"I'm fine"
HOW being a caregiver can impact your own mental health
By Mary Park
(Joel Naren / Unsplash)
fine adjective
\ ˈfīn \
Definition of fine
1a: ALL RIGHT
//that's fine with me
b: well or healthy : not sick or injured
//feel fine
2: superior in kind, quality, or appearance : EXCELLENT
//a fine job
//a fine day
//fine wines
3: most common lie : not well or healthy
//I’m fine
I close my eyes, yet even still, the darkness isn’t enough to shut out the terror of the events unfolding below. Cramped and hiding together in the cloud of fear and soiled diapers, I tremble as screams and crashes overpower the deafening beating of my heart. Silent tears trace down my face as my dad’s violent rampage escalates. All the while, I whisper to myself, “It’s alright, it’s alright. It’s okay. Everything’s gonna be fine.”
At the age of ten, I’d already mastered the art of lying to myself. This is normal. There’s no perfect family; everyone has their own problems. This will work itself out. It’s okay. It could be worse. It’s fine.
13 years later:
Sirens blare as a squad of four police cars surround a small two-flat. Policemen surge into the bedroom where a young man is pinned under the weight of his brother. His mother nurses her face where she was struck, but the pain expressed on her face is for her eldest son. All the while, a young woman escapes the intensity of the room and waits outside, as if by physically removing herself from the scene, she could emotionally detach herself from the wave of emotions about to overtake her. She hides in the shadows, when in reality, she wants nothing more than to stop hiding what’s been going on.
Unaware, a family friend approaches her. Surprise flits across her face as she recognizes him, then struggles to quickly gain composure. Although concerned and confused, she does what she does best and automatically plasters on a smile.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yes, I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
Is a lie, a lie, if everyone knows it’s a lie? When did “I’m fine” come to mean “I’m not fine. And when did it become socially acceptable to allow ourselves to lie to ourselves and to others?
Isn’t it funny that we could be drowning in sadness, dying inside, desperately wanting for someone to look in and see the true state of our condition, yet when asked, the automatic response is “I’m fine”? It’s as if we can convince ourselves and others that if we say it enough, it’ll actually become true, that we’ll actually be fine. What may have originally started as light conversation starters giving way to deeper topics has turned into shallow greetings that keep others from truly connecting. “I’m fine” turns help away, keeps people at a distance, prevents too many questions, and allows secrets and lies to perpetuate. “I’m fine” has become a defense mechanism for many of us. An automatic reflex to deal with things in the moment without having to actually process what’s going on.
It’s the middle of the night when the scuffling noises continue in the dark.
Is that… No, Mary, don’t jump to conclusions. It’s alright. It’s probably coming from upstairs.
More thuds and stomping follow.
...Should I go che- No, you’re being paranoid again. They don’t do that anymore. Things are different now. You don’t have to keep being afraid every time anymore. Breathe.
The uneasiness doesn’t go away.
Okay. Breathe. You’re right, it’s probably nothing, but I’m going to go check anyway.
Fear and adrenaline shoot into my heart as I assess the scene. Chairs are overturned, glasses are thrown on the floor and blood is on their faces and hands. Both heaving, breathing loudly as I see them - fighting and wrestling as one holds the other in a headlock.
Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. How long have they been at this?
“Okay, stop.”
What would’ve happened if I didn’t wake up?
“Stop.”
Stay calm. How is this going to end? Mary, don’t freak out.
The younger one breaks free of the headlock and I walk in between them with my hands raised.
Am I gonna get hit?
“Stop.”
What if they hit me? What should I do if I get hit?
“Stop.”
Breathe. Don’t cry, Mary. It’s okay. Keep it together. Stay calm. It’s okay. Breathe.
“Stop.”
Breathe. Stay calm. Breathe.
The silence stretches. They lower their fists and their stance. I help clean them up and bandage their cuts. I stay up the rest of the night to make sure nothing happens.
The next morning, I’m late meeting up with a friend.
“Hey Mary, you okay?”
“Yea, I’m fine.”
Do you know, it’s okay to say you’re not fine. That’s something I literally say, to remind myself, “Mary, it’s okay if you’re not fine.” It’s okay to acknowledge that everything is not fine, that I’m not fine. But it doesn’t mean that I will never be fine, or that things will always be this way. It gives me the freedom to stop pretending.
It is utterly exhausting and draining to go about life as if you have everything under control. As caretakers, we unknowingly -or knowingly- place this burden, this standard upon ourselves. “If I’m not fine, how can I be there for him? If I break down, who’s going to take care of her? I need to be strong for them.” Acknowledging that I’m not fine, doesn’t make me inadequate or unqualified. It does not mean I am weak, if anything it means I’m strong enough to admit I’m weak without having to feel the need to prove myself. It makes me human.
It reminds me that I’m not a robot that can multitask and juggle a million things at a time without ever needing a break. It means I have feelings too, and that I need to take care of myself, especially if I’m going to be responsible and adequately take care of others. It’s the necessary brake pedal that slows you down before you crash and hurt yourself and others. In truth, acknowledging “I’m not fine” is necessary to start the process of going in the direction we desperately want to be. So next time you ask, or respond to, “how are you?” really consider before accepting the words, “I’m fine.”
This piece was written and shared during the IDONTMIND Writing Workshop. Learn more about our free, nine-week course and be the first to know about the next workshop here. Visit Mental Health Connecticut’s YouTube channel for a video version of Mary’s story.
Mary Park is a current Chicago teacher and enjoys working with youth.
