Accustomed to a Level of Non-Support

By now, it’s almost a law of nature. Every organism seeks its own support group. I was walking by a fitness center the other day when I noticed the sign: “Elan--Where Women Support Women.” Right away I felt jealous. First of all, I’m lacking in elan. And then I realized I haven’t got enough support.

Now, I suppose I could pay my fees at Elan--Where Women Support Women, but I’m sick of buying support. I’ve personally been a major supporter of the world’s second oldest profession--therapists. I want a freebie.

I know there are millions of free support groups and 12-step programs, but they all seem to be organized around overcoming some particular problem. Those of us without one particular problem are getting very jealous of all the support being given to those who are lucky enough to have narrowed it down to something as simple as arachnophobia.

You might call that a petty little attitude. But don’t label me unless there’s some petty little support group I can join.

Because I work at home, I spend a lot of time fantasizing about all the support the folks who gather at offices are getting. I imagine Al going into Jim’s office and saying, “What do you think of this?” And Jim saying, “Wonderful, Al. As always.”

Lately it has come to my attention that rather than a support group, most offices are in fact seething caldrons of sibling rivalry. Everyone picks out her imaginary play sister and then complains about how she’s getting raises, promotions, a better office, her name on the door, her work entered in contests or--that ultimate status symbol--her cubicle next to a window.

Viewed realistically, the average office seems to be much like the families that left so many people seeking support. The Boss always seems to love someone else best.

Some people have actually tried the radical measure of supporting themselves. One woman I know developed a system of giving herself what she called “affirmations.” Every day she would come home from work and place a yellow Post-it note on the wall with a positive statement about herself.

By the end of the month, the wall opposite the woman’s bed was plastered with little yellow support statements. Each night she would read out loud the writing on the wall: “I am beautiful . . . I am a good person . . . I am bright and creative . . . I care about the environment . . . I know how to listen . . . I have so much love to give . . . I did 100 leg rolls . . . I didn’t eat any egg rolls. . . . “

One night she came home from work and found the door to her apartment ajar. Her drawers were all gaping as if in shock. Her clothes were strewn across the floor. She’d been robbed.

He--or perhaps some woman who should have gone to Elan for support--had taken her VCR, her computer, her grandmother’s cameo pin and the emergency $15 she kept in her musical jewelry box, which played “We’ve Only Just Begun.” The affirmative messages were left undisturbed.

My friend refused to report it to the police. I thought it was because she didn’t want them to see the notes, but it was worse than that. She said, “I’d be too embarrassed to ever see the burglar who saw those notes.”

So she took down all the affirmations. Now, once a week, she goes to a Crime Victims’ Support Group. At least she’s found her people.

They say there’s plenty of victims in the sea. Someday my support group will come.