I am okay!
I don't see a psychiatrist, I'm okay.
I don't need a psychologist, I'm okay.

I don't have seasonal affective disorder. I'm just sad, when it's February and I'm freezing and I'm hungry and I can't get out of bed. I'm okay.

I'm not depressed! My mother, sister one, and sister two are, but it's not like the depression is something that's passed on in genes as well as memes! I'm okay.

The selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors that stopped my mother from killing both of us may explain my brain, but I'm okay.

I don't have ******* anger issues! My dad clearing his second-grade classroom, the bend stop sign on the corner of Sewall and Winthrop, and these scars on my knuckles have nothing to do with each other. I'm okay.

I don't have "real" PTSD. I just can't drive down monument street without smelling gunpowder and iron. Seeing red rain. Hearing the echo of my own voice "I didn't sign up for this". I'm okay.

I said I don't have "real" PTSD. It's normal to have nightmares. It's normal to wake up in a cold sweat, to still hear that mother's scream, to feel my chest pounding, retaliation for the compressions I withdrew from her little boy. I am okay.

"You are okay, the first few are rough but you get over it." I am okay, I got over it.

My grades were slipping, I don't need a psychologist, but I went anyway. He said I did have PTSD, but he's a quack and I never went back. I'm okay.

Standing in front of the mirror I see gross, unattractive, overweight, weak. But body image is only a problem for women, and toxic masculinity forces me to say, I'm okay.

I've loved you the longest and the deepest. You've broken me more times than I can count, but the scores still even. Yet the fact that you love that Rhianna song makes me question our choices and you always hear the cracks when I say I'm okay.

I've loved you for what feels like a second, like the second before a car crash, an explosion, a first kiss, a second that feels like an eternity. I want it to last for an eternity. Meanwhile, the implications of my considerations cloud my brain and I barely hear you. Yea, I'm okay.

I don't have anxiety, I know where you both are, who you're both with. I know my friends are busy people too. I shouldn't think you have all moved on, moved up. Except nobody could possibly stand my passive-aggressive *******, chaotic childish antics, or ridiculously terrible writings for long. So I understand, I'm okay.

I'm okay.
I'm okay!
I'm okay. Question mark?