When someone asks me how I’m doing, there are words I could say—honest words, true words, real words, words full of pain and joy. When I try to grasp them, to place them on my tongue, to release them, they sink deep down out of my reach. They are heavy like an anchor. They do not want to move; they will not be said. They remain within, and I remain silent.
The words I want to say are, I am heavy. I cry, but I’m not really sure why. I want to say that I’m sad a lot lately—but happy, too.
The words I want to say are, Yesterday was good, but today has been bad, and I’m terrified of what tomorrow will be. I want to say that’s how it is every yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
I want to say that some days feel like a victory merely because I’ve woken up and put two feet on the ground. Other days, I accomplish everything on my to-do list, yet I feel like a failure.
The words are, I’m weary and worn.
The words are, my dreams and wishes are too heavy for me to carry, and I am tempted to abandon them. The words are, I am afraid.
The words are, when the sun comes up in the morning, I am happy for a new day and at the same time filled to the brim with the anxieties that a new day brings.
The words are, my reflection in the mirror makes me sad. The words are, I’m my own worst enemy, my own worst critic, and I’m tired of being at war with myself.
The words are, I cried six times today but only three times yesterday, and tomorrow I might not cry at all, and maybe it’s not as bad as it sounds, or maybe it is. The words are, I don’t know.
I want to say the words, I have no idea why I feel the things I feel or think the things I think.
The words are, I’m lonely in the good way, and I’m lonely in the bad. The words are, I don’t know why.
But all those words that I want to say that are as heavy as an anchor sink too far beneath the surface; they are unattainable.
They will not be said.
So I say, “I’m fine.”