Invisible

 

Now that I’ve disappeared into the ethos of central mass, the sisters and brothers can dig even deeper into their illusions. I’m a piece of glass they don’t have to see. They’ve chosen their made-up memories of perfection now that there is no one to stand for what was true and honest.

Now that I’m invisible, their holidays are easier. Their pretend technicolor, three-dimensional, artificial world is stitched together by story and fable, by hopes and toxic positivity. Sisters don’t need to make space or time for this transparent version of me. This new me that they’ve never met, that they created out of desperation, denial and shame. Perfectly carved out and removed, cropped from the family picture. Left to be my see-through self, far away from the clan that insists we were something we never even tried to be.

Now that they can’t see me, I see them ever more clearly. Their pain and their hurts align with mine. I reflect that pain back at the empty spaces where sisters and brothers once stood. An echo of who they were.

Now that I’m invisible, I can begin to discover new, colorful, solid parts of myself. They’re scattered all around my life, some were hiding for nearly fifty years to be discovered. Little piles of me in corners and park benches, left to collect dust so many years ago.  I can choose which ones to take, which to leave, and which to burn to ash.

Now that I’m invisible, I can finally shed the weight of who I was and embrace the life I’ve painstakingly pieced together. A life filled with people who miss me when I’m not there. People who love me enough to tell me the truth, even when it stings. People who know the real stories and love me anyway.