The tale of the invisible woman

We are all born to be the lead performers of our lives. But somehow, as time goes by, I realized I am just an extra, with few lines, no real plot, a blurred shadow in the background of life’s mise en scene, and that’s how it has been for decades.

It started from the get-go. An only child from a broken home. Fruit of two humans who shouldn’t have met nor procreated. The never-ending sense of inadequacy. They’ve tried to love me in their flawed way. It never suited me well. I never belong. Not then and not now.

Next, it started the weight problem. I was supposed to fit a beauty profile (white, blue eyes, “this baby could be on the cover of a magazine”) and from cute to chubby and from chubby to fat, I already felt like failing on the first (and major and forever) test of how to be a proper woman. No matter how good my grades were, how meek and polite I behaved, I was already damaged goods.

And as I grew up, things never got better. I don’t get picked up. Always last in line. Never loved. I grew shier, more closeted inside my own mind; where nobody would really hurt me. I isolated myself more and more. It seemed easier but in reality, it was just sadder. And one day I became invisible.

In my 20’s I read in a book: “If I can be beautiful, I want to be invisible”. That was my motto for so long that I even wanted to tattoo it on my skin. Now, in my 40’s, I don’t even need that anymore. I walk on the streets aware nobody can see me for real.

I am the old fat woman, in demure clothes, ugly hair, sad eyes, and head always down. I walk and nobody sees me. I live and nobody notices me. I merely exist and every single person stopped caring about me.

I am the one planning my exit for a while, who decided to write everything down so I can be a little less invisible before I really disappear completely.