if she returned a fourth time with the same problem, and hadn't made changes, they would all get up, walk away, and sit down somewhere else.

Nonparticipating can be done verbally, and directly: “Joan, we talked about your problem last week and the week before. Now I feel it's draining my energy, and I don't want to talk about it anymore until you've done something about it.'

Such tactics may provoke attack, expressions of hurt, or defensiveness. Joan may stomp or flounce out of the room. The temptation may be strong to follow, to try to bring her back and offer comfort. Resist the temptation, for conflicts will not be resolved by allowing one person to manipulate the group. I used to be a flouncer myself, resorting to the tactic not to when the tactic became ineffective. One night at a meeting of my as a way of dramatizing the intense hurt I was feeling. I learned quickly affinity group, we were arguing about who could come to a particular I ritual. I was intent on bringing my then-current lover whom the rest of the group didn't like. (Not without reason.) I ran out of the room in tears and my closest friend Rose followed, not, as I expected, to comfort me and let me cry on her shoulder, but to scream at me, “Get back in there, you bitch! How dare you walk out just because you aren't getting your way!" I remember feeling quite surprised. It had never occurred to me that my desperation could be interpreted as manipulation, and yet manipulation it was. I came back, and haven't tried the great walkout since.

I suggest as a rule of thumb for surviving the dynamics of a group never to walk out in the middle of a fight (unless you are about to inflict or suffer physical damage). Never follow someone else out or try to coax anyone back. The worst that can happen is that the person will not return. If she or he is gone for good, perhaps the time or the chemistry simply was not right. And the group may be relieved of a draining problem.

This advice may sound cold, but sometimes people need to deeply experience the loneliness of King Victim before they are ready to face the painful task of giving it up. A group that expresses support when members actually feel used and resentful creates an illusion of connection that holds back the process of change.

Current thinking in some circles is that there are no problem individuals in groups, only problem dynamics, that getting rid of one person only means that someone else will become the scapegoat. I have not found this to be true, except in that so many of us automatically play scapegoat, that often when one leaves a group another jumps into place. A group that is willing to play car to King Victim will usually find someone to take ad- vantage of its sympathy. But when a group stops allowing itself to be manipulated, the difficult person will either change or leave. Groups may carry on after a leave-taking with renewed energy, vitality, and humor.

We can also refuse to collude in manipulation or avoidance of conflict. Joe can tell Jean, “Don't bitch to me— tell John what you're feeling." Or, “Hey, Joe's my friend too. Anything you say to me about him, I'll probably repeat to him." We can encourage people to bring conflicts directly to the individual involved, or to the group, and offer our support. “Look, if you feel afraid to face John, let's go to him together. Or let's find someone else to mediate.”

Identifying other people's delusions and false value for them places us in the position of Judge. We cannot do it supportively. We can, however, ask questions.

Questions leave us open to mystery and surprise. When we ask a question, we want a deeper knowledge or understanding of a person. We test our assumptions instead of leaping to conclusions about others' motivations and meanings.

In the grip of the self-hater, we communicate in a cryptic code, patterned and predictable. We respond not to what's actually happening, but to what the self- hater whispers. We use words as screens, to keep others from seeing and knowing too much. And when we encounter the barriers others put up, we tend to politely back away. We don't ask ourselves, “Do I really understand what Jane means? Does what she say match what I intuit she is feeling?"

Jane is sitting huddled in a corner of the room, silent and withdrawn. Everyone can feel the misery she radiates.

“What’s wrong?” Susan asks.

Inside Jane's head, the self- hater is whispering," Everyone else is going to the hot tub afterwards when you have to work. They don't care about you or your problems. Nobody does. But that's okay, don't say anything about it. Don't spoil their good time."

“Nothing,” she replies.

The group can accept her answer and go about their business, knowing full well she is unhappy. They will thus confirm her self- hater's basic premise: that nobody cares about her. Over time, some of them may begin to resent her silence and depression, and may truly not want to have her around, further confirming her self-hater's evaluation.

