It’s been a rough time.
I’m “okay”—now that I value myself highly, I’m always “okay” —but this week has been hard. As happens from time to time, mortality has absurdly asserted that people I love die, an unacceptable, intolerable proposition.
Yet here I am, “accepting” it (for some definitions of “accepting”) and tolerating it (likewise). I’m “okay,” meaning I’m functioning and even constructive rather than paralyzed or destructive, and I am confident that these wounds will heal and that I will be whole again. I’m “okay.”
The thing about saying you’re “okay,” though, is that often others take you at your word. If you’re “okay,” they’ll quite naturally leave you to it, and they aren’t wrong to do so. It’s respectful—they trust you to know your own status and to speak the truth—and for most, “okay” and “good” are nearly synonyms.
Only they aren’t the same thing, not really. Nobody’s to blame for the confusion, but “okay” is worlds away from “good.”
In my lexicon, “okay” means I’ll eventually be “good”—that I have the power I need to make it so. I don’t “need” anything from anyone to get there, eventually. I can do it myself.
It does not, however, mean that no one can do anything to help. At times like these, even those who are “okay” are hurting, and comfort might be welcome. Kindness might be welcome. Touch might be welcome. Just because someone can go it alone doesn’t mean s/he has to or even wants to.
But it’s hard to ask. Some are invested in seeing themselves as (and being seen as) the steadfast rock or the comforter in time of trial—that’s (part of) who they are—and asking for comfort for themselves works against that image. Some are invested in helping others and fear that accepting help might reduce the help others receive. Some are sensitive to the troubles of others, and want to avoid adding to them. All of these are stories I tell myself.
I’m okay.
