In this great big ball of cosmic energy, in the scheme of fate’s grand design, in my plans to make it through the day or even my plan to make it out of my house and into my car, I am not okay.
Thinking back on my life, I can’t remember the last time I was okay. Truly okay. I mean, I always say, “I’m okay.”, “It’s okay.” and I know that you do too, but can you remember the last time you were truly okay?
It was probably when I was three or fours years old, running through our low-income complex, in Mary Janes and tights with ruffles on the butt, on my way to the playground. I can’t pinpoint a certain experience, or a specific date, but I know I was okay, because I don’t remember not being okay.
I am not okay. I have probably never been okay and probably never will be. I know I am not okay, because every time I think about something, fantasize about something, reminisce about something, it all comes back to me not being okay.
I am not okay.
I am a mess.
I am not okay.
You can’t expect me to be okay!
You can’t tell me it WILL be okay!
I am not okay, but that is okay!
I am now, raising a child that is not okay.
A child with will struggle with his mental health and autism, for the rest of his life.
He is not okay, but that is okay.
It isn’t something that we should be ashamed of.
It isn’t something that we should hide.
It isn’t something that we should be afraid to talk about.
We are not okay and that is okay.
[clickToTweet tweet=”You can’t expect me to be okay. I am not okay, but that is okay! #endthestigma #mentalhealth” quote=”You can’t expect me to be okay. I am not okay, but that is okay!” theme=”style1″]