I Am Okay, but I Am Not Good
The Echo of Digital Empathy
“Hey! How are you doing?” His WhatsApp dropped in just as I hit the lowest point of my feelings.
Feeling low — such a shallow term. It doesn’t capture the depth of this feeling. It’s like falling into an abyss with no bottom. You just fall. And keep falling.
The screen stays bright, showing another emotionless echo of digital empathy.
“Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not,” I typed. But I didn’t hit send. I just stared at the screen, watching a part of me scream for help.
But how could I be so vulnerable? So weak?
I’m a man. I can’t be this weak. I have to pick up the pieces on my own… alone… nobody needs to know this.
I erased my desperate confession. But The cursor still blinked, as if betraying me… letting the other side know that I was typing something.
But I’m falling. I can’t be strong anymore. I can’t handle this turmoil, this tornado wrecking everything inside me.
“I’m in so much pain,” I typed again. That was me — utterly disgraced, tired, dethroned from whatever peaceful state I had left. I wanted to vent, to let it all out.
He’ll laugh at you. No one wants to hear your cries. No one is really interested in someone else’s misery.
This is the social world — like Instagram. Everyone just wants something to chew on, a morsel of your pain for their gossip... No one actually cares. Your life has to be picture-perfect for the world to see.
Don’t cry. Just shut up. After all, you’re a man. Men don’t cry.
I erased my cries again.
But he’s my friend. He’s supposed to know what I’m going through. I need help. I’m breaking down. I need someone, something, to hold on to. At least something to stop me from free-falling.
The heart is a cruel thing, and heartbreak a butcher.
This little piece of shit in my chest is in pain. It screams like hell, ready to explode, wanting to spew every bit of poison just to breathe. It needs a shoulder.
“I need a hug,” I typed.
No! Damn it, no!
You’re fine. Get it together. Don’t be so pathetic.
Be a man. A little cuckold.
A real man doesn’t care about this throbbing thing inside his ribcage. Real men don’t show empathy or care for anyone else’s pain. So stop it. Just write,
“I’m okay.”
So I did. And sent that lie while plunging deeper, faster, into the darkest place… into the void.
“I’m okay” I hit the send button while keeping the extended part invisible … “…but I’m not good.”
I am Okay should really means I am not good; from now onward, as the synonym.
I knew what I should do to let the world know that I am Okay, but I am not good.
I posted a picture of me smiling in front of the Prague bridge on Instagram.
Duly checked that the filter hid everything — everything but my smile.
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