Dear Diary,
I'm fine.
I'm fine.
No, really, I'm okay.
No, I promise I'm okay.
I must have repeated those four phrases a hundred times a day since the night everything changed.
And you know what?
I am utterly exhausted. I am sick and tired of pretending everything is alright, and I'm the picture of resilience.
I'm fatigued from putting on this façade for everyone I know, like a mask I wear to hide my pain.
I'm weary of feeling sick and tired.
Why do people insist on asking if you're okay after a tragedy?
I'm not okay.
I'm not okay.
No, really, I'm not okay.
I am so very not okay.
I promise—I'm not okay.
How in the world can I be okay?
How will I ever find a way to be okay?
The center of my universe has been ripped away, and it's all my fault! They were driving that fateful night because of me. I can't shake the feeling that I'm responsible for their deaths; it weighs on me like an anchor. All this is because I can't handle my problems like an adult.
What am I supposed to do now that they're gone?
I feel shattered and lost without them.
Each morning, I wake up to the crushing realization that they aren't here anymore, and the urge to break down and weep swells within me.
My parents are dead—how could I possibly be okay?
Whenever I hear that infuriating question, I fight the impulse to scream.
Why do people even ask that?
And what is the answer they're seeking?
Your parents are gone. Are you okay? Two loving people who devoted their lives to me died in a horrific accident because they rushed to my side after a foolish argument with my boyfriend. An event that I somehow walked away from unscathed. Oh, and by the way, are you okay, Elena?
Elena?
Elena?
'Elena? Where are you? Put your diary down and come downstairs.'
'Ok, Aunt Jenna.'
'Are you okay?'
'I'm fine.'