The Manual They Never Gave You

How to Feel Fucking Okay

A step-by-step guide to surviving when everything inside you is broken

First, lie to yourself.

Not big lies.

Small ones.

The kind that fit in your mouth without choking.

I’m fine.

This doesn’t hurt that much.

I can handle it.

Fuck. You cannot. But say it anyway.

Second, teach your body to behave.

Tell it not to flinch when voices rise.

Tell it not to remember hands that left,

words that cut,

the way someone looked at you like you were already gone.

If it refuses, punish it with silence.

Bodies learn faster that way.

To feel okay,

confuse survival with strength.

Praise yourself for enduring things

you should have walked away from.

Call this growth.

Call it resilience.

Do not call it the fucking damage that it is.

Practice shrinking.

Shoulders in.

Voice lower.

Needs last.

Take up as little space as possible

so no one can accuse you of wanting too much.

Wanting anything, really.

If you start to feel something real,

grief, rage, the ugly kind of sadness,

interrupt it immediately.

Scroll.

Clean.

Laugh at a joke that isn’t funny.

Feeling is dangerous when it lasts longer than a moment.

Remember, okay does not mean happy.

Okay means functional.

Okay means you showed up.

Okay means no one noticed you were breaking

because you broke quietly,

like a good person.

Fuck quiet.

Eventually, you will mistake numb for safe.

This is the most important step.

Numb doesn’t scream.

Numb doesn’t ask why.

Numb doesn’t say this is fucked up

even when it is.

Final instruction:

when someone asks how you’re doing,

say okay and mean;

I am still here.

I am still breathing.

Please don’t ask anything else.

Please don’t notice the parts of me I buried

in the dark,

because they might crawl out and ruin everything.