The Weight of Being Unseen

It’s funny, isn’t it, how you can spend years trying to be seen by the people who are supposed to see you, and still feel like you’re standing in a room full of fog. My dad, especially. He’s always been…observant, in a way. Notices when the car needs a new tire, how much the electric bill is, the exact shade of grey the siding on the house is fading to. But *me*? Not so much. Not really. It's not that he doesn't care, I think. He just… doesn't quite *get* it.

I remember once, when I was probably twelve, showing him a drawing I’d done – a sprawling, messy thing of a field of sunflowers, all tilted towards the sun. He glanced at it, nodded, and said, “That’s nice, honey. You should probably clean up your desk.” It wasn’t malicious, just… a dismissal. Like it was another chore on the list. Like my feelings, or the time I spent trying to capture something beautiful, were just clutter. It’s a feeling I’ve carried around, a dull hum beneath the surface of everything.

It’s probably why I clung to books so fiercely. Not for escape, exactly, although there was a certain comfort in disappearing into someone else's world. It was more about recognition. Finding characters who felt like a mirror reflecting parts of myself I couldn’t articulate, or didn't even know existed. Stories that confirmed I wasn't entirely alone in feeling… this way.

There's a novel I read last year – I won't say which one, it doesn’t really matter – that hit me with this strange, visceral force. It’s about a man who feels utterly adrift, disconnected from his family and his own sense of purpose. The thing that got to me wasn’t the plot, or even the writing itself. It was the way the author captured the feeling of being fundamentally *misunderstood*. It was like someone had taken the static in my head and translated it into something tangible, something beautiful.

My mom tries, she really does. She'll ask about my day, listen intently, and offer platitudes about being myself and following my dreams. But it's a kind of support that feels distant, like she's cheering from the sidelines of a game she doesn't quite understand the rules of. It's a well-meaning, but ultimately hollow, acknowledgment. And maybe that’s the crux of it – the difference between being seen and just being acknowledged.

The writing, that's been different. That’s been a lifeline. The blog, the one I finally committed to using my real name for – it started small, just rambling thoughts about music, mostly. But writing about Phoebe Bridgers, and then having people actually *read* it, people outside of our town, outside of my immediate circle... that was the first time I felt like someone, somewhere, *got* it. The way I felt about those songs, the way they made me feel… someone else understood that too.

There’s a sense of… moral recognition, I think, that comes from that. Not in a judgmental way, but in a way of being acknowledged for the kind of person you are, for the things you value. It’s a feeling that's been missing from so much of my life. It's something you can't conjure out of thin air. It's something that has to be offered, and reciprocated.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the whole point. Not to wait for someone else to see you, to validate you, to tell you who you are. But to find that recognition within yourself, to build your own community, to create your own space where you are, unequivocally, seen. That’s what I'm trying to do, anyway. And for now, that’s enough.