Everything’s Fine.
I have a job.
I have a place to live.
I’m smiling, see?
Everything’s Fine.
Everything was not fine. I didn’t realize this until two months ago. What’s frightening is thinking that you actually are fine. I don’t know how I was functional for so long.
It’s hard to ask for help when everyone thinks you’ve got it all together. You’re admitting that what you’ve presented to everyone is a lie. You are a liar. Who would stick around some messed up liar? You’re Fine. Yu have to admit to the world that you’re terrified. You don’t have the answers — you’ve never had the answers. You can’t pretend that you’re happy anymore. You’re worried, sad, and everything seems like an impossible chore. You don’t think you’ve ever been happy.
But you’re fine.
Eventually it gets to the point where you aren’t just lying to everyone else, you’re desperately lying to yourself. Hoping that with enough lies it’ll eventually come true. You will be fine if you just keep lying to yourself. The cuts on your arm aren’t a problem. The fact that you’ve slept for a week is not a problem.
It’s fine it’s fine it’s fine it’s fine.
Please let me be fine.
I am not fine.