The Invisible Girl

I said I'd do it, and I did.

A couple of weeks ago I saw my Cognitive Therapist for the first time. We talked through my session and the next, cancelled, one, and I pretty much just laid down backstory. 

Invisible

She was so very, perfectly analytical. Like me, she wonders why things work the way they do, and that's what I need - to figure our root causes and fix my old reactions to present stimulus. 

One word she used to describe how I must have felt, and perhaps how I must feel, was "invisible". It didn't strike me at first, but then I realized that it was the word.

Growing up with what was going on, I had no say over it. I had to do what I was told to, if not, I was forced to. My family ignored or destroyed every sign I gave them. When I screamed or attempted suicide or destroyed every piece of furniture in my room... I was being a rabblerouser and troublemaker. Nothing I said mattered. They still don't know me.

Spouses have been the same way. The first was my best friend, until he married me - the moment after he expected me to cook, clean, and go to bed while he fell asleep in front of the  TV like a good little wifey. The second, well, I told you about him - the big man, little woman, "you will listen to me" pedophile. And the third who, as an Aspy, doesn't get many lovey social cues, and gets so hyper-focused on his activities on the computer what I say often gets lost. I love this one, but, as much as I need my private space, it can be a lonely time.

You can't expect much from fans, either. It's yet another reason why I stepped out of the limelight. All the time they bypass who you are for what they think you are or what they want to see. Back in the mid '00s, it just made me feel worse. Now, after -this long- I pretty much shrug with the realization that every model puts themselves forward to be an object - a two dimensional picture and nothing more. We shouldn't expect fans to care about who we are. It's cynical, but honest. On the rare occasion that it happens, and it happens, is a nice exception. In the meantime, the art is about Me, not them, and that's how it'd have to be or I couldn't deal with it.

I suppose maybe it's my feelings of invisibility that's honed my strong sense of individuality. I can guarantee there's nobody else who looks like me. I've stood out since I could stand up to my parents. I have no genre, I don't get why anyone would, but pull from many; somehow I make it work, and somehow I find I'm disarming. *shrug* I have this strong artistic streak that can't be contained in paper, but maybe... (and I'll never change despite this thought, mind you) maybe it's also a need to be seen for once.

I still have this painful, painful need to be heard. I can tell my husband, I can tell my therapists, I  can tell my friend, I can tell this blog, I can even tell gamers who insist they know what's best, only to accuse me of "wearing PTSD like a badge of pride". It never satisfies. The pain that won't go away is the fact that my FAMILY, though they've heard, haven't paid attention, and won't act. It's like I never spoke at all. It's like I never put all of those years of time and effort and screams and tears into trying to make them hear. 

I need to let go of that somehow. Or something. They're not going to change. I just... don't see how I'll accept it.

As an aside, when I woke this morning, I was bombarded with visions of the family dog licking sperm from my brother's penis. That was the whole scene, over and over. He kept saying "Lick it" and "Aw, yeah", and his hand was grabbing my hair. Over and over, the short scene. 

Though there was no music in this scene, my mind instantly grabbed onto "Last Word". I found it odd, since it was used to counteract the Rod Stewart song he'd play to the strobe light during his sessions with us. ...but it worked. I'm glad it worked. I'm very glad it worked.

~DC

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Being Invisible

I’m tired of being ignored,

I’m tired of my voice not being heard.

I’m tired of always feeling tattered,

I’m tired of being told my opinions don’t matter. 

I’m tired of you cutting me off.

Like you don’t care about what I have to say,

Or you think you’ve predicted it either way.

I’m tired of being treated like I’m expendable,

As if I am so easily replaceable. 

At the end of the day,

What would you do without me?

Would you even notice,

Something that you never did see?

How do you recognize when something invisible,

Just disappears.

Can you?

Is it even possible?

It doesn’t sound plausible to me.

I’m tired of you criticizing the things I like,

And mocking the way I spend my time.  

I’m tired of you cutting me off,

And brushing me to the side.

I’m tired of being told my opinions don’t matter,

I’m tired of always feeling tattered.

I’m tired of my voice not being heard,

And frankly I’m tired of being ignored.

-Me [theseviolentdelightsxoxo]