Fight or Flight
Are You Okay?
“Are you okay?” It’s the question that will haunt me for the rest of my life. My mom asks me, my sister, my friends, my teachers; everyone wants to know, except the thing is, if you have to ask then the answer is probably pretty obvious. It’s the same stupid question every time, because apparently the seams that I’m tearing apart from aren’t clearly visible. I guess whatever broken heart I have is hidden, any chemical imbalance in my head isn’t really noticeable. Or, at least, just obvious enough to merit, “are you okay?”
No, I’m not.
At least that’s what I want to say, scream really, but I never would. That’s for overemotional drama queens or people with real problems. I’d have to say I’m the earlier of the two, just not willing to say it out loud. I couldn’t, I mean, what would the neighbors think?
“Yeah, sure, I’m fine.” That’s what I really end up saying, and then I force a smile, I change the subject. I’ll talk about the weather, force a joke, go to the bathroom, anything to take the pressure off of me.
That’s another thing about being “not okay”, you don’t want anyone to know. It’s not so much that I think my friends are going to start rumors and abandon me or anything like that; I’m just ashamed of it, truly and deeply ashamed of it. It’s like there’s some remote part of me that still clings to the hope that I’m normal, that everyone acts like this as soon as they’re alone.
I guess that telling somebody else means being willing to admit it; asking for helps means being ready to accept it. I’m not sure, but this just might be a good definition to give an addict for denial.
When somebody asks if you’re okay, they’re expecting you to say yes. It’s common courtesy to say yes. When somebody wants to know how you’re doing, they expect that you’re fine. Nobody wants to hear how hard it’s been lately, or that you’re afraid you’ll do something stupid, by asking they’re just showing the common courtesy to pretend that they do.
“Are you okay?”
“No. I’m thinking about killing myself.”
“Oh, that’s cool. Did you write down the English homework?”
“Did you hear me!? I want to kill myself!”
“Yea, and my mom will kill me if I don’t turn in the English homework. My grade is riding on this, don’t be an asshole.”
Seriously, just stop asking me if I’m okay. Assume I’m not and get the homework from someone who actually does it in a timely manner.
No, I’m not.
At least that’s what I want to say, scream really, but I never would. That’s for overemotional drama queens or people with real problems. I’d have to say I’m the earlier of the two, just not willing to say it out loud. I couldn’t, I mean, what would the neighbors think?
“Yeah, sure, I’m fine.” That’s what I really end up saying, and then I force a smile, I change the subject. I’ll talk about the weather, force a joke, go to the bathroom, anything to take the pressure off of me.
That’s another thing about being “not okay”, you don’t want anyone to know. It’s not so much that I think my friends are going to start rumors and abandon me or anything like that; I’m just ashamed of it, truly and deeply ashamed of it. It’s like there’s some remote part of me that still clings to the hope that I’m normal, that everyone acts like this as soon as they’re alone.
I guess that telling somebody else means being willing to admit it; asking for helps means being ready to accept it. I’m not sure, but this just might be a good definition to give an addict for denial.
When somebody asks if you’re okay, they’re expecting you to say yes. It’s common courtesy to say yes. When somebody wants to know how you’re doing, they expect that you’re fine. Nobody wants to hear how hard it’s been lately, or that you’re afraid you’ll do something stupid, by asking they’re just showing the common courtesy to pretend that they do.
“Are you okay?”
“No. I’m thinking about killing myself.”
“Oh, that’s cool. Did you write down the English homework?”
“Did you hear me!? I want to kill myself!”
“Yea, and my mom will kill me if I don’t turn in the English homework. My grade is riding on this, don’t be an asshole.”
Seriously, just stop asking me if I’m okay. Assume I’m not and get the homework from someone who actually does it in a timely manner.
♠ ♠ ♠
So the chapters in this story are pretty long. I was originally intending for it to be a lot more like a book, but hey, shit happens. So 2-5 pages on Word won't be uncommon.