How are you?

“How are you?”

“How are you?”

“Oh…How are you?”

The question comes at me in waves. When walking into a room, looking at my phone, trying to eat my lunch.

And it’s always the same. The emphasis on the word “are”—lingering on it, stretching it out as if delaying my response will somehow also change how I feel.

It follows me, hanging in the air where ever I go, more of a blunt instrument than a comforting question. An accusation really.

Is it an answer they want? An admission of failure?

I’m never really sure. Hence the momentary hesitation on my part. A quick mental calculation attempting to determine how to properly respond. Not because I don’t know the answer. But because I know the answer I should give is different from the one that I want to give. The answer they desire is different than the truth.

So I’ve become a fabricator of fact, curating what I believe to be appropriate responses based upon the interrogator. Like an old-fashioned rolodex, I can flip through the list of options at my disposal, and choose the least offensive prepared statement that best suits my—I mean their—needs.

Index Card 1:

“Fine. Thanks.”

The thanks, I know, sounds a little forced. Because it is. But I say it anyway, as it is only polite to do so. Right? Reserved for people who shouldn’t be asking the question anyway. Perhaps I don’t really know them (even though they know my “situation”). Perhaps I do know them, and that in and of itself is really the problem. And then, maybe I just don’t have the energy to spin to any other card, and “Fine. Thanks.” just so happens to be the easiest to reach.

Card 2:

“I’ve been better.”

Given with a cursory nod, just a slight tilt of the head. Stringing out the words a tiny bit longer than they should be. This, I suppose, is the closest I usually come to the truth. It’s a way to avoid lying in the strictest sense, but doesn’t give enough information for anyone to see the full picture. I liken it to opening the door just a crack when you don’t want someone seeing the empty pizza boxes and cans strewn about the living room. Sure, you could have just not opened the door in the first place. But part of you WANTS them to know something’s wrong. Just not enough to know what that something actually is. Not enough to really let them in.

Card 3:

“Doin’ alright. How ‘bout you?” The casual, almost upbeat nature of this response, coupled with asking the question back, is usually enough to spiral any potential conversation into meaningless niceties. The “How about this weather,” version of elevator chatter. Card 3 is well-frayed and rounded at the edges.

I could run through the whole rolodex, but there’s no need. The majority of the cards are essentially variations of the first three. Some longer, but never more than just the basics.

Friends get longer cards. More words, but no more explanation.

Professionals more jargon, but again, no more explanation.

Then there’s the card I’ve reserved for myself. The one at the back, the very end of the rolodex waiting for me to flip to it.

I’ve imagined what that moment will be like: the question comes, the subtle judgement sliding into those three words. And I hesitate, as always, but longer than usual this time. I’ve gone through each card and flicked past them, unhappy with each canned response. And finally, the cards have run out. There are no more left.

Except for one.

Card 99:

You know? I’m glad you asked. Because really, I don’t know. I’m not sure anymore. I’m not sad, but I’m not really happy. I just…am. I’m…tired. I do know that. I’m tired of not knowing. Of pretending I do. Of the question, although I’m still glad you asked. I just want something more. But what? I don’t know that, either. Is that okay? Is it okay that I just don’t know?

One day, perhaps. One day, I’ll flip to that card and speak the truth as I know it. Or as I don’t, I suppose.

Until then….

How are you?

Because I’m doin’ alright.

I guess.