I’m always fine.
I could have a bullet in my brain and bleed profusely from all facial orifices and still be absolutely and totally fine.
I know this because I have suffered a major setback that has had me curled up in the fetal position for most of the day, but once my mother in law comes in the door I’ll be absolutely fine.
I won’t breathe a word of how badly I feel, nor have I the past four days when I’ve had to battle intermittent vertigo and nausea – praying rather earnestly I wouldn’t vomit and/or pass out right in the midst of everything.
Such is my life. The only person/people who know how I really feel are my immediate “safe” people, my beloved family who gets all of me… good, bad and ugly.
I don’t mind showing my human side to them.
Everyone else gets Super Ginger. I’ll be there when people need me, and show up when I suspect they may want me, and I’ll never utter one complaint in how I feel.
It walks the line somewhere between people pleasing and a steadfast refusal to demonstrate any weakness whatsoever.
I can’t be weak. I can’t need anyone.
The flip-side of that coin is that I feel totally weak, that I need everyone. And because I can’t say how much, I continually let down by people who go on about their life without sensing how much I may need them.
So I go on, heartbroken, sad, sick, in pain both inside and out and no one ever notices.
Because I’m fine.