This is a lie. I hate when people ask me how I am or how I’ve been or how I’m doing.
See, I have this feeling—this tragic, awful feeling—which keeps me up at night. It makes me cringe, curl up tighter and toss and turn.
Contrary to my demeanor or facial expressions, I am miserable. All the time. Constantly reflecting, analyzing, over-thinking and rethinking everything I do all the time. I can act normal, and I often pretend like I haven’t a care in the world. I’ll make meaningless small talk with people and immerse myself in their petty, over-dramatic problems just to avoid my own.
I wish I could just rant and tell you all about every problem and every flaw and every circumstance that has put me in every disposition I’ve ever been in. But that would take a while.
It’s not like I’m never happy. I have moments—blissful, beautiful, painfully short moments of happy. But nothing lasts forever and if I wait long enough, life will throw another miserable and overwhelming situation my way.
Maybe I’m repenting for some sin I committed in a past life. Maybe I just didn’t get the right start or upbringing (most likely). Or maybe God just fucking has it in for me (also believable).
In any case, I am not good. I’m hardly ever good. I’m a mess and shit is crazy.
So stop asking me how I’m doing, because I just want to yell and rip my hair out and scream that I am anything but alright.