15:27. Listening to Amarante’s Home.
I’m so much hyper today. When I talked to my therapist, I was practically bouncing on my feet. Restlessly excited, in a good way. She asked me about how I felt. I told her I felt fine. I feel fine. My therapist reduced my meds dosages after making sure that I was truly feeling fine.
I wonder though, is “fine” truly fine? Because I know “fine” is composed of a lot of things. There are moments when I use “fine” as a lie. There are also times when “fine” is the reality. But most of the times, it’s always somewhere in between. You can be sad and feel fine. You can be happy and not feel fine. As years pass by, I force myself to use the word “fine” less and less, because I know “fine” doesn’t really describe my feelings. Everything can be fine. Everything can be alright. But that’s only the surface of things. The middle ground.
But I also realize that describe my feelings with any other words aside from “fine” is scary. How do you tell people that you’re angry? How are you supposed to tell people that you’re devastated? We try to minimize the impact of our feelings by describing it as “fine”. You don’t want your anger to affect how you approach people. You don’t want your grief to affect how you tackle your work. You don’t want to be seen as a naive or selfish person by telling people that you’re happy–when there is so much sadness in this world. You also don’t want to be seen as pathetic or whiny because you complain about your life too much. “Fine” is a disguise, a mask.
So maybe you can stop describing your feelings as simply fine. Because while it’s not entirely a lie, it is also not an absolute truth.
Be honest, at least to yourself.
How are you feeling now?