OMG. We had the same childhood. I was raised by angry alcoholics and there were four of us kids so I quickly perfected invisibility to an art form. I always made straight A’s so grades would never make me get in trouble. In fourth grade, my handwriting was so pale and tiny that the teacher told my mom she was worried about me lol. I completely relate to what you just wrote and all I can say is that I am glad that we are now, and our glorious middle age, living out loud—at least on Substack!
".....perfected invisibility to an art form" |||| THIS is 1200 words (at the least) you need write! I will even give you title: "Perfecting Invisibility." You're welcome.
To have a witness...being seen by those who love us is rare. Random club members in public, like the youth who offered to push my wheelchair through the cumbersome hospital doors, and then vanished. Mysteriously seen.
WOW I want to ditto everything you said and having the courage to say it. Your piece hit me particularly hard because I have internalized from childhood, through a long-suffering marriage, and reinforced throughout my corporate career--- that being seen is a problem. In fact, I find "being seen" to be unnerving. Every once in a while, my youngest daughter will give me a rather penetrating look and say: Are you okay? It's like not just being seen, but being seen through. It's like my deep cover is blown LOL! Of course she knows me pretty well and so she may be picking up on clues that others don't get. In any case, as an introvert-faking-extrovert, I feel like I've been going through life attempting to hide out in plain sight --while at the same time showing up for all those personas that I have either signed up for or been conscripted into. I could talk about this for hours haha/yikes --- but as that requires fermented beverages, and so as not to trifle with your time, one vignette may shed light on my whole cursed neurosis: My very first memory is... Shhhhhh! I was in a playpen and my mother came in all worried and communicated that my father was doing something (work?) and didn't want to hear me. Anyhow, I loved what you wrote! Thank you!
OMG. We had the same childhood. I was raised by angry alcoholics and there were four of us kids so I quickly perfected invisibility to an art form. I always made straight A’s so grades would never make me get in trouble. In fourth grade, my handwriting was so pale and tiny that the teacher told my mom she was worried about me lol. I completely relate to what you just wrote and all I can say is that I am glad that we are now, and our glorious middle age, living out loud—at least on Substack!
".....perfected invisibility to an art form" |||| THIS is 1200 words (at the least) you need write! I will even give you title: "Perfecting Invisibility." You're welcome.
I’m on it, boss!
!!!!
To have a witness...being seen by those who love us is rare. Random club members in public, like the youth who offered to push my wheelchair through the cumbersome hospital doors, and then vanished. Mysteriously seen.
I also love the words of Sherman Alexie.
WOW I want to ditto everything you said and having the courage to say it. Your piece hit me particularly hard because I have internalized from childhood, through a long-suffering marriage, and reinforced throughout my corporate career--- that being seen is a problem. In fact, I find "being seen" to be unnerving. Every once in a while, my youngest daughter will give me a rather penetrating look and say: Are you okay? It's like not just being seen, but being seen through. It's like my deep cover is blown LOL! Of course she knows me pretty well and so she may be picking up on clues that others don't get. In any case, as an introvert-faking-extrovert, I feel like I've been going through life attempting to hide out in plain sight --while at the same time showing up for all those personas that I have either signed up for or been conscripted into. I could talk about this for hours haha/yikes --- but as that requires fermented beverages, and so as not to trifle with your time, one vignette may shed light on my whole cursed neurosis: My very first memory is... Shhhhhh! I was in a playpen and my mother came in all worried and communicated that my father was doing something (work?) and didn't want to hear me. Anyhow, I loved what you wrote! Thank you!