Invisible and Alive

Last night or early this morning I had a dream about my uncle. When I woke up and he was gone (again), I felt lost. Hours later, I still do. Then I had a dream that my teeth fell out. I’ve had this dream so many times that it doesn’t frighten me anymore. I sat there and collected the teeth in my hands, noticing I had more teeth here than I ever did in waking life. I went to the mirror to look at my empty black mouth, smiling earnestly to myself, and then I woke up. I looked out the window, and the snow was neon blue because the sky was still drowsy and the earth was not yet bright.

Sometimes I worry that I don’t know what my purpose is. I wonder if I’ll ever matter to someone, people other than my family and close friends, and then I wonder why that’s something I worry about. Working and studying in the academy, it sometimes feels like there’s an assumption or expectation that you want to or should do something that “matters,” in terms writing a meaningful book, an impactful article, a powerful lecture or conference presentation, or something like that. I’m only in the second year of my PhD program, but I feel pressure everywhere. Even the bricks in the buildings and sidewalks on campus seem to jostle against each other for a place to matter. We trip over them as we’re walking and hope no one sees.

The older I get, the more I want to move away from the dehydrating portions of ego that leave you shriveled and never satisfied with yourself. The way it feels when you have a session with a therapist who isn’t very good at their job and you pay the co-pay feeling hollow yet dutiful because you did something you were supposed to do. You “practiced” self-care. It’s the way it feels when you eat fast food and feel empty again an hour later, also hating yourself just a little. I daydream what it would be like to live invisibly and content with the knowing I did the best I could. I think it would feel something like living on a beach that doesn’t exist on the map, loving people whose love in return nourish your soul like the warmth of the color orange.

Social media isn’t real. Sometimes I feel insecure that I don’t have more followers on Instagram, but then I remember I don’t want strangers or people I don’t care about in my business. But I’m also just a girl who wants to be seen (?). (A girl? Yes? And do I want to be seen? Or do I just think I should want to be seen?) This is a world with an Internet, and staring at a screen for too long makes you start to question yourself. Am I living life as efficiently, as aesthetically pleasing, as influentially as I could be? Or rather, why should I?

How can I learn to enjoy the matter of me, and practice contentment in invisibility?

I look out the window again, and the snow is beginning to melt, the neon blue replaced with sparkling white.