2. How Are You? – Nora McInerny
H.Lyman Saÿen, Calligraphic #2 Woman on Chair (1914 - 1918) via Smithsonian
We’re all…not fine right now. We know that, right? Or, do we?
How are you?
A few weeks ago, no matter who asked, you’d have probably said “fine,” and then kept walking down the hall even if your world was fully falling apart on the inside.
We’re all…not fine right now. We know that, right? Or, do we?
My podcast, Terrible, Thanks for Asking came from a rejected book title and from an aspirational response to the question we ask and answer a million times a year without even thinking about it. A question we ask without intention and answer with white lies even when we are at our husband’s funeral.
An unnamed publisher (cough: HarperCollins) thought it was just too negative for a memoir about losing my husband to brain cancer.
In my household, which now includes a blended family of four children and a second husband, the only f-word in our house is fine. If I ask how you are, or how your day was, you can say anything but fine. That does mean we’ve gotten some “feedback” from the Lutheran preschool about our toddler’s language. And it also means that we’re a little more emotionally honest with one another.
– Nora McInerny
Prompt:
Put yourself in a moment where you were not fine. Maybe you were terrible, and maybe you were TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE. Put yourself back in that moment when you lied. Why did you do it? Whose feelings were you trying to save? Write what you wish you would have said, and imagine where that honest conversation could have led you.
Ann Kim
Location: San Francisco, CA
About: I am a debut author. The inspiration for these journal entries was the loneliness of life and the small comforts of home.
Age: 55
THE CASHIER
“How you doin’ today?” she asked. The name on her badge said Ivy.
Ivy smiled at me as she picked up the package of Pampers and passed it over the scanner.
“Great, thanks,” I said, smiling back.
Ivy continued smiling as her gaze drifted down to the baby nestled on my chest, sound asleep in his carrier. And then Ivy and I both turned our attention to the box of Dreft detergent making its way down the black rubber conveyer belt.
What I really wanted to say is: “I’m lonely.”
What I really wanted to say is: “I wake up every morning and kiss my husband good-bye as he heads off to work. And then I have a moment of panic because, for the next ten or twelve hours, it’s just me and my baby, home alone.”
What I really wanted to say is: “I know I should be grateful to have a healthy baby, and truly I am, but sometimes, I would give my last penny for someone to just sit with me and engage in five minutes of honest conversation.”
What I really wanted to say is: “I don’t know how it happens, but sometimes, the entire day goes by in a blur. I’m still in my pajamas. I haven’t showered. I haven’t brushed my teeth. Twelve hours have passed, and I’m exhausted, and I don’t know why.”
What I really wanted to say is: “I need human interaction. I need it like an addict needs a fix. The highlight of my day is coming here to Safeway and exchanging just two words with you, my favorite cashier, Ivy.”
What I really wanted to say is: “Life is short. Tell me your truth, and I’ll tell you mine.”
But I never did. I never said those words.
I think about those memories as I stand in a line ten-people deep with my half-gallon of organic milk and four-pack of Ultra-soft Charmin. I think about those memories as I watch you patiently explain to the exhausted young mother that her WIC benefits can’t be used to pay for Tide detergent or Clorox wipes. I think about those memories as the man in front of me absent-mindedly wipes his nose before handing you his ATM card. I think about those memories as you smile when you see me approach.
“How you doin’ today?” I ask.
Alyssa Swart
Location: New York, New York
About: I live in New York City with my dog, Chloe. This entry teases out my frequent use of the phrase "I'm fine," and tries to untangle my complicated relationship with my mother, whom I love very much.
Age: 32
I say the words “I’m fine” constantly. Incessantly. Usually spouted in the direction of my mother, exclusively after she says the words, “are you ok?” without meaning the sentiment behind the semantics. Our conversation has somehow gone astray, and I perceive a comment mired in insensitivity, criticism, or offensiveness. If I am direct, and bring it up, she’ll feign obliviousness, which makes me more infuriated.
