the Story

Someone I know - let's call him Bob - told me a story not too long ago. A man that he knew, professionally and personally, committed suicide. Bob went on for a while about how shocking it was, how no one would have guessed or suspected it. He knew his friend was having a tough time, the business was doing poorly, he was loosing money. But still, Bob pondered, how do you get to a point of committing suicide and how does no one seem to notice along the way.

I listened to this story, nodding and making the appropriate sounds of agreement and sympathy. But, the whole time, I had the sense that this story was really about me. Anyone I know, professionally or personally, could end up telling this same story about me one of these days. "We knew it was tough for her," they'll all say, "but who would have suspected she'd do that."

I find it hard to believe in a way. It seems inconceivable. Someone had to have known Bob's friend was that close to the edge. Someone must have suspected. But I couldn't name a single person in my life that would suspect just how precariously close I am to the edge.

The answer is clear, of course. Bob's friend was invisible. Just like me. He must have lived his life with a mask, so maybe no one did see the real him. Maybe no one could have suspected because they didn't see him, didn't see what his life was really like, didn't recognize or acknowledge what he was struggling to live with.

I am invisible, and I am struggling every day, and I struggle alone, each day choosing to stay on the solid land of the cliff but wondering if tomorrow will be the day I jump. Bob's friend's story is my story. And if I do decide to jump one of these days they'll all say it's a shock, that they never would have imagined. I can picture Bob, talking to someone else, telling the story all over again, only next time it may be about me.

Devaluation

I have a tendency to give more than I really have, of my time and my heart and my energy. I know this is something I struggle with and haven't found a cure for. I don't want to tell people "no" and I don't want to let people down. So I do whatever people need me to do, regardless of the sacrifices I have to make for it.

Because of this, I have two jobs where I get paid very little and work 2 to 3 times more than I'm paid for. I know I should push back and say no. But it's hard for me. And I justify it by telling myself I'm doing good work and it's appreciated.

But it turns out that one of the side effects of being invisible is that people don't really appreciate what you do, no matter how much you do. Consequently, one of my jobs is questioning why they're even paying me the poverty level wage they pay me, despite the fact that they'd be paying others - people who aren't invisible and have back bones - probably twice as much for less work. Clearly there's a lack of value - in their minds - for what I do.

The struggle for me then becomes, do I work even harder for the pennies I get, to prove my worth? Do I continue to internalize it and feel worthless and un-valued? Do I continue to cry myself to sleep, sink deeper into depression, and increase my nightly alcohol intake?

How do I make myself visible, and prove my worth, without losing more of myself along the way?

And what is wrong with me that I can't seem to just say screw it all and work only what I'm paid for and then forget about it?

In the meantime, we continue to sink deeper into poverty while those around us put us in a position to have to spend more and more money we don't have...

Every day I am more convinced that the curse of the invisible woman is to be a play thing for the universe's sadistic games, and never to know peace, happiness, or love.

Will the real depression please stand up...

Someone I know has had a real string of bad luck. She really has had it rough. One thing after the other, relentless, bad luck. And everything from health to financial to car accidents and more financial issues. And through all of this she has sunken into this deep well of "oh, whoa is me."

She talks on and on about all the bad breaks, all the problems, and obsesses over it. She never sees the "bright sides," the ways in which it actually could be worse.

And she keeps talking about being depressed. How depressed she is because of all that has happened, all that is happening. And I don't doubt for a minute that she's having some situational depression. How could she not. But there seems to be a whole lot more self-pity than depression.

Someone else I know, who by all accounts has a really great life, put on her facebook page that she was depressed. It was quickly followed by a flurry of comments sympathizing and expressing well wishes.

I got to thinking about these easy, free wheeling, proclamations of depression. I have depression. Have been diagnosed by three doctors with chronic, clinical depression. And I'm quite certain it's something I began struggling with as a child. But I would never, do not ever, go around admitting my depression to anyone - not even my family - never mind the world via facebook.

It seems far more likely, to me, that someone with real depression would not go around talking about it, would not tell anyone who will listen, would not announce it to the world. People with depression suffer in silence. They're invisible in their disease. If you can so easily announce it and talk about it, than it seems like you probably don't really have it. Not clinically anyway.

I don't discount that people can feel very blue and depressed, can be down about events in their lives. But, in some ways, to freely label that as depression diminishes all that depression really is. It's not that easy to see in the light of day. It's not that easy to name and talk about. It's not something most people can wear on a down day like a brand new frock with the hopes of gaining attention from others.

Depression, in real life, is more likely invisible.

