January172012
The Vanishing Act
If a tree falls in a forest, but no one is around to hear it, does it still make a sound? Think about this before you answer. I used to think the answer was simple, but it isn’t. In a sense, I am like that tree. So if a man lives his life, but no one sees him, does he exist?
At some point as I got into middle age, I started feeling an awkwardness take over. I can’t say it crept over me, or at least, if it was creeping, I didn’t notice. But sometime around my fortieth birthday, I started having misgivings about myself. Maybe it was only vanity, but the awkwardness I always felt inside was starting to appear outwardly. I’d never been one for having my own photo taken, but started hating cameras because they were proof that “The Discomfort” was wreaking havoc.
I knew what was happening to me. I used to be a teacher, and I’d noticed the same kind of awkwardness in some of the young people I taught. There was a lot of pulling at clothes and shifting around on their part. Some people find a way around The Discomfort, but for others, there’s no way around it. If you’re uncomfortable in your own skin, it is a life sentence.
I recognized what my students felt before I felt it myself the way you might recognize a family member walking toward you before you can make out the person’s face. You recognize things about the person, aspects that are yours.
Unlike my students, I was determined to fix the problem, or at least, hide it. I didn’t want to think about The Discomfort. I didn’t want to see it. I started off by removing the mirrors in my house. But that just fixed the problem when I was inside. It’s not so easy to avoid them when you leave the house. Eventually, I stopped driving, then I avoided big cities where glass is everywhere. Still, even small towns have their shops with shiny, reflective windows that show you how uncomfortable you are in your own skin, so I taught myself to look down a lot. And then, eventually, I taught myself to be alone, too. In a sense, a very real sense, the people you know are worse than mirrors. They’re always making comments about ho you are or who you should be. I didn’t want to hear any of that.
Years later, I can say I’ve done well for myself by the standards I set. I’ve lived alone for years, avoiding others, and now, they don’t see me. That doesn’t bother me. To not be seen is what I always wanted, and if everything had stayed the same, I would’ve kept on as I have.
But recently, something strange has happened. I’ve started becoming invisible to myself. The first time it happened, I was in the shower, scrubbing off some dirt after a day’s work in the garden, and I saw my hand flicker right before my eyes. It was like an old movie projected on a screen. My hand was there and for a split second, it wasn’t. I didn’t believe it was happening, but since then, more than a few times a day and fo increasingly long periods of time, some part of me, a foot, a hand, what have you, flickers away.
I’ve been tempted to go to the doctor. I could keep myself from looking at any mirrors he might have in the office. I’m good about that. But I don’t think there’s much he could do. There’s no medicine for what I have. I’ve been looking online. There’s no known case of people just vanishing. I am the Invisible Man, or I will be soon enough, and there’s no cure for it. I should be happy. It’s the logical conclusion to what I’ve done to myself, but it’s different somehow. It’s one thing to make yourself invisible to others, but quite another to be invisible to yourself. I guess there’s a part of me that wants to be seen, but when I think of it, I start to feel The Discomfort again. And that’s the rub, isn’t it? I exist. I do. Even if no one sees me. But what does it mean if I can’t even see myself?
Tags: /If a tree falls in a forest /Invisible Man /Humor /relationships /body image /stories /fiction /writing