Overall, when other people ask, “How are you?” I am comically candid. At my job, one I was profoundly grateful for, but in an industry I neither understood nor enjoyed, I used to respond with “not great.” I asked the coworker I was enamored with once, and he responded, “I’m grateful for the job, getting through the day,” and through sincerity, I found someone on a shared wavelength.
But honesty does not seem to work with my mother. She calls me oversensitive or says that she does not speak well. This just happened with my final class at Graduate School. I called her at 9:01 p.m., after class ended, surging with pride. She did not even say “Congratulations” – just some approximated relief that I was done, not acknowledging my hard work or the accomplishment of finishing the degree. She moved on within a minute and asked if I had looked at my medical insurance because I must have set up the auto-pay incorrectly. I felt my frustration ascending and immaturely asked if she could wait a day to nag me. The auto-pay was set up correctly.
Then, she launched into a story about her zoom meditation class, and their focus on seeking magic in the day. She told me she is learning to be more private, which I then find to be an irritating conclusion, as it seems against the spirit of the global communal takeaway following years of societally chosen isolation, and now months of forced isolation. It feels as though she is withholding her praise, so every utterance becomes a nuisance to me, both emotionally and physically, manifesting in repressed pain and a pinching sensation under my skull. I feel as though I am being unseen in real time, and any barbs that sputter out are just proof of life.
I suspect that she has some misplaced pride in her poor communication skills, confusing brusqueness for authenticity. Quite often, her meaning and diction have no overlap, and more than occasionally, her words are cruel. It grows exhausting to patiently tease out her meaning, excusing her disparaging queries, asides and reproaches with an assumption of befuddlement and good intent. Just try and do better. Any effort will be appreciated. Show the seams.
Quite recently, after I completed my Masters Project and she did not say any form of praise or pride, I honestly and explicitly told her the two sentences I needed her to say: 1) Congratulations! 2) I am proud of you. She replied with, “But you never get how great you are. Do you hear it this time? Do you really hear it?” It is difficult to hear what has not been spoken.
When I finally say, “I’m fine,” I want the conversation to end. I’ve tried to be honest; to confront the hurt feelings elicited by strewn-about words, and it elicits either criticism or self-deception. It no longer seems worth it to engage or be engaged. It feels like I’m building a sand castle right against the shoreline.
I need the conversation to end because I have already ended. Shut down. My “I’m fine” is a sad surrender.
I wish when I said, “I need you to congratulate me,” that she would have replied, “Congratulations! I am so proud of you. I hope you are, too.”
Then, I would have checked on my auto-pay and listened to tales of magic.
Anonymous
The second semester of my sophomore year of college, I had just moved into my sorority’s house, along with 29 other girls, many of which were in the member class above me. They had all been so tight-knit for almost two whole years, and here I was moving in with a random junior along with two friends I had essentially just met moving into a room on the third floor. Everyone loves living in “The Ville.” It’s a chance to be surrounded by 12 other houses of attractive, energetic, youthful college kids and essentially just mess around and get into sticky yet fun situations. I was just not in the point of my life to have that mindset.
First semester, I felt like I was on top of the world. I assimilated incredibly well into sorority culture and was feeling super confident and content with everything going on in my life. Towards the end of the semester, I cut things off with my boyfriend of almost a year and this spiraled into a painful back and forth where I didn’t know if I wanted him or not. This, combined with a depressing winter break (because when are breaks not depressing) culminated into a big big sad. It sucked. I couldn’t quite find myself despite having everything I could possibly want. Didn’t I want my freedom, after all?
I skipped class, hid in my room for full days, and would change my routes around campus if I saw someone I knew approaching. It felt so unlike me to completely shy away from any form of human interaction; my friends basically had to beg me to hang out with them, and still it felt so hard. I threw myself into school and fell back into old habits with Mike. We had some good memories during this time, like breaking into a classroom in the middle of the night and exploring nearby towns, but overshadowing it all was this sense of doom, a feeling that it would all be over soon. The freaky part is that it felt like it wasn’t actually me living these experiences, and I can only remember little bits and pieces, as if I’m watching the trailer to my own life. This weird gloomy feeling (I guess a psychologist would call it depression) trailed into the summer, as every day flowed into the next, a neverending stretch of nothingness. A dark cloud loomed over my head, but the funny part is that no one seems to have seen it except for me. Things that brought me joy felt so difficult. If you didn’t bother me, I could sleep until it was time for bed again. It scared me that no one thought I needed help, that I refused to even consider getting help.
