84. A Thousand-Pound Phone: The Weight of Asking for Help

Sometimes, a phone can feel like a thousand-pound weight.  It sits there, just inches away, yet the act of picking it up and dialing a number can feel impossible.  When someone is suffering in active addiction, reaching out for help isn’t just difficult—it feels insurmountable.  For years, I believed that asking for help was a weakness.  I thought it meant I wasn’t strong enough to handle my problems on my own, that it was an admission of failure, but I know now that the ability to ask for help is one of the greatest strengths a person can have.

Addiction is a disease that thrives in isolation.  It convinces us that we are alone, that no one could possibly understand our struggle, and that we are beyond saving.  It warps our thinking, making us believe that reaching out for help would only bring judgment, rejection, or disappointment.  The shame of our actions, our failures, and our struggles builds a wall around us, making it even harder to let anyone in.  The idea of exposing our pain, our weakness, and our failures to another person feels unbearable.

For a long time, I lived in that mindset.  I was trapped in my own addiction, unable to see a way out.  I told myself I could handle it, that I could stop whenever I wanted to, and that I didn’t need anyone else, but deep down, I was terrified.  Every time I hit rock bottom, every time I swore I would change, I found myself right back in the same place, and still, I refused to ask for help.  It wasn’t just about pride—it was about fear.  Fear of being seen as weak, fear of admitting that I wasn’t in control, fear of what would come next if I did reach out.

There were moments when I wanted to pick up the phone, and I thought about calling someone—anyone—and telling them that I couldn’t do it on my own.  The human mind is extremely powerful, and my mind always found a reason not to.  What if they don’t understand? What if they judge me?  What if they don’t pick up?  The weight of those questions kept my hands frozen and kept the phone untouched.  I convinced myself that suffering in silence was the better option because at least then I wasn’t burdening anyone else with my problems.

The truth is that suffering in silence is exactly what addiction wants.  It feeds on secrecy, shame, and isolation.  It tells us that we’re better off alone, that no one could possibly help us, and the longer we believe that the deeper we sink.  Looking back now, I see how much damage that belief caused me.  It kept me trapped in a cycle of destruction, refusing to reach for the very thing that could have saved me.

Eventually, I reached a breaking point.  I couldn’t keep up the facade anymore.  I was exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.  I had tried every excuse, every rationalization, and every lie I could tell myself.  None of it was working.  I knew that if I didn’t do something differently, I wasn’t going to make it.  So, with shaking hands and a racing heart, I finally picked up the phone.  It felt like the hardest thing I had ever done, but it also turned out to be the most important.  When I finally asked for help, I didn’t find judgment—I found understanding.  I didn’t find rejection—I found support.  I wasn’t met with anger or disappointment—I was met with people who wanted to see me get better and who were willing to walk with me through my recovery.  I had spent so long convincing myself that I had to do it alone that I never stopped to consider that maybe, just maybe, people wanted to help me.  The truth is that asking for help is not a weakness.  It takes incredible strength to admit that we need others, to put aside our pride and fear, and to reach out. It takes courage to say, “I can’t do this alone.”  Once I finally understood that, my entire perspective changed.  Recovery isn’t about going it alone—it’s about community, about connection, and about allowing others to lift us up when we can’t stand on our own.

That’s not to say it became easy.  Even after making that first call, I still struggled with the idea of relying on others.  I had spent so long pretending to be strong and pretending I had it all together that it felt unnatural to let people see my vulnerability, but the more I allowed myself to lean on others, the more I realized how much I had been missing.  There is a profound strength in allowing yourself to be helped, in admitting that you don’t have all the answers, and in trusting others enough to let them in.

I think about all the times I sat staring at my phone, all the moments I came so close to reaching out but didn’t.  I wonder how different things might have been if I had understood sooner what I know now.  I also know that I can’t change the past.  What I can do is share my experience, so that maybe someone else who is struggling and who is staring at their own phone, feeling like it weighs a thousand pounds, might find the strength to pick it up.  If I could say one thing to anyone who is suffering in silence, it would be this: You are NOT alone.  You do not have to fight this battle by yourself.  There are people who care, who want to help, and who will stand by you no matter how many times you fall.  The hardest step is the first one—but once you take it, you will realize that you were never as alone as you thought, and that, in itself, is the beginning of healing.  Asking for help was the hardest thing I ever did, but it was also the best decision I ever made.  If you’re struggling right now and you feel trapped in that same cycle, I want you to know that you have that strength too. You just have to take that first step and pick up the phone.

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.