.

For months she has been in a miserable

relationship with a man she describes as

needy and manipulative.

.

“I’m exhausted,” she tells me. “I feel like

I’m his mother.”

.

“So end it,” I say.

.

“I tried,” she frowns.  “He threatened to

kill himself.”

.

“You believed him?”

.

“I’m afraid to take the risk,” she

shrugs helplessly.  “He cries and

begs and I feel like a heartless

person.” 

.

She looks at me.  “Am I? Heartless?”

.

“Hell,” I say, “if you were heartless

you wouldn’t be trapped.”

“Trapped? What trap?” she asks.

.

.

I answer by telling her, as best as I

can remember it, the story of the

dangling man.

A guy is walking across a bridge one

night and hears a faint cry for help. 

He looks over the railing and finds

a man dangling from a rope. 

“Help me,” the dangling man gasps. 

The guy reaches over and grabs the rope,

which comes free in his hands. 

Now he’s the only thing keeping

the man from falling.

“Save me,” the man begs. 

The guy heaves on the rope,

but cannot pull the man up. 

“You’re too heavy,” he says. 

“You’ll have to climb.” 

“Don’t let go,” the man begs. 

“Okay, but I can’t hold on forever,

the guy says. “Start climbing.”

“Just don’t let go,”says

the dangling man. 

The guy looks around for help,

but he is alone on the bridge. 

He looks for somewhere to tie

to tie off the rope, but finds nothing.

He feels his hands weakening.

“I’m getting tired,” he tells the

dangling man. “I can’t hold

on much longer.”  

“Help me,” the man repeats.

“Save me.” 

“But I can’t,” the guy says. 

“Don’t let go,” the man begs. 

“If you let go, I die.”

Time passes. 

The guy feels his hands cramping,

the strength draining from his body,

and the impossibility of his situation.

Finally he takes a deep breath. 

“Listen carefully,” he tells the man,

“because I mean what I’m about

to say. I can’t help you if you

won’t help yourself. So I’ll hold on, 

but only if you start climbing.

I’ll pull from my end. But if you 

don’t start climbing I have to let go.”

“You can’t mean that,”

says the dangling man. 

“How could you be so selfish? 

How could you live with

yourself afterwards? I need you. 

I’m your responsibility.”

“I don’t accept that,” says the guy.

I’m responsible for me, and

you’re responsible for you.  

I’m willing to help, but the

final choice here is yours.”

“Don’t do this to me,”

the man begs. 

The guy waits.  Nothing happens. 

There is no movement, no

change in the rope’s tension. 

“I accept your choice,” he says,

and frees his hands.

_______________________________
* Adapted from Friedman’s Fables by Edwin H. Friedman (New York: Guilford Press, 1990).

* * *

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