Why I say 'I'm fine' when I'm not
9:14, someone walks past your desk and says 'you alright?' without really stopping. The word was out before you looked up from the screen.
You said 'yeah, fine, you?' faster than the question could finish. Not a lie, a reflex, the same move as grabbing your keys on the way out. That evening on the phone, your mother asks the same thing and the same word comes back. You had no time to check whether it was true.
Something in that tightens my chest a little: your mouth had already answered, and you hadn't arrived yet.
What the word spares you is the pause right after. Explaining, standing between two doors, what exactly is wrong. Watching the other face change, handling their reaction on top of your own. Becoming, for five minutes, the subject. 'I'm fine' keeps you invisible, and some days that is precisely what you are after. What it costs is that nobody knows, not even the ones you would have told.
'I'm fine' keeps you invisible, and some days that is exactly what you want.
I was wondering…
Who do you quietly hope won't believe you, the next time you say you're fine?