Don't ask.
"How are you?" is a greeting, not a question. People, in general, don't intend for you to spend time detailing your complaints or quandries when they ask you how you are. The response should be brief and pithy and preferably accompanied by a broad smile and a pert wave. I'm quite good at this. In fact, I often have myself convinced of the sincerity of my standard response to the standard American "how are you" greeting - FAAANTASTIC! AND YOU?
That's why I hate it when someone asks me how I am and they display genuine concern. The faintest glimmer of compassion in another person's eyes triggers some automatic, irreversible, unfathomably quick self-assessment that ends in tears. And suddenly I'm faced with the possibility that I'm not FAAANTASTIC!
I smiled at the white-haired doctor today. Dr. Smith. I had on sparkly green beaded bangles and a faux-diamond necklace and mascara, and if you had asked me insincerely and dispassionately how I felt I would have replied without a thought - FAAANTASTIC! YOU?
Dr. Smith asked several questions that doctors ask upon a patient's first visit. I haven't been to a doctor in a couple of years. Not since my insurance ran out after Fain was born. Now I have insurance again, and I felt a complete check-up was in order. And I felt that it was important to list any strange symptoms that I've had since the last time I saw a doctor - another Dr. Smith, but this one an African-American woman with braids and large hoop earrings. And I felt that it was equally important to be entirely honest in my answers as he cannot help me if he doesn't know what's wrong with me - if anything is wrong with me at all, which is a matter of some debate and subjectivity.
"Emotionally," he said with a kind smile, "How are you?"
"Oh," I laughed a little, "You know, sometimes I feel a little depressed. I guess sometimes I have problems with...anxiety...Nothing serious...I have a great sense of humor and that's how I deal..."
And at that point I burst into tears. I felt like a real jackass. And it occurred to me that I have a problem and I don't know what it is.
I guess that's all.
That's why I hate it when someone asks me how I am and they display genuine concern. The faintest glimmer of compassion in another person's eyes triggers some automatic, irreversible, unfathomably quick self-assessment that ends in tears. And suddenly I'm faced with the possibility that I'm not FAAANTASTIC!
I smiled at the white-haired doctor today. Dr. Smith. I had on sparkly green beaded bangles and a faux-diamond necklace and mascara, and if you had asked me insincerely and dispassionately how I felt I would have replied without a thought - FAAANTASTIC! YOU?
Dr. Smith asked several questions that doctors ask upon a patient's first visit. I haven't been to a doctor in a couple of years. Not since my insurance ran out after Fain was born. Now I have insurance again, and I felt a complete check-up was in order. And I felt that it was important to list any strange symptoms that I've had since the last time I saw a doctor - another Dr. Smith, but this one an African-American woman with braids and large hoop earrings. And I felt that it was equally important to be entirely honest in my answers as he cannot help me if he doesn't know what's wrong with me - if anything is wrong with me at all, which is a matter of some debate and subjectivity.
"Emotionally," he said with a kind smile, "How are you?"
"Oh," I laughed a little, "You know, sometimes I feel a little depressed. I guess sometimes I have problems with...anxiety...Nothing serious...I have a great sense of humor and that's how I deal..."
And at that point I burst into tears. I felt like a real jackass. And it occurred to me that I have a problem and I don't know what it is.
I guess that's all.
posted by Autumn at 10:47 PM
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