How Are You?

Alone and trying to find my way through the unknown, I've discovered that a tiny little question can begin my undoing.

It's an inert way to open a conversation, for instance when you meet for a coffee, “How are you?” When I’m sent a message by someone who wants to check-in, I believe they genuinely want to know, “How am I?” But this little act of connection seems to catch me now, like the broken wire fence around the field where I was walking recently. The bent wire tore a hole in my winter coat, and the three words, “How are you” now hook me too. They rip my fabric because I cannot answer them truthfully. It’s the simplest of questions. How am I? The truth is, I simply don't know.

Sent from good intent, this tiny question leaves me feeling inadequate. I should know this; I should be able to answer this one. But I've lost my compass, inside my body is numb, my inner domain is either mute or a mess. There's nothing to get hold of to make an answer. How can I express that complexity before we’ve even taken a sip of our drinks.

After 52 days without Mark I can no longer cope with my enormous loss at all times. Sometimes I cope, sometimes I don’t. The accumulated answers from my oscillating inner void are both intensely deep and frighteningly fine. When you say, “How are you?” I hear, “How are you coping?” Am I surviving this? How was today? Why did I have to live another day alone? How are the kids? Can I find the capacity to care for my children this afternoon, and forever more? How are you doing? Will I ever conceive a good life again?

And so, I leave the little question unanswered. I find it easier to respond that way. Nothing is as good as it’s going to get, for now, from me.

I've also become resentful of the thoughtless waste in these small words. If I have found the capacity to mine for an answer, I long for my essence to be used well - how I am needs help to get out of its dark hole. Don't leave me here. Don't let my feelings slip through your fingers. Please don't let me go down the plughole with the discards of your discomfort, like an exploited resource. If you’re going to ask it of me, listen for a truth underneath my exploration. The answer we find together might be more useful than the one I found alone.

This little question has become dust around my heart, diminishing my light; my truth wants a clean home. Each time the words politely arrive more particles are added to the loss of my shine. Perhaps I should not take them so seriously, but I’ve become allergic to their otherwise harmless cinder. When a few months ago I could tolerate them, now they’re part of an unendurable mass. Can't you see it? It feels obvious to me. I don't want to answer because any response would point at my flawed existence; it would be easier for me if you didn't ask; try looking or guessing instead; come pay attention to my mess for a while; let me know what you feel; listen with your heart; let me be freshly seen.

I wish this resentful estuary wasn't growing within me, but it is. My feelings are settling still, grief is depositing its impact throughout the ocean of my being. I see that my currents could cause rifts between us, but I haven't the energy to turn the tides today. I probably won’t be able to do it tomorrow either. There will be a day to come when my waters will be shallow, we will be warm again, and I will feel kinder towards myself. We will cross to meet each other. I hope that you will see what it's been like for me to forge a new life for us on this island, alone. But for now, just know, there's no way I can respond to the question, “How are you?”. Instead, please forgive me. I want to know, “How are you?”