The Wall

There are nights when I just want someone to ask me how I’m really doing and then be able to tolerate the real answer. Not the efficient answer. Not the polite one. Not the one that keeps the room comfortable. The real one is messy and repetitive and dark and sometimes embarrassingly unchanged. The real one admits that I’m still lonely in ways people can’t fix. Still angry in ways they can’t soothe. Still tired in ways sleep doesn’t touch. But most people don’t want that. Not because they’re bad. Because it’s a lot. Because they have their own lives. Because grief this heavy doesn’t make for tidy conversation. So I say I’m hanging in there. I say I’m doing okay. I say the kids are fine. I say work is busy. Meanwhile the actual answer is usually something like: I am performing stability on top of an underground fire. That just doesn’t fit great between appetizers and small talk.