Finally, around August, things started to feel more normal again. There wasn’t a specific breaking point, but I do remember looking around and realizing how damn lucky I was (and still am), and that I have the power to do good and feel good. I got a tattoo to commemorate that feeling. Around this time, I also gave myself the advice to see myself and treat myself the way that others see me. And wow, it seems like ridiculously cliche advance, but man did that mindset actually help.
Recruitment for my sorority began the first weekend back at school. A question that I got from every single potential new member was “Did you live in the house? How was it?” In simple terms, not fine. Bad. But clearly, I could never say that. And sure, there were some outside forces that contributed to my terribly isolating events, but a lot of it came from inside of me. I couldn’t blame anyone, not even myself, for what had happened, and at the end of the day, I am better from it all. So, every time the question came, without fail, my face lit up: “Living in the house was easily one of the best decisions I have ever made. I wouldn’t have traded that experience for the world.”
Brittney Book
Location: East Jordan, Michigan
About: I work in an emergency department while trying to isolate from my family and the world. I have 3 teenagers at home and an ex-husband, so keeping my potential infected body from them while trying to encourage them on a daily basis has been quite a chore.
Age: 47
I have been home a few days from my work as a Physician Assistant in the ER. Twelve days since the quarantine. I am sleeping like a baby because all my children are home. My oldest has been away but finally came home. Yesterday, playing football in the yard felt so normal. We grilled out and sat in the sun. I took my middle child and a friend up north to walk outside and climb on the ice. They seemed so happy to get out.
I had to have another talk with the middle child. She seems so angry about all this (she is a high school senior) and she is taking her frustration out on the family. She says that she does not feel her feelings are important. We told her they are. Heck, I feel alone in this mess of fear and “what-ifs”. I wish my parents had checked on me like that.
I am on an ethics committee at work. We are reviewing triage and who may potentially receive ventilators. This is not something I ever thought I would be doing. We have had our first deaths from COVID. My friend’s husband is on a ventilator, positive from Covid. We are bringing in a lot of supportive and palliative care for the impending deaths. We have decided against CPR or heroic measures on COVID positive patients. Ventilator ratios do not look good at this time.
The emotional heaviness of the pandemic is overwhelming. I am encouraged by the amazing dedication and compassion from staff. And I am trying to hold it together and be a good, caring provider while being holed up with my ex-husband and a bunch of teenagers who do NOT want to be here.
I heard the far off cry of sandhill cranes yesterday. They continue to come to our fields, lay eggs and give birth to babies. It is spring and they have no idea what is happening amongst the humans. They do know that the humans are less busy, less mobile. The cranes have more ground to roam on, cleaner air, and fresher water. Our chickens are hatching in a few days. I adore watching the mother hen with her babies. We also made syrup from gallons and gallons of maple water. Note to self : not worth the work.
Despite the horror of Covid, so thankful for the natural order of the Earth and the joy and calm that it brings.
Cebo Mtshemla
Location: South Africa
About: If there's anything I've learnt over the past couple months it is that I find great comfort in writing. The Isolation Journals project is the crux of this discovery and even lead to me starting a newsletter! Some days your fingers glide across the keyboard and it's a meditative process whilst other days it's percussive and aggressive as you let out built out steam. Either way, it's still a process I love and would love to share too.
Age: 18
ONE THOUSAND WAYS TO LIE
Over a coffee date with a good friend (before the world turned inside out) I told her that being away from home had improved my relationship with my mother greatly. That was a lie. It wasn't just a lie because "greatly" was a gross exaggeration, but because it simply was not true. I just didn't quite know it wasn't true until I had to come back home.
