I’m okay--a short story
Someone asked me if I was ok. "Yeah, I'm fine." I answer, knowing it wasn't true, but what could he do? Talk? Like fuck was I talking to him. Nothing, he could do nothing. That was the answer. He asked again, "Wren, are you sure you're ok?"
I laughed and gave a crazy eyed smile, "Yeah, I'm fine." My mother is crazy and I can't get away from her. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs but what would it do? Nothing, it would do nothing. I sit back down at my desk. My necklaces are bothering me. I take them off. I crush the charms under my hands. Wincing, I let go. That leaf always stabs me. At least I can focus now. I look down at the paper thin, coper leaf. It is bent. For what seems like the thousandth time I reach my fingers out to unbend it.
Depression touches my soul. No mater how many times you straiten your life out it always gets bent. I know it isn't true, but I remember how many times I've tried to help things get better and wonder if it ever truly works. Or, am I just like this leaf: bendable, breakable, broken.
All I want is to sit at a table and drink tea. To watch the birds go by and know that I am free to spread my wings. I want to feel safe enough to uncurl from my mental ball. I don't want to be scared to say I'm not OK. I don't want to feel like its pointless, like everything will stay the same. Every time I look up I see another day, and another set of rain.
I wish it didn't have to be that way.
Out-loud, I hear myself saying, yet again, "I'm okay."
I look up. I remind myself that at least I'm not dead. That will have to be enough to be ok.