Fighting the Butterfly

When someone I know comes up to me and asks…“How are you?”

My reply is the reply of a liar, because the lies are easier to maintain than the truth at this point, because the truth would hurt you too much.

“I’m good” I reply. But when I say I’m good. What I’m really saying is that I got out of bed this morning. That the heavy bog that hangs over me, day after day, hanging by the thinnest of threads, has not completely collapsed and I was able to get up and escape it, if only for an hour. But that just makes the little monster that lives in the bog angry and so he pokes a hole in the thin layer of protection and it starts to drip.

When I say I’m good, what I’m really saying is that the medicine is working today. That after I escaped the now dripping bog I was able to take the pill that helps me live before the dripping turned into a stream. A stream that is on the path to destroy as it flows down the mountain, but soon it loses control. Gravity pulling so that the stream reaches its destination faster, and I have no control.

When I say I’m good, what I’m really saying is that, for now, that stream is just a follower trying to make friends with my shadow, because my shadow is the one thing that I know won't leave me. The friend of my enemy is my enemy, too, so that just means that by the time I get home I will have to lock my shadow in a room and interrogate it for fear that the stream has made a friend and will become stronger. But a river is not the next step. Oh no, it is a full-on waterfall. Endless waves of water crashing down on the body. Pounding away at what you think you have left. Holding you down so you are unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to think.

When I say I’m good, what I’m really saying is I’m able to fake it today, because if I tell you how it really is you would be more shocked than if your child got engaged for the first time at the age of 42. You know, that kind of shock that you get when you have come to terms with something you decided was normal and convinced was good and then fate decides to throw you a curveball from a pitcher that decided that he was going to pitch from the spot of the first base coach without the decency of telling you he’s moving. Something you never thought would happen has now happened so you stand there in disbelief. I wouldn’t dare tell you any real thing about me because Your pity would suffocate what I have left of normality. That one moment when, for once, I am no different and my body is not attacking me. You would say things like “oh no!” and “why didn’t you say anything before?” but in the end, you really don’t care and heaven forbid I make you feel bad.

When I say I’m good, what I’m really saying is that the little butterfly-shaped gland in the front of the neck is acting like a little brother sitting next to you on a family road trip to the Grand Canyon. Pointing at you, his finger getting closer to you every second but never actually touching you, and has the courtesy of telling you a thousand times that he is not touching you.

When I say I’m good, what I’m saying is…I’m here. I’m not actually good, I’m not great, I’m just here. It could always be worse, and some days it is worse. Some days the threads break and the bog wins, but you would never know it. I am not the path of least resistance, and I fight the bog every day. And the day I stop is the day the universe takes my breath away.