How are you?
This is one of the most disingenuous, lie-provoking, overused sentences in the English language. How are you? We say it to fill time and pretend that we care about people whom we obviously don’t.
As no one is interested in actually knowing the answer, I have a series of pat answers I typically give. Snazzy. Fabulous. Wonderful. Delightful. Sparkly. Peaches and cream. You?
But the truth of the matter is, when someone asks how I am, even if they really wanted to know, it would make no difference, because really, I have no idea.
How am I?
If I really stopped to take inventory, I would likely tell you that I suck, thanks for asking. If I stopped to think about it, I would see all the disordered brain activity, I would notice all the bipolar symptoms popping out everywhere, I would become aware of how nasty it is to have to live in my brain.
Of course, that doesn’t really translate into how I am. How I am questions how I’m doing inside the endless quagmire, not so much the quagmire itself. Again, I’m quite sure I still suck.
I Don’t Know How I Am
I purposefully don’t pay attention to how I am. I’m crazy. I’m sick. I feel crazy. I feel sick. Pretty much every day. Best not to think about such things. While ignorance is far from bliss, it’s better than the alternative. It’s better than focusing on all the nasty bits of illness that I can’t seem to do anything about.
Thinking About How I Am Tends To Darken the Answer
I don’t think about it because even an emotional inventory will make me feel more ill. How am I? That question brings about a really negative and unfortunate list of things that I’m really trying not to think about. The question falls into the crevices bipolar has cut into my brain. You end up in the bottom of one of those, and we’ll have to send a team in after you.
How am I? I don’t want to know, and neither do you.
So, I’m fine. Stop bugging me.