Oatmeal Vonnegut

Two of my favourite people collaborating. The Oatmeal and Kurt Vonnegut.

Are You Okay?

If the past couple of weeks have taught me anything, it's how unanswerable the question 'are you okay?' is. Fine, I get it. Everyone wants to hear you say that you are in fact okay, but what if you aren't. What if you don't know if you're okay at all, what then?

The other day, I was talking to my fister - which is what you get when your sister is also your friend - and yeah, I know how bad it sounds, but I just love merging two words into one - anyhow, we were discussing how being asked 'are you okay?' is most annoying. In some ways, it's almost as though the other person doesn't want the truth. They just want a quick response, then they can dust their hands off and be on their merry way.

Then my mind started making connections. Remember how I wrote that blog about how we need to ask better questions? No? Well, it was beautifully named Because Of The Poo and basically detailed how we are asking the wrong questions, that if we truly cared about the people in our lives we would tailor our questions to be more specific.

If you think about it, 'Are you okay?' is a slap in the face. Either you answer yes or no. Mostly you answer yes for fear people will get that awkward expression on their face that tells you they really, really, really don't want to know what's going on in your head, let alone your heart. I suppose an honest conversation can seem a bit daunting, after all they can run on in length. Still, no matter what the answer is, I have a hard time grasping what 'okay' is.

Sometimes I think it's the simple act of existing. Yeah, I'm okay, I'm here, I'm breathing, I'm eating and pooping. I am going through the routine. Is the basic act of existing what it means to be okay? And if so, why are we accepting that as a good thing? Why is it a relief? If I really start brooding over it, which is never a good idea, it seems as though being 'okay' is in fact not 'okay' at all! This is getting to be too much for my tiny brain to handle right now. I mean, it is almost eight o'clock. So, let's start wrapping this up.

In the past couple days, I've come to the realization that it isn't acceptable to be emotional. If you do it at work, you're boss might not think you're cut out for the job. If you do it around your friends, they might think you're unstable. Mention it to your mom and you might end up being analyzed. In truth, people shy away from those raw moments. And who can blame them? I hate showing that vulnerability,  but sometimes the tears come and they aren't wrong. They are what make us human. Sometimes you can't plan your meltdowns, they just bubble up and over the cauldron of your mind and leak out your eyes.

Here it is, the truth, simple and honest: things happen in life you can't control. Shocking, right? Well, when they do, you are allowed to feel however you feel. That's right. Your feelings are your own. And they may not make sense to anyone else - hell, they might not make sense to you, but that doesn't make them any less valid. It doesn't mean your feelings aren't justified.

I've decided to dump 'are you okay?' from my vernacular. In its place, I will ask things like, how are you handling this, what can I do for you, can I get you anything, and is there anything you want to talk about? These questions will at least make way for an honest response. Because I don't fear a truthful conversation, no matter the length, and I never want someone else to feel I am asking them a question for show. I am just not that kind of girl. Thank goodness.

Now, where'd I put that meltdown I've been meaning to have? I know it's around here somewhere.

A Waste

There's this beautiful little girl on the bus with me. She's staring out the window. Her name is Hazel, to match her eyes. In her dainty earlobes, she wears elephant earrings. A pink gem glitters in the belly. Sometimes she looks so sad. And others simply contemplative.

She's sniffling. I guess she has a cold.

Her hair is long and brown. There is a Boston Terrier on her shirt. It has a blue moustache. In this very short ride she has offered water to someone and her seat to others. She's with a group. It's Spring Break - something us adults can't comprehend. A week off without responsability.

And I'm remember why I'm on the bus. On the mainland. On route to my sister. A death. A suicide. A person from our past has punched his own time card. More her past than mine. This little girl and the grim reason for my sudden trip collide and all I am thinking is how does it go so wrong.

All these children, vibrant and full of life, when does life mess them up? I'm sure some of them are already experiencing the cruel nature of life, how bitter she can be, how utterly depressing it can seem. Since this is an honest space, I can say we have all been messed up by life. Tested, optimists the world over say. We have all been tested. Sometimes I think we spend the first thirty years of our lives being messed up and the next thirty trying to clean it up, fix it and find ourselves.

Sometimes we can't find out way back. Sometimes we can't see what there is out beyond the forest of our doubts and fears. Sometimes we miss the truth of life. That it truly is what you make it and happiness comes to those who can see. But there are those who can't see past the cobwebs of their own thoughts. The ghosts in their own minds.

Even in my darkest days I've always wanted to be. To exist. To breathe that crips mountain air and sink my feet into the mud of life. I have always wanted to conqour my own demons and not let them win. Leaving is not an option, not by my own hand, because there is too much love to give. I know this sets me apart. And I know I will never understand. That it will always seem like such a waste.

And I am terrible in these moments. There are tears and laughter, painful honesty and regrets. I suppose I am grateful that I don't feel nothing.  That I care. And always will.

Life is a gift but not everyone gets the memo.