How It Feels To Be Invisible
One heartbreak away from going full hermit.
As part of my job, I host fundraising events. I’m the one working quietly behind the scenes, coordinating all the different components, and providing a structure and a plan to pull it all together.
I take pleasure in watching the guests enjoy themselves. Blissfully unaware of whatever drama may have unfolded that evening, of the quick-thinking fixes to ensure the event appears flawless.
My heart is warmed by their thanks and in knowing that my work has raised money and awareness for a cause I am passionate about.
I bask in the glow of a job well done. That my extreme organisational skills and attention to detail, have a useful outlet, as opposed to annoying others in my everyday world.
In my home life, this carries over, to the coordination of schedules, school runs and bags packed for Daddy’s house. Birthday parties, PE kits and football club. Ensuring everyone’s needs and wishes are catered for. That they get where they need to be with the stuff they need with them.
It’s not all that different to how I run events. There’s satisfaction in the order and structure. Maybe it feels safe too.
Because when I’m rushing around and juggling everything to attend to the needs of others, I have a purpose and a role to play.
But when the food has been eaten and the band is playing, there is that gap before the event needs to be cleared down and packed away. An hour or two when it runs itself and I’m free to put down my clipboard and take to the dance floor, or chat to the guests.
Here is where I struggle. I’m so used to being in the background, I don’t know how to be anything else anymore. Sure, I can easily speak in front of hundreds of people with a microphone in my hand, because I’m still in that professional role.
But to chat socially, to join in with the party, that, I don’t know how to do.
I place others centre stage and watch them shine, whilst I’ve found my safe place in the shadows.
It’s probably why I write. Because here I can be the star in my own story, here I have a voice. No one knows me, so I can say what’s in my heart. It’s not always pretty. It’s often sharing the painful parts of me, displaying my wounds for all to see. I am my most vulnerable when I write. I do not abide by manners and etiquette here; I am just real and it feels so free. Even knowing that I may be judged.
I seem to be invisible in the world now and have dedicated my life to the service of others. Partly because this is what I choose, I want to make a difference, I am filled with compassion and want to channel that into ways I can help people.
But I must admit that part of this is because I’m too afraid now of another rejection, critical analysis of my existence, and irritable response to whatever I appear to have done to annoy someone today. Or just being ignored, overlooked or talked over.
When you pack a bag and leave someone, but they don’t even notice, it leaves a scar.
When you find you’re just keeping the bed warm until the right one comes along. Another punch to the gut.
When someone leaves the room when you speak with passion.
When your best friend bails.
When you’ve been lied to, manipulated and cheated on.
When love is conditional.
I’m one heartbreak away from going full hermit.
And yet
Still, there is hope.
Despite the fact I can write a full six A4 size pages (both sides) on reasons why I am unlovable, I still yearn to be loved. Fully, completely, for all that I am. No conditions, no judgments on my worth, or doubts of my value. Just seen, appreciated and cherished.
I dream of a day when I can stop hiding behind my spreadsheets and pouring so much of myself into others, that I’m left empty and depleted. When I will be nourished and cared for myself.
But until then, the show must go on.
