This Body is Bullshit

People ask me all the time—How are you? And I always answer the same way: I’m fine.

And it’s true… most of the time. I am fine. I don’t need anything. I’m not falling apart in a puddle on the floor. But my fine doesn’t mean what most people think it means. My fine is carrying a body that never really healed. My fine is living with a nervous system that’s been idling high for decades, worn thin by years of chaos and stress—past and present.

The fatigue is bone-deep. The pain is a constant hum. Some days it’s background noise; other days it’s loud enough to drown out everything else. It’s invisible, which means people don’t see it and when people don’t see something, they often can’t understand it. I can be smiling and laughing while silently negotiating with myself about how much longer I can stand before I need to sit.

I also think about something I read:  How we tell people we’re fine because fine is expected. Fine is acceptable. Fine keeps us from having to admit the truth. And after a while, fine becomes a wall. I’ve done that. I’ve put up that wall without even realizing it. I’m such a convincing actress that sometimes I don’t notice I’ve been performing until someone points it out.

I’ve had moments, private ones, where I’ve completely fallen apart, screaming or crying or both. And in those moments, I’ve realized just how much I’ve kept from the people who love me, simply because I didn’t want to look my own pain in the eye… let alone ask someone else to look at it with me.

The strange thing is, most of the time, I actually am fine. I have joy. I have love. I have laughter. But when I’m not fine, I have no muscle memory for letting people in. And I know I’m not alone in that. I know people who insist they don’t want attention, who smile and wave and swear they’re okay—but deep down, they’re quietly waiting for someone to notice that they’re not.

On the flip side, when I ask someone if they’re okay and they tell me they’re fine or they don’t need anything, I believe them. If I were truly in need, I’d reach out. If I wasn’t okay, I’d eventually say so. Otherwise, I wouldn’t want to be bothered. So when someone tells me they’re fine, I leave it at that. And yes, sometimes people get upset or disappointed when I don’t follow up or push. But to me, respecting their words is the same as respecting their boundaries. I take them at face value because I’d want them to do the same for me.

Maybe that’s the catch with fine—it’s a word that means different things to different people. For some, it’s the truth. For others, it’s a shield. And for most of us, it’s a little bit of both.