If you ask me whether I am okay, I’m going to give you the same answer every time.
“I don’t know.”
It’s not because I’m hiding something. It’s not because I want attention. It’s not because I want you to go away – okay, well, maybe it’s a bit of that – but it is primarily because I’m not sure whether I’m alright or not.
What constitutes “okay”? I mean, I’m alive. I have all my limbs. I have a house, I have food, and I’m lucky enough to have a loving family. My life is together, I have a 4.0, I have friends who care about me.
Does that mean I’m okay? If it does, then why do I always have this empty feeling gnawing at me these days, sometimes gently, sometimes so fiercely I either want to scream or sob? Why are these scars here, why am I in a constant state of anxiety, why do I cry inside about nothing one moment and can summon no emotion the next? Why is there a constant nagging in the back of my mind to slam my fist into the nearest wall and to cower from everyone who crosses my path, either in fear of them hurting me or, even, worse, me causing them some sort of pain? Why does my whole being rebel against just the idea of people some days?
Maybe I should be asking you if I’m okay. Because surely, surely, someone else feels this way as well, and maybe they know the answer.
I don’t know the answer.
I don’t know anything.