Invisible ≠ Unworthy

A few months ago I wrote about something very vulnerable; sexual assault.  In the time since, Time magazine has named all of the whistleblower women, Person of the Year.  The shockwave of celebrities, politicians and CEO's who have been outed and dethroned has been almost unsurprising to watch unfold.  Of course these men are abusers of power.  Women knew it.  We all knew it.  This has been going on since the dawn of time.  The social construct of subservience by way of vagina was born with the first birth, bolstered by religious teachings and perpetuated by institutions.  

But this is not a post about misogyny. This is about feeling invisible.  Despite my own very personal experience of rape, I found myself minimizing it amidst the sea of female fists in the air rising up and saying, "Me too."  I am just one in a billion fists, therefore, not very significant and shut up about it already.  Societal messaging embalmed so deeply in my conscience, that I, am even shutting down my own voice.  

When I was very young, my parents were very young.  My brothers were very young.  For some reason, I felt as though I needed to be very old.  Indeed I was a very old soul and remain so today.  At 6 I dreamt of being 30, and at 37 I dream about being 90.  I remember changing diapers and doing dishes and worrying about having enough money for lunch that day.  I  would fret over asking for new shoes or jeans because mine were from Kmart and I simply couldn't stand another day hating myself.  But I knew what the answer would be and I didn't want to put my mother through the pain of having to say no so much.  I did ask, but I knew I'd have to settle for the cheaper things my heart wasn't after.  They were material asks, but it was worth I was looking for.  

I have struggled my entire 37 years to feel... seen.  To be really seen by someone who loves who I am despite my faults, fears and acne scars.  I was born with a German nose, terrible cystic acne, early breast development and a chubby round belly.  As if my shame of poverty wasn't enough, I also felt heinously ugly and fat by the 7th grade. When I turned 30, I decided that my body is what it is, and I could spend the rest of my life hating myself, or I could just learn to love the skin I was in.  The day of my 30th birthday, I felt no one could ruin it.  I was on cloud 9 and I didn't care what anyone thought or said.  I felt like I had finally come into my own.  That night, two friends and I dabbled along Bourbon St. in New Orleans.  I chose a gay bar where I got to judge a strip contest that my drunk friend decided to enter and make a complete ass of herself.  I still was delighted to be alive.  A gay gentleman danced with me and told me that I should wear more flattering dresses, and then I'd be adorable.  I couldn't be happier.  My drunk friend picked a fight with me and demanded to follow a tweaker around all night then blamed me for a horrible evening.  I still went home feeling alive for the first time.  For a while that feeling stayed with me.  

But as time has pressed on, despite my best efforts at self-help, years of therapy, 2.5 years of sobriety working a hard 12 step program, I remain; unchosen (by a man), unseen and terribly lonely.  Don't get me wrong, I've had moments of clarity where indeed I choose myself.  I have built the best life I know how where it is full of fun, laughter, wonderful friendships, travel and more hobbies than I have time for.  I outsource my most unbearable chores, work hard at my job and buy almost anything I need.  I want for nothing material.  However, inside I still feel like that kid who doesn't necessarily need LA Gears or Guess jeans; what I need is to be told I'm beautiful anyway.  That I can make Pro-Wings so cool the girls would be jealous.  I don't think I ever really knew what I was worth; because it certainly wasn't a pair of jeans.  

When I was assaulted at age 15, I had no one to tell.  No allies that I trusted and no sense of safe place to land.  This isn't about bashing my parents or their lack of tools available to them at the time; this is about finding out who I am in spite of that.  Today, I struggle so deeply with feeling loved and valued.  Every micromanaging boss, every man who doesn't seem interested, every lonely night I spend cuddling my tiny dog like she's my only friend; I feel... invisible.  Unloved.  Unworthy.  

Until recently, I believed that last one to be true.  Indeed, feeling unloved does not mean I am unworthy of love.  If I were the last human on earth, truly unloved by anyone, I would still be worthy of it.  The two are mutually exclusive.  I am worthy of being loved, because I am a child of the universe.  A purposefully created creature with a mind and a voice.  I was given hands and feet for good works and a brain sharp with wit and the intelligence of an autodidact.  Lately, I have been caregiving and running amok being of service to others.  In this space I am usually very happy and free.  Feeling useful and needed brings me immense joy.  Perhaps this is because, for a moment, I am not invisible.  Through the giving, I feel seen.  

Like so many other nights in my life, I lay crying, depleted.  Alone and cold on a blustery December night so near Christmas; I cry because my heart is just broken.  I still struggle with worthiness, and because of that I settle for boys who pay no mind, I dye my hair blue and yet obsessively wear camouflage  as if to say "Look at me!" but "I'll still remain invisible; here I'll do it for you."  I pray to a higher power that usually makes me feel loved and comforted and generally it's enough.  I have been blessed with so much I don't deserve and yet my soul is restless for change; for more.  I think the yearning has more to do with being able to stand in my own body and say, "Look at me. I am worthy."  Until that day, I remain in struggle and conflict with my own face; my own internal battle with acceptance.  

May you find your own worthiness, and feel loved and seen this winter holiday season.