Someone asks me, “Is everything okay?”
Bound and gagged, I hesitate searching for words. Fighting back tears tears welling at the corners, stinging my eyes like salt on an infected wound I think before I speak, gathering scraps of linear thought from my chaotic psychosis.
Imagine a wooden crate, 3×3. You are inside the crate. The wood is soaked with ocean water, as you float directionless in unsettled waters. You feel claustrophobic, yet swaddled at the same time. You are freezing goosebumps trick you, as you reactively brush at your head and neck, for it feels like ants are crawling down your spine. The wood splinters, and it feels like a million needles poking your arms. But you are immorally thankful for the pain, it reminds you that you are not dead yet. You are terrified that the saturated wood might crack. You’ll either drown or be attacked by sharks. Meanwhile, you hope the saturated wood cracks wide open. The waves induce vomiting. And the seasick hysteria feels like purging your worst traumas, and the ghosts are now inside the crate with you. The darkness in the box is a soothing blanket; however, you feel like someone blindfolded you and spun you in circles, so the black of the darkness makes you dizzy and confused. There is a small piece of light breaking through a knot in the lid of the crate. It reminds you that very little hope exists, yet it also taunts you that hope exists nonetheless. You hear seagulls and your gut sinks it reminds you of your childhood. Your innocence fading into the distance. A large wave hits and your head bleeds from the impact. You taste your metallic blood drip onto your dry lip and it reminds you of wine…it reminds you of the veiled pleasures with which one escapes life. You are homesick. You feel shamed with guilt. But mostly you are relieved you are happy you have disappeared. But then you wonder if you can trust your own judgment.
This is how I feel.
But, instead acting natural I respond, “Yes, I’m okay. Thank you for asking.”