Hiding from the Comfort Crowd

Visual by Eden Anyabwile

Most days I’m fairly confident I’m not a sociopath, but on the night I frantically typed “why can’t other people comfort me???????” in the Google search bar, I skewed slightly to nonbelief. How can someone as parched for love as I am be so resistant to it? Why seek comfort from others only to run away when it is given?

Obviously this pandemic hasn’t been easy on anyone, but among those considerably affected are people en route to recovery pre-COVID. Social systems as we know it will never be the same, an incredibly drastic change that occurred with very little warning. Any semblance of stability we may have cultivated for ourselves in the outside world is as good as gone, not to mention the inherent trauma of experiencing unprecedented health and socio-political crises. 

Support services like therapy have moved online and over the phone, and not everyone may be comfortable with this kind of set-up. The loss of face-to-face services means it is made less available for a whole sector of people, especially those unfamiliar with technology or have no access to it. This persists even in our interpersonal relationships: comfort is incredibly personal, and being physically separated from our support system will definitely take a toll. People with physical touch as their love language have been losing their minds since March. 

I prefer coffee shop catch-ups over constant texting, and when quarantine began there was this increased pressure to let people in, not only because of the isolation, but also because of the thought that coffee shop catch-ups might already be a thing of the past. Suddenly there was this obligation to talk to all the people I know all the time, since communication has become the only way to maintain our relationships. Over time it has become frustrating and exhausting, especially since this isn’t how relationships naturally operate. The desire to preserve and legitimize relationships during this time through digitally being “together” 24/7 is the quickest way to burn out both parties. The limitations of cyber verbal comfort becomes apparent: it can’t console you if it is among the things that tire you. 

Twenty Quora tabs after, however, I realized this problem—hating being comforted by other people—isn’t a phenomenon exclusive to the COVID era. I’m reminded of Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag (as always), which uses fourth-wall breaks to conceal the fact that its titular character is unwilling to impart anything personal. Oversharing, as a deliberate act, has become a way to not share anything at all; as unsubstantial noise that merely eliminates the curiosity piqued by silence. But we return to the million-dollar question: why do we hate vulnerability so much, even if we know it’s for our benefit?

I find my introversion empowering. It gives me the freedom and satisfaction of pursuing things I want and need for myself. Since I can remember, I have always equated sharing my problems with not being in charge of my own emotions anymore, that somehow I was under the mercy of someone else. Asking for help makes me feel needy, that I can’t do things on my own, and I didn’t want to be shamed for being incompetent. I want to prove myself. The fact that I would even need comfort makes me feel pathetic; I see vulnerability as weakness, and weakness frightens me, so I respond with rage. Not only am I discomforted by comfort—I am angered by it. 

Perhaps we perceive being loved as ‘intrusive’ because it is misaligned with how we usually see ourselves—excessively negative, unworthy of regard. We are more comfortable with rejection because it is what we have come to expect. We feel that love has to be earned, that there are things we do that makes us be unworthy of it. Care is not payment, and you are not less deserving if you fail. Capitalism, with its incentivization of everything down to our very humanity, has somehow made this sentiment difficult to accept. 

Related to this is the reason I resonate with the most: hating comfort because of not wanting to be trapped by obligation. I used to think I was the world’s biggest asshole for feeling this, until I found it in a Pysch Today article. “I like to be a giver in a relationship. That way I never owe anyone anything,” reads the testimonial. “I hate it when my partner thinks that she gave me so much that it’s my turn to sacrifice for her and I haven’t even asked for what she gives me.” Maybe too many people have done great things for us only to hold it against us in the end that we now shut out all affection to leave no room for their entitlement. Or, worse, we struggle with the concept that we exist outside of what we can give other people. Maybe we have trouble thinking of relationships outside of its transactionality—again, we think there is a price to pay for receiving care. I wish I learned earlier in life that this is never the case.

I also wish I realized sooner that letting people in does not erase my personhood—in fact, it makes me more whole, more real. “To be an authentic person, in a word, is to be a lover, to live a life of interpersonal self-giving and receiving,” writes philosopher W. Norris Clarke in his paper on personhood’s inherent communion. “Person is essentially a ‘we’ term. Person exists in its fullness only in the plural.” I of all people should know this: my first language is Filipino, and the word often used to refer to other people is “kapwa,” which more accurately means “together with the person.” My mother tongue has taught me it is linguistically impossible to refer to people as Other; who am I to argue with it now?

Sometimes I feel like an asshole because words of affirmation always come across as patronizing and I never have it in me to reciprocate them. Maybe there are times when you feel this way too. But we’re not assholes, we’re just dumb. We simply don’t understand what we need, or we don’t communicate it. Asking for help isn’t selfish; in fact, most often, people’s most natural response is willingness to offer help. It’s understandable that there is fear in being rejected, in admitting vulnerability, in being a burden, but these are merely predictions, not facts. “Know that you’re not the only one in need. This spirit of ‘we’re all in this together’ could mitigate the hesitance that a lot of people have to ask for help and to receive help,” writes Galadriel Watson for Washington Post. Of course there’s also this tendency to deem your problems as not as bad, especially now, but just because they don’t seem as bad doesn’t mean they are light enough for you to carry alone. Besides, once you realize the impact of being helped and comforted, you will be much better at helping and comforting—I wouldn’t have written this essay if there wasn’t a person who sent me the articles I linked above; who excitedly texted, “do u have ideas?? DO U WANT TO DISCUSS IT” when I told them I was working on something I had planned to do alone.