Fuck Fine
“I’m fine.”
I’ll say it again.
“I’m fine.”
I’ve said it so many times you start to believe it. I’ve said it so many times, maybe I’ll start to believe it.
“I’m fine.”
But how can I be fine? How will I ever be fine? My chest was sliced open and my heart ripped out. I am pieces. Scattered shards of broken pieces left behind. A once light soul, now dark and heavy in the shadows.
But to you, I look whole. To you, you see my smile and think I am fine.
I see an empty shell of a human, with dark circles and unbrushed hair permanently on display. I see hollowed eyes that have lost their light. I see a shallow smile that has lost its depth.
But I am polite and I say hello. “I’m fine,” I say when you ask.
And not because I don’t want to speak my truth - I crave those raw and honest conversations that so few are willing to have. No, I say “I’m fine” because my truth is exhausting. My grief is exhausting. My grief is a burden.
But not to me. No, my grief is a burden to you.
“I’m fine.”
My grief stems from love. Outrageous amounts of beautiful love. Love that was taken from me. Swiftly and cruelly, stolen. My grief stems from love, but it is full of anger. You can’t handle that anger.
You need me to be fine.
“I’m fine.”
I am polite and I say hello. “I’m fine,” I say. But you don’t see me. Not really. You don’t see the anxiety of planning a future for one that should have been planned for two. You don’t see the loneliness that buries deep under my skin. You don’t see the fear of dying striping away my freedom. You don’t see the guilt. The heavy weight of guilt. Guilt for grasping ever so tightly to the past. Guilt for reluctantly moving forward. Guilt for being alive.
You see me as strong. Brave. An inspiration. You see me surviving. Fuck, maybe even thriving. But inside I am dying.
But to you I am fine.
“I’m fine.”
But I’m not fine.
Fuck fine.
(This piece was written in my first year of grief and recently re-discovered. I couldn’t share it then because I was afraid of being judged - because guilt and shame and judgement are silent burdens a griever is forced to carry on top of their grief. I share it now because I have since learned to give zero fucks).