I'm Not Okay

I’m not okay

It is Tuesday.  I’ll be okay.
I woke up late.  I’ll be okay.
It is raining.  I’ll be okay.
The kids are playing in the bathroom.  I’ll be okay.
There’s water everywhere.  I’ll be okay.
I yell at the oldest child.  I’ll be okay.
She cries.  She’ll be okay.
I yell at the youngest child.  She’ll be okay.
She hides under her bed.  She’ll be okay.
The dishes are still in the sink.  I’ll be okay.
The laundry is still there.  I’ll be okay.
I stifle tears.  I’ll be okay.
I look at the wine.  I’ll be okay.
The oldest child’s room is a disaster.  I’ll be okay.
I lose my temper.  I’ll be okay.
The youngest child hides under her bed again.  She will be okay.
I send angry messages to him.  He will be okay.
I smash a good plate.  I’ll be okay.
I redline the van, hoping for a concrete wall.  I’ll be okay.  
I’m not okay.
They are not okay.
We are not okay.


I wrote this poem a few months ago.  I didn’t know how “not okay” I was.  I’ve read somewhere that getting help is a sign that you’ve been strong for too long.  I think I was already broken.  It took a long time for me to get help.  I look back and realize how broken and scared I was.  I’m okay now.  I really am okay now.