Scheduling Nightmares

Within my family, it's not so much an issue of invisibility as it is an issue of being irrelevant, I suppose. Whenever something has to be planned, it is my schedule and availability that is never considered. Even when I'm asked what dates I'm available, or what might not work for me, my schedule is ignored and dismissed in favor of everyone else's, every single time. This is an aspect of our family dynamic that I've come to accept and have learned to live with.

I hadn't realized before, how often this same thing happens with the other people in my life, outside of my family. A group of people I know are scheduling a day to get some work done on the school our kids go to. An email went out to the group of 10 parents, asking when we AREN'T available to do the project. I had only two Sundays for the whole summer that I was not available. And, of course, they scheduled for one of those Sundays.

In my dismay, I started thinking over other events we've tried to schedule, as a group and with different members of this group. More times than not, meetings and events have been scheduled on the days I expressed my own unavailability, and I've had to shuffle other things around to accommodate. Almost as many times, meetings and events have been rescheduled, but I didn't get the word until the very last minute.

This sudden opening of my eyes to yet another level of my invisibility sent me scouring over my date book. How many times had my schedule been overlooked, dismissed, disrespected in favor of everyone else? I won't depress myself or anyone else with an actual count... a lot is all we need to know.

I can't imagine what it is that makes my life any less valid, less important than anyone else's. I hope, through these observations and meanderings, that I will soon be able to figure it out. Not what makes my life less valid, for I believe wholeheartedly that I am important, my life is valid. But rather, I hope to understand how and why I manage to be rendered invisible so often and so easily.

Not a self-pity fest ...

I was re-reading my posts and wanted to make it clear that I did not choose to write this blog as a way to indulge in self-pity or moan and complain. This is a way to make one part of my reality in some way visible... to have my voice.

When I'm walking or driving around town I often look at all the pretty houses and well kept yards, and I think how lucky those people are to have what they have. How happy they must be behind those doors, with their families and comfort and peace.

But I don't know they're happy, any more than anyone realizes how unhappy I am. For all I know they are feeling some of the same things I am. For all I know they are just as invisible as me. I suspect that at least some of them are.

I suspect that we're becoming a community of invisible people, everyone living two lives - the happy, respectable, public life, and the messy private life. And each and everyone one of us are just fighting to keep it together, to keep the private life from falling apart completely while keeping it hidden from the rest of the world.

Or maybe it's just me.

When invisibility is forced on you...

I got a call today, from someone close to me who is always complaining about being poor and having a hard life. I get these calls from time to time, about how they can't make ends meet and the bills are piling up. And then the news that they bought some new toy... a Wii or a Kindle or who knows what.

And a blanket of invisibility falls over me. It seems to get thicker, heavier, more permanent with each of these conversations.

It's not that she doesn't know my own pitiful financial situation, which is in reality significantly worse than hers. I can't buy a t-shirt, never mind a Kindle. But it seems that with each of these calls, my own situation is minimized and dismissed, and I become more and more invisible.

I try not to allow myself to disappear, my voice to be silenced, by situations like these, by people like this in my life. But, somehow, it seems impossible and inevitable. How to I honor myself and the reality of my life when I am made insignificant and irrelevant? It's as though my issues don't matter as much, my life is not as important. So when I become over-shadowed my life seems to disappear, and I am invisible.

How to torture a travel addict

It's like a special kind of torture, when you're a travel addict forced to listen to everyone else's travel stories, everyone else's plans.

I was obliged, the other day, to politely listen to another parent as she gushed about their family travel plans for the next year. They had recently returned from a trip to China and were already planning a second trip there, about the same time next year. In the meantime, they were planning a Caribbean Cruise and maybe a quick trip to Europe. She went on and one, rightfully excited about the prospects.

I can't blame her really, or the many others who tell me about their travel plans, because they don't know the real me. For all they know I don't even like to travel. For all they know, I choose not to travel. How would they know that I crave travel, that sometimes I think I'm going to burst out of my skin if I can't manage to go somewhere soon, somewhere far away? How would they know that I'm so desperately poor I can't afford a trip to the beach for the day, never mind anywhere else?

A couple of days after I listened to this family's envy-inducing travel plans, one of my own family members called to tell me all about their plans for a family trip to Disney World. Though Disney is one of the last places on earth I care to go, it's still travel. And then my parents told me about all the places they are planning to go over the next year, including Hawaii and several locations in Europe. My family knows my passion for travel, or should, and should be aware that my failure to travel at this time is financially induced and not actually by choice. But they can't help telling me about all their own plans.

Chalk it up to a side effect of being invisible I suppose... Warning: Invisibility may cause extreme discomfort when faced with people who are able to live out your dreams and passions.