"I need help with me."

posted on Facebook by Anne Lamott.

The only thing awake besides me was my disease of self-loathing, which is always sitting nicely at the foot of my bed waiting for me to wake up so it can begin the litany of what a disappointment I am, ways to hide this from the world, and while we’re at it, how behind I already am on the day.

But then I remembered that one other thing was awake, what people in the recovery community call my higher power. My higher power sometimes looks like a dark-skinned Middle Eastern Jew, and sometimes like Bette Midler. So I turned to the two of them and said the great prayer: Help.

Our pastor’s sister died last night, and so she won’t be preaching today. Our tiny church of 30 is in collective mourning for both of them, although none of us had ever met the sister. Here on this side of eternity, we are asked to survive unsurvivable loss, and times of wailing, gnashing of teeth, heartbreak. It’s not a good system. If I was God’s West Coast representative, a job for which I am uniquely suited, I would have created an easier way through life, a way that made more sense and didn’t hurt as much. As things are now—nationally, globally, in my circle, and because of my behavior—I needed her sermon more than ever. I am consumed with the need for spiritual medicine.

But the horrible truth is that if we want the healing, we start with the revealing. Thus every so often one gets to see what a total asshat one is, beneath the charming and witty persona. It’s a necessary nightmare on the path to Union with all that is good, or that is at least somewhat better.

I got to see this half an hour ago.

When I hear people use the word intimacy as into-me-I-see, I resist, but then, because the willingness to change comes from the pain of not changing, I eventually take a peek. Eeeeesh! Ick. Marbled into my basic decency and good-heartedness, I see the rats and worms under my psyche’s woodpile. I see my narcissism, my racism. I see my inner Glengarry Glen Ross—I want to at least win the set of steak knives!—and that I would be pushing older people out of the way to get the last seat in the lifeboat.

They are going to die soon anyway, and I’m a young 66.

Half an hour ago, I got to see what a snarky jerk I can be. I did something hurtful to a friendly and innocent person. In my defense, I felt like I was just hanging on yesterday, after witnessing the brutality of last week, the devastation of the last three months, the fever dream of the last four years. I had been in tears, I had been sick with fear, I had been blindsided by a sheet metal sense of isolation. I was a mess.

That’s my excuse and I am sticking to it.

Except that this is not good enough if transformation is going to come out of all that we have been going through. This will include both the deep dive into miserable truths and radical self-forgiveness. Neither is my strong suit.

Half an hour ago, a man I am working with sent me an email that I had written about him, in my snarkiest voice, that I’d meant to send to someone we are both working with. I had accidentally sent it to him. It was me at my most cutting and sophomoric, definitely not my loveliest side.

It was 6:00 a.m. when I read the man’s note that I had sent the email to him. I felt stunned with awfulness. I tried to pray, but it was not as a supplicant; I just wanted to feel better. It was like Flip Wilson saying, “I’m gonna pray now—anyone need anything?” I didn’t even know what I needed.

Everyone who might help me was asleep, especially the husband, who might have helped me see that we all screw up right and left. It comes with the territory. He would have said that the next right actions were to feel my scary feelings, make amends to the man, and then set about forgiving myself again. But he slept soundly beside me. Even the old dog, whose love and loyalty are probably the closest I am going to come to experiencing divine love on this side of eternity, slept soundly, emitting her strange sleeping sounds and hints of digestive distress.

That’s all. Simple: I’m stuck, help me. Jesus always reminds me that I am crazily loved and forgiven, no matter what I do or think, and while I often only half believe this, it helped. And Bette reminds me that we are all in this together, through the tears, fears and joy; we stick together, laughing and crying, and this turns out to be enough.

In the absolute silence and stillness of the early morning, they came to me, pulled me to my feet, and dusted me off. I made myself coffee, fed the dog, wrote a heartfelt and contrite email to the man, and asked for his forgiveness. I knew he’d forgive me because he is a good guy, but me? That’s the hardest work I do, and I can’t do it by myself.

As the old riddle goes, What’s the difference between me and God? the answer is, God never thinks He’s me.

I need so much help. I hate this! I like to be a helper, the girl valued as the flight attendant to her damaged family.

When my son was five or six, we were visiting my friends in the city, when all of a sudden we heard a tiny distressed voice. We turned toward the sound. Sam had managed to get his head stuck in the slats of a chair he had been clamoring on.

He stared at us like a dwarf in the stocks of Salem. He said, “I need help with me.”

I live by these words. The two friends had his words calligraphied and framed for us. I have it on the wall of my office. I need help with me.

Half an hour ago, I breathed this in. I need help. We all do and it is how it should be. My pastor will need all hands on deck to help her bear the loss of her sister. My country will need millions of people joining together for justice and reconciliation. We need help with us. It is the prayer of the miserable and scared and very stuck, who still against all odds believe that we can be changed and freed.

It is my prayer for us now.