I'm Not Okay

"I'm okay. Really, I am." That's what I tell everyone; I know it's a lie. I know I'm not okay. I know I'm empty, I just can't admit it.

   It's hard, sitting here in class, trying to live like there's nothing wrong. I blink so much to keep the tears at bay, most of the time I'm unsuccessful. I wonder if anyone notices -- but I doubt it, something as worthless as me.

   I look around my classroom; everyone is working, slacking off, etc. I see people playing video games, others trying to focus on our Spanish essay. What am I doing? Neither. I can't concentrate; I know that a big portion of my grade is on the line for this essay, yet I can't bring myself to try to connect to the internet and find the information I need to complete this task.

   My right wrist hurts for some unknown reason; I can't lift my arm over my head, seeing as it hurts too much. I can't put too much weight on my left foot, either, because for some reason it's in pain. When did I get these injuries? Playing Basketball, writing too much?

   It's hard to keep my eyes open; I've been getting little sleep lately. There's always this stinging sensation in them -- I know that the tears are just minutes away.

   "Trabaja," Sr. Alvarez demands in that monotone voice of his. "No hablas."

   I know it wasn't directed to me; I haven't opened my mouth very much during the hour in this class. And what I did say, it was a strained whisper.

   I look around the classroom once again. This place is torture. Why are Sari Jane and Jessica so happy when I'm so sad, so empty? Why are Eric and Jorge such bullies, snickering and talking in low tones, their subjects of conversation far beyond rated R?

   Mariana is in front of me. I can't bring myself to trust her, anyone, anymore. She's working dutifully on her essay, and I'm hesitant to ask her for help.

   Rosie is next to me, quietly working, snapping under Alan's comments.

   Charles is in the table by the door, working on his pamphlets. Why does he try to be funny, when it's obviously not appreciated? Why does he try to be so liked, when he's obviously not?

Why is Charles, of all people, so happy?  Everyone likes to insult him, yet he shrugs it off. Why? Why can't I be like that, the boy I so hate?

   Why am I subject to this numbness, anyway? Can't I be like Sari Jane or Jessica? The girls who are so happy they will fight brutally one day on a subject that seems so important, and the very next day they'll be laughing, as if they never fought at all?

   What makes me so different from everyone else? What gives Eric the right to throw crunched up pieces of paper at me, with crude drawings on them just for my eyes? What gives Charles the right to ask me what's it like to be the person like me, just to get a laugh? What gives Jorge the right to snicker and exchange whispered comments at any mistakes I happen to make?

   Am I the bitter, "Emo freak" Eric says I am?

   I know I am bitter, I know I am withdrawn. I know people dislike me for being an "outcast", for openly admitting I hate my class.

   I sometimes wish I was homeschooled; I bet the expectations my parents have of me would lower, knowing that I can't please them as much as they'd originally hoped for. I would be away from those who like to cause harm, to mentally torture me with no effort at all.

   Isolation is a much better solution than staying here to endure this torture.

   I have ten more minutes left in this class. I am thankful for that; I feel the deadweight on my shoulders, inside me, on my mind, is too much to bear. I just want to call my mom to pick me up early, but I know I won’t be able explain myself, as much as I want to tell her, no matter how understanding she tries to be.

  I know that instead I'll run to the bathroom, or to the library, with my book, The Audacity Of Hope, by Barack Obama -- our new president -- and hide in a corner to read, away from everything.

   I know Mrs. Eiffert wants me to come to her classroom, along with other students, to redo some homework. I don't want to; I've never been on good terms with numbers, and now, with my concentration so scarce, it's just pointless to even attempt Algebra problems.

   So why do I even try, when it’s so pointless? Why do I try again and again, to do the things I’m worthless at, just for approval?

   The bell has rung. I get up and close my laptop, sluggishly packing my stuff. In the end, I do go to Mrs. Eiffert’s class, contrary to my plans for lunch.

   It’s so hard to concentrate on Algebra, when I just want to be tucked in a little corner, docilely eating my Lucky Charms™, as I don’t have the stomach to eat anything else, reading the Audacity of Hope, or maybe catching up on my sleep someplace quiet.

   Everyone is telling jokes in the class, as if they don’t mind getting held back for lunch to do homework with a teacher the most certainly hate. I wonder why everyone is so smiley all the time, so able to tell jokes and have a laugh.

   I regret coming. I wish I hadn’t brought my backpack, only my notebook. I could have gotten out of here, only leaving a stupid notebook filled with numbers.

   I repeatedly wish that I had my friends with me, the only people these days that put a true smile on my face, without having to fall down a flight of stairs or cause physical harm to one another. Not these people, who on occasion seem nice, but they are often nothing but jerks.

   I glance at the clock for the fifth time. It’s 12:30. Lunch is over. Usually, I would sigh and reluctantly and go to my classes, but today I immediately jumped up, looking as casual as I could.

   “Look at her; she’s rushing to the door! Are you sick of me already, Becky?” Mrs. Eiffert joked.

   I tried to smile as I turned to her. I know it turned out a bit shakey, seeing as that was more true than funny.

   As always, once the bell for lunch sounded, I would always be looking at a wall clock, hoping for classes to end quickly. It never happened; classes dragged on for so long each day, that it seemed impossible that each subject was only an hour each.

   I keep my mouth shut at all times, my gaze down, my mind elsewhere as the teachers spoke. Sometimes I would try to take notes, but it’s just too hard to concentrate lately. I imagine ideas for poems and stories. I imagine alternate lives. I imagine the future, wondering if it will be as bleak as today.

   I lie in bed at night, wondering if the next day will be as dull as the one before it. I wonder if people will ask, “Are you okay?” I wonder if I’ll respond as always, “I’m fine,” even though it’s evident I’m lying, by the crack in my voice to the significant withdrawal I have afterwards.

   As I drift to a dreamless sleep, a scenario passes through my mind. It’s chilling and scary, but I don’t dwell on it, because I’m already asleep. I don’t remember it the next day, which happens to be one as bleak as the previous, and continue on with my life, trying to keep up a crumbling façade.

“Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not.”

Author's Note

I don't know what to think of this, in all honesty. Give me some insight, will you?

Reviews

[Claudia]

....BENNYYYY!!!! *tackles and hugs*

I felt like crying after reading this...oh god... *hugs a bunch of times*

Luv ya benny! ^_^