The very name “self-help” can
construe two meanings. One? Empowerment. A vision of you, donning a cape
billowing in the glorious winds, triumphantly standing upon a mountain beaming
out at this world you’ve so thoroughly conquered. Or two - a rather sorry sight
of you cowering underneath a table of books, each one screaming out, “No, I can
help you!” “No, me!” “Pick me, I was on Oprah!” Now quite frankly, the second
may be a little more accurate, even if you don’t necessarily hide underneath the table because if so,
yes, you really do need help. Now some people swear by them, others scoff at
the idea alone. So where do you stand? Do self-help books really work? Do they
really have the miraculous power to change your life in just a few hours of
reading?
As a whole, self-help books are
an empire that have sold millions, if not billions, to those who are struggling
with insecurities, and it is this very quality that the authors are able to
capitalize on. Any person who has wandered
into the self-help aisle will inevitably be feeling a little lost, a little
insecure, and what better customer should be in this aisle anyway? The more
lost and insecure they are, the easier it can be for other problems that they
hadn’t even considered to suddenly become a life or death situation that they
need immediate help on. Now there
isn’t simply one book to dutifully rest on your bedside table, but a pile of
five others! All with different problems that you never even realized you had!
Silly you!
Self-help
books don’t necessarily ensure ultimate privacy either, which they are so often
hailed for. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want “Am I Secretly Bipolar?”
or “I Don’t Want to Admit I’m a Cat Lady” or “I’m A Narcissist, Love Me for Who
I Am!” casually lounging on my coffee table for any stray eyes of the house
guests perusing through my house. Suddenly the casual gathering has turned into
the, “Watch out, don’t comment on the burnt peas, she’s bipolar, and could FLIP
OUT!” event.
And
it seems obvious, but anyone who is stressed out enough to pick up a book on self-therapy
isn’t the type of person who should be prescribing themselves with disorders
anyway. Somehow I doubt brain surgeons and jet setting entrepreneurs are
picking up self-help books on their days off. It’s more as if they have walked
half way down the path to legitimate help, and stopped to pick up the brochure
by the wacky waving inflatable arm flailing tube man instead, who just looked
so damn convincing in his abilities. Cue the author nonchalantly leaning
against a wall, perhaps a beret atop his balding head, and that smile that just
announces to the world, “Me? Having it all together? Oh you.”
Now even though I have often said
that Google knows more about me than anyone else, and I’m sure this sad
realization can resonate with anyone who has discovered the sheer capability of
Google to answer literally any question that pops into your head, typing a
confession into this robotic search engine certainly isn’t the same as allowing
your insecurity to escape the confines of your own mind and into the hands of
another who can help instead. When it comes down to it, Google doesn’t have a
heartbeat, and nor does a book. If you’ve spent hours crying into its pages,
I’m sorry to tell you, it simply doesn’t care. Cruel when I put it that way,
eh? But a phone call, email, quick note, or a private conversation between you
and a therapist or trusted friend will release insurmountable amounts of
satisfaction that the words on a page don’t necessarily ensure. Essentially, one
must embrace vulnerability and accept that what makes you truly stronger is acting on what’s eating you inside, and
allowing another in to help you.
*m
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