They can attack: “Goddamn it, don't lie there like a dying squid— tell us what's wrong!" This approach will not augment her self-esteem, nor deepen the group's bonding.

Or, they can refuse to be stopped by the barrier of her answer, and test their perceptions.

"That's odd," Susan might say. “I thought you looked unhappy. Are you unhappy about something?"

Embedded in Susan's question is a supportive statement: “I care enough about you to notice how you are feeling, and to be concerned." Her question has itself challenged the self-hater.

The group might have to go through several rounds of specific questions: “How are you feeling?" “Have we hurt you somehow?" They are also entitled to give up, if Jane is determined to cling to her unhappiness in private. Their questions will, nonetheless, have posed to Jane an alternative to the self-hater's version of reality.

"It's nothing," Jane finally says. “I guess I always feel left out when the group makes plans and I have to work."

The group might respond defensively, as if Jane had attacked them. “We can't run our lives around your work schedule." Or they might react apologetically: “I'm sorry— I guess we weren't sensitive. Let's not go out if Jane can’t go." Either response will convince her that she was a fool to open her mouth.

A more empowering response would be to ask the question, “What can we do? How can we make it better?" The question implies,"We care about you— we want you to be happy.” The group might come up with suggestions, but they do not rescue her. For the responsibility of naming what we need is itself empowering: it implies that we have the power to know what we want, ask for it, and get it. The question takes Jane out of the role of passive victim and challenges her to take an active role in securing her own happiness.

In counseling, I would find myself asking, over and over again, “What do you mean by that?”

“None of my lovers stay with me,” a client might say. “They all say I’m too intense.”

From the tone in her voice and the expression on her face, I sense that she finds this evaluation somewhat flattering.

"What do you mean by ‘intense?’” I ask.

"Oh, you know— intense."

"But I don't know," I say, because I suspect that what she means is something she does not want to admit. “Do you mean angry? Needy? Do you want too much sex?"

To answer my question, she must let go of the false specialness offered by the self- hater, and consider her real feelings. If she can take that risk, and find one place in which her rage, her need, her passion can be valued, she can never again be quite so isolated.

Feelings, perceptions, decisions, and actions are often tangled together like embroidery threads. We may translate an emotion into a decision, which seems to relieve the pain of feeling. When others respond to the decision, the emotion gets buried or ignored, and we end up feeling worse. Asking the right questions can sometimes help separate the strands.

I have asked my mother, who lives in another city but who co-owns our collective house, to apply with us for a new loan at a lower interest rate, and she has agreed. She calls me up late at night, angry.

"I'm not going to fill out this form!" she announces. “It's an imposition on me. The print is too small— I can't see it! I'm not going to do it!"

Once I would have taken her statement at face value, gotten angry, and we would have had a rousing fight. But I have learned, instead, to ask a simple question.

"How can I help you?" I say. I know my mother well enough to intuit her internal dialogue, which I suspect went something like this: “I want to fill out this damn form— my eyes are bad and I feel helpless— nobody's around to help me. I'm angry that I don't have help! I'm not going to do this!”

Asking “How can I help you?" cuts into the middle of the chain, countering the self hater's message that no one can or will help I follow up by actually providing help and explanations of aspects of the form that are confusing. My mother feels cared for and loved, instead of used and put-upon, and together we are able to complete the form without problems.

Under the domination of the self-hater's messages, we act in ways that cause responses that confirm the self-hater's premises. When we do not believe that help is possible for us, we react to the pain of helplessness by screaming loudly, “I'm not going to help you!" Rarely are others sensitive enough to hear the underlying cry, “Help me!"

QUESTIONS TO CHALLENGE FALSE GLORY

Certain questions are particularly useful in challenging the delusions of power-over. Here is a short list:

1. What are you (we all) feeling?

2. What does (word) mean to you?

3. What do you need? What do you want?

4. What can we do? How can we help you?”]