“I’m okay” is my response to every single “how are you?” If it’s a good day, you might get:
I’m good, darling. I’m always good here.
How are you?
If you want to know the truth, my level of concern when asking is somewhat void and misleading. I’d feel selfish in telling you that, but yours is exactly the same. It’s true.
It’s not that I don’t care. I’m not heartless. It’s that life is hard enough just figuring my own shit out. How am I supposed to help someone else when I can’t even make it through my morning routine of single mom madness or my fourth round of English Literature.
But that is not what the world wants to hear. What do they truly want to hear?
Let’s be honest. We don’t even really care what comes after that “how are you?” It’s simply a formality we’ve grown accustomed to asking. Why?
Because if we started actually caring about the response, we’d be required to invest of ourselves and our own emotions. We’d be required to feel, relate and connect. We’d be required to think about the pain of someone else.
Let’s face it. We have our lives on the line. We have our own stresses.
While one friend is complaining of the cat wrecking the house and their children painting the walls, and another friend is rehashing that same fight with the spouse that we’ve heard a million times now, we have our own shit to sort out! We hardly have the time to care about their seemingly small stresses.
So, if the world could, please, remember this response. We’ll all continue to make love to Oblivion like she’s our fuck buddy of choice and whore for the day.
Say it with me:
We are always okay, until shit hits the fan, real life kicks our ass, and we’re face first in our own broken pieces.
So, I was okay when I found out that I was carrying a child I’d been told I would never have. I was okay when my partner left nine days before my daughter was born. I was okay as I gave birth alone and scared out of my mind.
Yes, always okay here.
I was okay when I faced the world with a smile, holding a child I was still learning to love. I was okay being told I was sick just months later. I’m okay as I face that alone.
I was okay with every hit, bruise and mark, and each voice and hand raised, when I was a child. I was okay when I stepped over my mother and I was okay as I heard her scream every night. I was okay when my sisters left me to live there alone.
I was okay every step of way.
I was okay after violent sexual assault, too. I became it and I demonstrated it as I repeated “I’m okay,” two days straight afterwards.
Yes . . . I’m always okay here.