I’m not OK.
I wish I could tell you this. I want to so many times. When you ask how I am.
I’m not OK.
Is what I want to say.
Instead I nod my head. Usually just one confident nod. Sometimes I’ll nod a few times. For security.
Tilt it slightly to the left.
Make sure my smile is big but not too big.
I am so good!
And then I immediately segue into talking about you. Asking how you are. What you have been up to. Steering as far away from the subject of me as I can get us. See how good I am at it? I amaze myself sometimes with how good of an actress I can be.
I feel myself dying a little bit more on the inside. Angry that I let another opportunity come and go. Another opportunity to open my mind up, just a little, and let some of the creatures out.
But I don’t. I can’t. I want to. I want to so badly. But I can’t.
Because here’s the thing: I was fine the day before. I was fine the week before. I’ve been fine for a whole month before!
Before it came back. Because it always does. It tricks me. But it tricks you more.
You see how good I have been. Maybe I was even great. Amazing. Fantastic. And I want you to know I really was. But you, like so many others, were tricked into thinking maybe it wouldn’t come back. That sense I had been doing so well. I’d been so happy. That I could do this.
You’re not the only one though. It got me too. Except, deep down, I always knew the truth. I knew it would eventually be back. It always comes back.
And so I can’t tell you. I like feeling as though someone is proud of me. I like seeing and hearing something other than concern when someone asks how I’m doing. As long as I don’t say it aloud.
I’m sick.
Then I can pretend for a little while longer that I am OK.
So I can’t tell you. I don’t want all of that to disappear yet.
Even though I need you. The longer I continue treading water, trying to keep a smile showing above the water, the more detached I become. Not just from you. From everything. Family. Friends. Strangers. The world.