When I was a kid, I wrote in my journal that I felt invisible.

I guess that feeling never really left me because I’ve always felt like the one thing I needed was for someone to really see me — see me for who I am and love me because of it and in spite of it.

I don’t think anybody really knows me — maybe in part because, the older I’ve gotten, the better I’ve become at masking how I feel…because I guess I’m ashamed of my loneliness.

Does that even make sense — being ashamed of the fact that you’re lonely and there doesn’t seem to be anybody in your life who would really notice if you disappeared?

Okay — that’s not true. The people in my life would notice if I disappeared — and they’d care too late. They’d only care — as in, feel bad and feel guilty — after I was gone…when it wouldn’t matter anymore; when, something as simple as asking to include me in something would have been enough.

I think that’s why I’m so fiercely “independent” — because I have to be.

I don’t want to be a nuisance to anybody. Better to be bright and funny in small doses so people are genuinely happy to have you around every once in awhile, you know?

I act a lot.

I act like I love doing things on my own. I act like I’m this quirky, independent girl who has all these interests and who doesn’t need anybody because I’m out there, living my life.

One “friend” once said, “Wow. Good for you — you’re living the life!” and then went on to compare me to another single friend of her’s, who sits at home every weekend and who refuses to be set up and go on blind dates or do online dating or anything like that…and seems to think Prince Charming will magically show up at her front door one day because “God wills it.”

Long ago, I vowed never to come across that pathetic.

So…I act.

But you know what really wounded me tonight?

I wanted to take my mom out this weekend to go see a movie — not a big deal, but something I’d been saying for awhile now as the trailer for Mamma Mia had been flashing across the television screen repeatedly over the last few weeks.

I thought it’d be a fun movie to take my mom to see — but my mom’s the kind of homebody who likes to do nothing. She loves nothing more than to sit at home and do Sudoku puzzles all day long and never leave the house — or, when she does leave the house, it’s do do errands with my dad…and yet, she has the gall to criticize my aunt for leading a “boring” life.

I guess what bugs me is the fact that my mother didn’t want to go because all of a sudden, she thought the movie looked “stupid” — though, I knew the real reason was because she thought it’d interfere with what she does every single fucking weekend.

And then the thought popped into my head: doesn’t she care that I have nowhere to go every weekend and that maybe (as pathetic as this sounds) I was looking forward to having someone to do something with this weekend?

Has she actually convinced herself that it’s perfectly okay for me to do things on my own all the time because she’d rather pretend to believe that I enjoy this isolation rather than have to own up to the fact that her firstborn is actually really lonely and unhappy and in need of someone — anyone — to just fucking be there for a change?

God — this embarrasses me!

This is the only place where I’ll admit what I’m feeling — just throw it out there on the web where only a couple of people might read it, but where, for the most part, it’ll echo in silence as well.

This is why, after all of these years, I still feel invisible.