Fine. Not the best word to hear, especially from a woman. In fact, I ran for the nearest bomb shelter whenever my ex (that word has a nice ring to it!) said “I’m fine.” See, Fine is actually an acronym for Fucked-up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional. But when I say it, I mean it. If only people would believe me. In particular, the damn social workers that keep asking me how I’m doing.
Today I met with the Maine Transplant Center. It is a second outlet for me to be listed in hopes of a donor. Despite having done every goddamn test imaginable with the exception of an Algebra question at the NH center, it is required that I go through the same orientation with Maine. Not the tests, but the financial, pharmaceutical, insurance, coordinator interview and of course social work.
This is the third time I’ve had to do this. I did it in 2011 before my first transplant. Nothing has changed since the first evaluation. I gave the Social Worker there nothing even then. If anything I’m more closed off now. Life has continued to deal me one setback after another, the biggest of course was losing my new kidney after only 5 years and putting me back at ground zero: broke, alone and in my mother’s fucking basement and I don’t want to discuss my damn feelings about it.
So when I met the Social Worker today, his questions were met with a resounding “I’m fine.”
It’s not his fault. He gave it a heluva effort. He did a good job and I liked him. He asked the right questions and I was happy to tell him all about my situation. I just didn’t display a satisfactory amount of emotion apparently. He pressed me on it and I gave him nothing. Finally he asked me to describe my coping mechanisms to him. I said “first I punch myself in the head and then I kick myself in the ass. Then I move on.” He laughed and asked me to try again. I put my arms on the table, leaned in and said,
“Sunday I got rejected and rolled over by a woman that I swore I was in love with. I was floored, flattened. I cried. I brooded all day, talked to no one, wrote a blog post about it and woke up Monday a new man. I processed it, sucked it up and shit it out. Done.”
I would best describe his expression as a hybrid of amused and annoyed. But he left it at that.
People don’t understand, I am an island. I am happy to have a support system, I just don’t use it. I am hyper self-aware. I know what’s wrong and right with me. No one can tell me anything about myself I don’t already know. This is what life has done to me and I’m actually fine with it. I will tell anyone my story if they want to hear it and I will be honest and open. But I don’t do it for validation and I don’t need help. I got this, I know how to handle it and if I don’t I will figure it out.
Why do people not understand me and my self-coping?
I’m not nearly as brilliant as Robin Williams but like him, I am a Sad Clown. I wear a smile to conceal iron teeth. I’m not ok but I’m not bad either. I’m not happy but I can be and until then I can fake it with the best of them. I’m unsure and anxious about my future but good luck getting me to say it aloud.
What can I say? I’m fine and it works for me. If you don’t get it then that is a “you” problem.