Being away from home gave me control. Literal control because I could choose red over green every time
my phone cried. And whenever I chose green it was to tell her I'll call later. Which, I'm sure you've
figured, was a lie too. Although these moments didn't feel particularly hostile and were only 'white lies',
they were patching up and disguising an even greater lie: that our relationship was fine.
I convinced myself it was fine because we weren't technically fighting. But how could we? We weren't
even engaging properly until a global crisis called for social distancing, bringing me closer to home and
closer to a feeling I avoided confronting for ages. A feeling I quite literally couldn't run away from. A
feeling that made me feel not-so-fine after all.
My white lies had reached their expiry date and so did hers. So...we told the truth. Then we yelled,
confronted, defended, and cried. Then we listened, hugged, sat in silence, and cried. Although I was
convinced that finding 1000 ways to lie to avoid a difficult conversation would be more comfortable than
having the difficult conversation itself; a post-difficult-conversation relationship is ultimately way more
comfortable than building up a wall that's strengthened by the insincere "I'm fine.”
Genelle Faulkner
Location: Boston, MA
About: I'm a 30 year old science teacher who lives in Boston, MA. I've been isolating in my apartment with no other souls. This entry was me processing how much more I lie in talking to Americans than I seemed to do in Jamaica.
Age: 30
Josie Colt
Location: Portland, ME
About: With this piece I wanted to remind myself and anyone else who needed to hear it that feeling weird is not proof of an internal flaw. Rather, simply being human is enough to feel weird sometimes (or all the time). Pandemic or no pandemic, raging hormones or no raging hormones, feeling weird is okay.
Age: 27
Nicki Judson
Location: Ashburton, New Zealand
About: I love to be creative, whether it be quilting, art or writing. I wrote my prompts from the deepest part of my heart and wasn't afraid to express my true feelings.
Age: 54
We automatically say we are “fine” when inside we really aren’t. This was one time when I wasn’t actually fine, but for the majority of the time I’m not anyway, who is? I chose to say “I’m fine” on this occasion because I thought you wouldn’t understand and anyway, you were just passing by. More than anything I was trying to save my feelings because what I was really feeling was total despair and angst. My heart was crying inside because I couldn’t do a darn thing about it, not medically anyway. You see I had just visited my step-dad in his dementia unit and spent some time with him as I usually do on a Tuesday evening. If I had chosen to say, “No, I’m not fine, this is how I feel” it would go something like this.
My step-dad smiled at me when I entered the unit. He was walking about in his pyjamas, walking aimlessly around the room. I walked up to him and gave him a huge hug and a kiss. He raised his eyebrows to me as he often does. I took his hand and we walked around the corridors past everybody’s bedrooms. Some doors were closed, others opened. When he reached the end of the corridor and saw the exit door, he tried to open it and silently he wondered why it wouldn’t open. I encouraged him to walk some more and we did. When he passed closed doors he wanted to open them and walk straight in. I had to guide him out of that person’s space. The door was closed for a reason, the occupant was lying on their bed sleeping. We wandered back to the lounge and I encouraged him to sit down and have his supper. A nurse aide put a clothed bib around his head. He was able to hold his own cup and enjoy his drinking chocolate. He devoured not one, but two sandwiches and a muffin. He always had a good appetite. After supper I left to go home and have my own dinner. After saying goodbye, another hug and kiss, he walked to the door with me and a nurse aide had to hold him back. I left the room and he did not. I walked out to my car trying to hold back tears, but they came anyway. I wanted him to go with me and never return, but my head was telling me he was in the best place. Walking away after each visit is the hardest thing. The man I knew and loved was no more and this shell of a man I now visit is someone new that will take a long time to accept.
I imagine that if I had said something you may have said your own parent was in such a unit and we could have discussed the heartbreak that is dementia together, but I will never know that because I said “I’m fine”.
My step-dad, Allan James Quigley, passed away on the evening of the 13th September 2019.