Maybe One day

I’m not okay, and I want to be.


May 31, 2016 • 1:37am

I’m not okay and I want to be. I want to be okay one day.

Im not okay! Okay?

I fucking hate hearing questions like, “how are you?” Like, how am I supposed to answer that? Here– lost, empty, broken, exhausted, frustrated, burnt out, fed up, indifferent. “I’m okay” I’d say, instead. They ask you all sorts of questions like how are you, when you’re apparently not okay. Okay, maybe not. Maybe not obviously, but, come on! Because I’m not fine at all. Finding answers to that is depressing alone; much less bringing it up and remembering why you’re actually so depressed.

They’d ask something like, “how are you?” And then I ask myself the same question: “How am I?”

They ask those questions that drives you insane. They ask questions like nothing, and you’d find potential answers like crazy. When I ask myself the same question… like, “how am I again? “Oh, I’m miserable.” Whenever they ask me, I’ll instantly ask myself the same question. And I’m losing my sanity just to find answer to it. But I don’t wanna look like a fool in front of someone who asks me a very simple question. And I’ll realize immediately that’s why we have this term “okay” to answer just that; that is why I say “I’m okay”, we all do. But truth is, it’s not really that simple. That question is really not simple at all; it’s frustrating AF. As frustrating as math equation. It brings me paranoia. Like I’m really. being. paranoid. It stress me out; it’s not simple for me at all. It’s so complicated, tricky… so confusing. They’ll ask you how are you and then you remember you’re actually depressed, miserable and lost. It’s not fun to talk to. All it does is tear you apart, crush you and depress the hell out of you. That question only reminds you that you’re not okay at all.

But I understand the concern. I understand the good intention of the question. It’s the most noble question, the most acceptable standard a person can do. And the noblest of all humanity and of the human race. The most catastrophic yet the most basic.

I don’t hate people for asking me such questions. I hate myself for having no real answer. I hate myself for being troubled. I hate myself for panicking; hate that I’m getting anxious every time I hear it especially when I asked myself how I really am. It’s easy faking it to people, but faking it to yourself only makes you feel desperate than ever… It’s like any moment, my mind’s gonna blow up because I don’t know, I don’t understand and it’s killing me.

The question itself is killing me. My mind is killing me for having no clear answer; my paranoia is killing me. It’s. Just. Killing. Me. And every time,– it killed me. And every time it kills me, I die.– apparently, inside.

I wanna stop dying. I wanna wake up and know that I’m okay. I wanna wake up one day and know I am totally okay. And I know why because I’m fucking sure why. Because I finally know how it feels like.

I’m hoping for the day I’ll be okay. I’m still hoping for that day.

Maybe one day…

Author: The Realist in the Abyss

I feel like a freaking lunatic. Wandering around... not knowing who I am... or what I do. And I'm still trying to figure it all out, too. But perhaps I'll always be unknown to me; I'll always be that girl. The girl in the abyss.

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