“Please write more,” he texted, and you know, it’s the internet.
I can read that that like he misses me and just wants more contact,
Or I can read that like a drowning man who needs me for guidance.
Nothing is really reliable in text, everything and anything is possible
And in my life of reading rejection into people that haven’t actually rejected me
I find it safer to just not guess
And do what he asks.

I’m in a weird place nowadays

The scars which have defined me have mostly, truly, honest-to-god, faded.
Which means I’m now in this open space, dancing, and I have to figure out what that means.

I mean…this is not a ballet body.

I’ve always been more of a slam dancer, belly dancer, pole dancer
And like every other form of dance, so much of it depends on the rhythm.
So many rhythms in this world.

And I have to choose which one I’m going to hear.

There’s so many, really,
From Indifference to Hatred to Love.
But that’s not really what this is about.

I’ve discovered a new form of damage which is super ironic.

In the past my damage was focused on “my feelings don’t matter,”
And a lot of that has really been resolved. My feelings DO matter.
In fact, if you’re reading this, they probably matter to YOU, which is nice.
It’s nice to know that people really DO care about how I feel,
That they don’t want me to hurt
That they enjoy my laughter or my insight.
Which is awesome…when suddenly this amazingly bizarre damage comes out of nowhere.

It tells me I don’t exist.

This is crazy, even to me. I KNOW that I exist.

One reason I know I exist is because I matter to you
that couldn’t happen if I didn’t exist, right?
But there’s this weird kind of doubt and sudden anger, even rage, that happens around
…Not being heard
…Not being seen
…Being ignored
…Not being given physical space
…Being spoken over
…Having my “No” disregarded
…Having my opinion glossed over….

You know, for a while I just thought that this was just part of being a woman.
I tried to tell my therapist that,
That being a woman is to constantly be tuned out, glossed over,
But she says it’s this deeper wound I’ve got.

I thought she was wrong.

But then I started looking at the things that infuriate me.
Having to repeat myself over and over
Being ignored when I’m standing RIGHT THERE
People expecting me to move when they’re inconveniencing me
just as much as I’m inconveniencing them
…(Why am *I* always expected to move?
…Why am I less important than the other person, always?)
Being interrupted
Being run over even when I protest
Being asked my opinion, and then having that opinion discounted as unimportant

and I want to scream,

“I’M RIGHT HERE! I’M RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU! CAN’T YOU SEE ME?
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

……But I’m not so sure I’d be heard.

I’m afraid I’ll find out I’m a ghost of some kind

That I’m really NOT here.

It’s crazy, I know. I can see my hands in front of me.
I require food and clothing, I work and work gets done.
I teach, and people learn. I smile and people smile back.

But sometimes, I wonder if I’m just deluding myself,
And I wonder if I’m even here.

My therapist says, “On a scale of one to ten, how stressful is the phrase, “I don’t exist?”

“Oh, it’s an eight,” I say…and I don’t understand how that can be
when I’m sitting right there
having a conversation.

This is new damage.

I don’t really understand it, but I know I’m feeling it, and like everything else
If I feel it, someone out there is feeling it too.

So if you wonder if you exist sometimes, I do too.
(I mean, I wonder if *I* exist, not if you do. I’m pretty sure you do.)
So you’re not alone or anything.

I can’t promise we’re not crazy, but I can promise

You’re not alone.

But I’m guessing that
if you ask me to write more, you must see me
so I must be here.