I might smile and I might laugh, still, but that doesn't mean I'm fine.

I might make jokes, or share stories, but that doesn't mean I'm fine.

I might have good grades and lots of friends, but that doesn't mean I'm fine.

I might do well in sports and music, but that doesn't mean I'm fine.

I might have both my parents and all my relatives, but that doesn't mean I'm fine.

I might go out with a group of people on weekends but that doesn't mean I'm fine.

And even though people don't know these things, it doesn't mean I'm fine.

Just because my family has money, doesn't mean I'm fine.

Just because I'm neat and organized doesn't mean I'm fine.

Just because I smile and laugh, still, doesn't mean I'm fine.

Just because I seem okay, sane, alive on the outside does not mean I'm fine.

Three. Three therapists. I've had eight total.

Four. Four supposed, theoretical mental disorders. 

Five. Five people who I couldn't wait to see the next day. Three are gone now.

They think I'm insane. Unstable. Different. Weird. Odd.

And no matter how many times I would wash my hands or how high I would count, how often I would stutter or how much I worried and worried and worried, I thought it was conpletely, absolutely, positively natural.

No matter how many times I stood at the stove or lights or door, trying, wishing, waiting for it to be just right, just right.

No matter how many times I repeated a word or a whole sentence because it didn't flow or my voice cracked or my inflection was off.

No matter how many times I would erase those stupid upside down question marks because they didn't match the other one. 

I thought it was normal. No one told me otherwise.

And so one day, four years, eight months, six days ago when they did tell me, I crumpled. Died. Left. Wilted. Ended.

Broke.

It wasn't that fact that I was different, it was the fact that I realized I had zero control over what I was doing.

So I hid it, no more repeating words, no more checking, no more counting. Fit in, act natural.

Except I can't, I can't, I cant, I can't, I can't. Every bone in my body wants to repeate, needs to stutter, would kill to wash my hands one more time.

So when I frown, when I frown, when I go to the bathroom and come back with raw, red hands, when I count and count and count, count, count please ask me if I'm okay. Ask me how I'm doing, ask me if my parents are well and if I'm enjoying sports. What books, movies, shows, whatever, anything, anything, anything.

Because at the end of the day, when I've held back counting and washing and checking and thinking and crying, I really just need someone to ask me if I'm okay.

And it really is too bad I can't let anyone inside; it really is too bad that no matter what I'll just tell you, "I'm fine."