I Think I Am Disappearing

…. and here we go YET AGAIN… and oh how much blogging/vlogging etiquette would discourage yet another post on how I am feeling sorry for myself as I am aging. After all, blogs are about self-discovery, transformation, and ultimate resolution… but sorry, folks, not here; I am exposing some pretty vulnerable self-discovery.

I am having a hard time getting older.

Not because I found a wrinkle. Not because I miss being twenty-five.

I miss being seen.

This weekend, I got off an elevator with my daughter-in-law and watched a man’s eyes skim over me and settle on her. His manners followed his attention, and I literally felt guilty following her suite as I exited the elevator while he held the elevator door for her.

I became the older woman standing beside her.

That was all.

And I hate how much it hurt.

I know the approved response. His attention does not determine my worth. Aging is a privilege. Beauty fades, wisdom grows. Blah, blah, blah, fucking blah.

None of that touches the actual wound.

The actual wound is wondering how much of the world’s interest in me was ever about me.

Was I interesting, or was I simply (and scientifically) only attractive enough for people to bother with finding me out?

Now I am older, smarter, more educated, and more experienced; sometimes I feel like I have become less worth listening to at the exact moment I finally have something worth saying.

Even with my husband, I notice who gets his curiosity. Smart women, yes. But often smart women that are stereo-typically attractive are not women like me.

And that hurts in a place I do not know how to fix.

Because I am becoming the older woman.

Will he still want to know what I think when there is nothing about my face or body pulling his attention toward me first? Let’s be real here, and even tacky or white-trash, or fundamentally shallow… what if my boobs shrink and flop? Will he still see me then?

I know he loves me, and I am starting to realize that being loved and being seen are not the same thing… and that stupid realization has broken my heart.

I have not found some confident, enlightened version of myself on the other side of this post. I am not embracing my age. I am not celebrating my invisibility. I am not secretly thrilled to be free from male and public attention.

I feel lost and completely overlooked.

I feel jealous sometimes.

But mostly, I feel embarrassed that I care.

I feel angry that I spent decades becoming more capable while becoming easier to overlook.

And sometimes, mostly (lately) I feel worthless.

There is the ugly truth.

I do not believe I am worthless; I know that I am not. But some days I feel it so strongly that the distinction barely matters.

I am here now, trying to figure out where significance comes from with my youth gone, my children grown, people needing me differently, my body changing (let’s be frank here and say straight up… getting fat), and strangers no longer looking long at me enough to wonder who I am.

I do not have the answer.

Right now, I am grieving a version of myself I did not know I would miss this much.

And I am scared because I do not know who replaces her, especially as I seek personal worthiness and validation.

This is the “raw” me.