Glass Heart

This excerpt will contain themes such as self-harm and suicide, while addressing the role mental health plays in these. If you are or anyone you know has dealt with this, may this short story hopefully offer you hope in reaching out and never staying silent within your own mind. You are not alone. You are loved.

"I'm fine. Really! I'm fine." I gazed up from the book in my hand to my best friend sitting across from me. These two words were used all too often. To the mailman who noticed my shoes were on opposite feet. To my neighbor who couldn't help but call and tell me that I left my water bottle on the roof of my car. To the child who stared at me blankly, yet somehow began bawling—I guess my dark thoughts disturbed their innocent ones. To my dentist, who focused more on my puffy eyes than my inflamed gums. To the barista who gave me my fifth cup of espresso last Tuesday. It was commonplace for me to respond to them simply and most assuredly.

I'm fine.

After all, I went out every weekend. I received high praise, even a raise at my job. My dog had puppies that all found loving homes. The weather was beautiful in sunny Santa Monica. Even the air quality improved this past month. My life couldn't have been better.

I'm fine.

Suffice it to say, these words kept me hidden from further suspicion. Sure, the ones closest to me noticed when I didn't call, when I hadn't eaten in days, or when my room looked like a landfill of dirty clothes. However, the word "fine" comforted their concerns. It masked the truth behind the smell. The bruises. The hair loss. The dark circles. The laziness. The binge-eating. The binge-watching. The utter stagnancy of my life was never once more questioned or detected.

I'm fine.

The more I used these two words, the more invisible my pain and emptiness became. It started out as worry and had since progressed into apathy. Mom used to call me every day. Then, once a month. Now, complete silence. The world began to turn against me. Although I was not its enemy, I was also not its friend.

I'm fine.

The weirdest changes happened. My skin grew paler, almost crystal clear. Was I turning into glass? Other words replaced the silence in my mind: They don't love you. They feel sorry for you, for your pathetic life. You're a mess! They ask if you are okay, but they only do this to feel better about themselves. They distanced themselves from my lack—a cold to avoid catching. I felt unworthy of their affection, somewhat tainted by my depression.

I'm fine.

My friend never invited me to study at the library anymore. The mailman left my package at the end of the street the next day, never noticing I was right in front of him with my misplaced shoes and misshapen hair, reaching my hand out. My neighbor stopped reminding me about the water bottle I kept leaving on the roof of my car. Eventually, the world went on without me. Nothing stopped or slowed down except the beating of my glass heart.

I'm fine.

My skin turned from pale to glass. Everything I touched or imagined touching chipped away at me. Piece by piece, I deteriorated. How could they not hear me shatter beneath them? How could they not put me back together? Why did I care? This is what I wanted: for them to believe.

I'm fine.

I woke up fully invisible even to myself. I got dressed, showing nothing but the glass heart pumping shards into my veins. Oddly, that was all that was visibly left of me. I broke the mirror as I screamed from the searing pain in my lungs. I inhaled that shattered mirror, my final form into the earth.

I'm fine.

They had a funeral without my body. From afar, I watched them all stare at the machines lowering "me" down into the underground platform. My home of all homes. My soul, however, lingered above.

I'm fine.

Other spirits lingered, often taking the form of what destroyed them. Smokers were dark clouds floating on land. Free divers took the form of clear, blue water. Some had bullet-sized holes in their heads. Others had discoloration from overdosing. I tried talking to them, and their response was always the same: "I'm fine." I was trapped in a realm of hopeless liars seeking refuge. Ironically, we failed to find it.

I'm fine.

The saddest moments noted were men hovering over earth people, or as the spirits like to call them, "galaxy dwellers," seeking the breath they stole from themselves. Families' hearts glowed like red, grand rubies lighting our dark pathways with glimmers of hope. After a while, the people I once knew grew old. Yet I, I was preserved within the spaces between. Rubies faded to gray, being sold to the heavens. I carved on walls, recalling the regrets from the moment I took my last breath: the gaps of words left unsaid, feelings left unexpressed, actions left undone.

I'm fine.

I began to reflect on those moments when my pain misconstrued past images of compassion shown to me. I merely viewed it as pity. Lying to myself was what kept me trapped in a loop to garner sympathy without a commitment to heal. I was dead even before my cold arms bled out. They were there, seeing my cry for help, offering a hand to hold. But I rejected their compassion, never willing to admit to somebody, anybody, that I, in fact, am not fine.

I'm fine.

Alarms blared in my ears as I jolted awake. I was back. In my room. With the mirror. Shiny and unshattered. Body warm. Blanket cozy. Sunshine peeking. Dogs howling. Birds chirping. Neighbor calling. Mailman arriving. Best friend hugging. Babies smiling. Dentist cleaning. Heart beating. Ruby red blood.

I'm fine.

If ever there was a more appropriate time to appreciate life, it was now. The world had kept moving, and I moved with it.

I'm fine.

I am not fine, and some days are harder than others. I may wear my shoes on opposite feet. Or leave my water bottle in random places. Or make children bawl their eyes out. Or miss my mother's calls. Or wish to crawl into a realm in between realms, without a care. But I am alive, with galaxy dwellers who are willing to realize, accept, support, and appreciate how not fine I am.