I’m afraid of disappearing.
In my 21 years of living, sometimes I feel just a few moments away from ceasing to exist.
I don’t mean in the physical sense — although I’ve also been contemplating my mortality a lot lately. Often, it has felt like I was so close to slipping out of the hearts and minds of those around me.
Despite the confidence I’ve gained, there’s always been a part of me that’s maintained insecurities fostered by a childhood riddled with low self-esteem. I couldn’t seem to escape the fear that I was going to be forgotten or overlooked.
That part of me has persisted while I’ve been in college. It has ached when my friends spent more time with others than with me, when they went alone to events we used to attend together, when I received a pity invite to plans I wasn’t originally a part of.
Hearing “You can come too if you want” sent the little girl in me down a bottomless pit that ended with me alone under the covers with a box of issues.
In large social gatherings, I usually waited patiently for my more outgoing companions to loop me into the conversation, or until I felt confident enough to speak or contribute.
At parties, I really felt myself slipping away, fading more and more into the background. I watched scenes unfold as if I were on the other side of the invisible camera that filmed my life.
Everyone I told about these feelings advised me to confront them, to open up and talk about what I was experiencing. As someone who feels very deeply and very often, I’m usually not one to shy away from hard conversations.
However, I just couldn’t bring myself to speak out. In my mind, telling my friends was admitting that I felt inferior and implying they did something wrong when the problem was inside my head. As a result, I spent so long either avoiding acknowledging that this part of me existed or shaming myself for feeling the way I did.
I knew people cared about me, so why was my mind insisting that I’m forgettable?
Maybe that part of me felt I needed to earn the love I received. Perhaps I was still waiting to be cool enough to not care about how people treat me compared to others. Maybe I was just jealous.
Or maybe I was just not ready to admit it could be all my fault. That I focused too much on my grades, my future or my relationship, that I gradually slipped further and further away due to my own inactivity in my friends’ lives.
I wouldn’t trade my grades or what I’ve accomplished academically or professionally, but a part of me will always wonder if I wouldn’t have felt so left out had I socialized more, went to more events or opted for more hang out sessions to break up the hours I spent writing and reading at my desk.
Suddenly, the truth appeared right in front of me: disappearing is not just something that happens to you or that other people inflict upon you; it’s also something you do to yourself.
Visibility and connection are nothing without communication. I’ve wanted to believe that I’ve tried my best to make people feel seen, heard, loved and appreciated the same as I’d like to be. But as much as it hurts to admit, I probably made other people feel like they were disappearing too, and that’s something I should’ve worked harder to acknowledge.
My instinct has always been to withdraw when I feel uncomfortable or unwanted, and if I could go back, I would tell myself not to retreat or make myself small. Nine times out of 10, if I had dared to communicate my complicated feelings, it could have prevented a lot of disappearing across the board.
Outside of my inner circle, I’ve had to learn to assert my presence in other areas.
As I’m sure current editors at The Scout could tell you — I tell this story way too often — I definitely felt like I disappeared here my freshman year. As a first-year student and copy editor navigating the minefield of my mind and reaching for the 4.0 that I’ve worked hard to maintain to this day, I kept mostly to myself.
For the most part, I wrote my articles, acknowledged the feedback I was given, spent my obligatory few hours in the office every Thursday and went home. I yearned so often just to hear “Good job,” and I felt inconsequential when I heard only a polite sequence of “Goodbyes” as I walked out the door each week.
To this day, I’ve been the only Black woman on staff in the past four years, and maybe that played a role in my disappearance too.
Sophomore year also came and went, with both subtle and not-so-subtle changes. I engaged a little more, got to know more about my coworkers and gained confidence when I felt myself growing as voice editor. I still spent nights in the office, holed up in the corner next to the archives, but nevertheless.
At the end of that term, I became managing editor, and that’s when things really changed. I couldn’t disappear anymore. I had a staff to lead. I became needed and important. Remembered. I was one of two people whom editors went to when they had a question or needed an email sent out.
I alternated being the last eye on articles in every section, and I was often the last person to close the office door after each hilarious but diligent night of editing.
I watched from in front of the camera as I hired new staff members and got acquainted with everyone that crossed the threshold of Sisson 319.
Being a leader has stoked my confidence, made me a better communicator and certainly forced me to get comfortable being uncomfortable. I’ve also won three ICPA awards.
Among other things, working at The Scout became a way for me to feel seen, and none of my success here would have been possible had I let myself remain invisible.
Things were a little easier in the classroom, at least where academics were concerned. Not to toot my own horn, but it didn’t take much for me to stand out in this arena. I’ve worked hard for the accolades I’ve received, and as a Black woman at a predominantly white institution, nothing has affirmed me more than hearing praise and support from faculty in the English department.
Around my peers, though, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sometimes feel intimidated being one of or the only Black faces in the room. It’s the feeling of knowing your cultural experiences won’t be understood or relatable, and that alone can make you feel like you’ve disappeared.
Thankfully, this is something I try not to concern myself with anymore. There will still be people who are willing to listen and learn. Not to mention that Black women have always had to work 10 times as hard as everyone else, and I don’t plan on stopping anytime soon.
All in all, the past four years have challenged me in ways I could have never predicted. I’m nowhere close to being the same person I was at 18 that I am now at almost 22. Having so many opportunities, connections and obstacles has forced me to confront my deepest fears and insecurities.
I’ve had to face my inner little girl on more than one occasion, braving the hardest and most-needed truths. College has taught me to trust that the people who love me aren’t going to forget me. And even when it feels like they might have, I have to express that.
That means being more honest with myself and with my loved ones about how I feel, even when I’d rather lie alone with piles of tissues and binge old episodes of “Law & Order: SVU.”
More importantly, I’ve grasped that not every last-minute or add-on invite needs to be taken to heart, and spontaneous outings can create some of the best memories.
And if I want to feel comfortable being who I am, that also means I can’t try to be or worry about being like everyone else. Let’s face it: I’m not going to be the most outgoing or talkative person in every space. I’m not always going to be the one everyone gravitates to, and that’s okay.
My friends are going to have other friends, coworkers and peers just like I do. I don’t have to compete for a place in their life. Every interpersonal connection is unique and valued independently, and I hope to leave the comparisons in the past as I prepare for the next phase of my life.
As I plan to stay in Peoria for the foreseeable future, away from some of my closest friends, part of me is still terrified of disappearing from their lives. But I know all relationships change and grow with the seasons of life. What’s important is that, in the midst of the chaos that is the world we live in, we all work to make sure no one feels forgotten.
To my friends, thank you for always having my back. I hope you know how much I love and care for you. I am always cheering for you. You could never disappear to me.
To Bradley, thank you for bringing out the best in me. I’m so grateful to have walked these halls. I owe you so much, and you’ll always have a special place in my heart.
And to The Scout, thank you for letting me grow here. I don’t know what I would have done without you, or who I’d be without the people here who have inspired, trusted, supported and challenged me. Thanks to you, I know that I was here, and a part of me always will be.
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