Somedays, everyone stares at me. Once I counted seven double takes in one day.
Other days, nobody can hear me. Or maybe they just don’t listen. I fear it’s the latter.
I’ll point something out, like, “Hey, look at that pretty tree!!” – then, minutes later, somebody will say, “Have you seen that pretty tree?”
That’s when I have to try very, very hard to not start bawling.
It might seem like a huge overreaction, but it happens about fifteen times per day.
People stare straight through me. There’s nothing more frightening than looking into someone’s eyes, knowing that they’re not seeing you.
And I don’t have the confidence to say something six times, just to be heard.
Instead, I walk out.
Nobody cares – or perhaps they would, if they actually noticed.
I used to be likeable. I did have that.
Now, I’m invisible.
And I am nothing.