I Wasn’t a Rock

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I have never seen my parents asking for help and so that was how we grew up. Or let me rephrase it, we never grew up asking for help. I don’t know if you may call it dignity, ego or pride.

Friends and relatives helped without our asking. Our family was grateful but the help was barely enough.  Lazarus’ rich neighbors’ dog was better fed than me. The only material thing left in me was hope that some day that very dark and ugly dream will soon come to pass.

When you have nothing you don’t even know  how, where, when or what to ask for.  Being down and out makes you mentally impoverish  and the devil comes stripping you off your last dignity.  Either somethings’ wrong with you, you’re lazy, and as today social psychologist says some of you just like your circumstances. 

For some unfathomable reasons people get over it, and get over it triumphantly.

The only thing I had on my hand was each new day. I grab it as soon as it comes then let it go because when tomorrow comes a new one, I am wishing that each day gets better and better.  Time was the  only thing I had on my hands that I could spend freely  with. I went to school and did my best  making sure that whatever I lack materially is compensated intellectually.  I read books. There was no time to think about self pity or  depression or what I have or don’t have. There was no time to even need for anything. I took whatever was on the table.

If I was a rock it was because my family was around me. Whatever strength that came out from me was built through the years  of being and seeing my family, each one doing their best in the particular roles we play.

To answer the question, do I run asking for help?

I don’t have the courage I only took what was given to me, because I don’t know what I needed or if I needed, I needed a lot that no one could help me.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “I Am a Rock.”

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