Contact us at: whispernthunder1@gmail.comInvisible ~ Visible
~ Orannhawk
I was invisible for much of my childhood.
Not literally, of course, but close enough.
Feeling unseen and unheard takes a toll
on you, regardless of your age. Other
times, invisibility was a demand, a harsh
directive to stay out of the way, and stay
quiet, as if I were not even there. Complex
circumstances in my early years led me to
develop a new set of skills. However, going into stealth mode is not exactly in the normal skill set that most people embrace.
It was convenient when I was hunting. I could stand or sit for extended periods, slipping into slow breathing patterns, moving only with the motions of the trees or grasses, holding the moments of simply being one with my surroundings.
While there were obvious advantages of embracing the skill set of not being seen or heard, there was no balance.
I was unaware of the consequences and how staying partially invisible affected classmates and teachers along the way. I had friends, but at the same time, it was challenging for me. It is easier, but nonetheless, the challenges remain. It was difficult to trust, and as with teenagers, there were betrayals. The
complexities of home life added additional angst, increasing the limitations of visitors. Isolation is often a close dance partner with invisibility, and I danced a lot.
In my early twenties, I used a crutch to deal with social situations, taking a well-worn road to feel like I belonged, to engage in conversations, and dance visibly to have fun, thinking I was discovering myself. I knew that road was leading me away from being who I wanted to be, but it was a pathway that I had seen
personally. It was familiar, and for a brief time I owned that road, or so I thought. Truthfully, that road owned me. Years later, it was brutal to watch wary eyes as a dozen or more cases of rum were loaded into my car, even though it was not for me. The owners knew me by name. They were nice people, but to be
on a first name basis with the owners of a liquor store was a little odd at the time. Could I refuse to pick up the large orders? Perhaps, but I knew what the repercussions could be. However, I learned quickly how to remove the paper seals without damaging them, to pour out half of the half gallon bottle and refill it with water. At the time, it was the best I could do. I hated the smell of the rum as much as the cheap wine that Papaw drank. I often wondered what led them on that lonely road, what insecurities left them feeling invisible and alone. I threw my crutch away many years ago. I only wish they had done the same.
Some months ago, we unearthed a large jug, buried in the sand inside the old barn on my property. I recognized it immediately. There is no way to know how long it has been there, but Papaw’s been gone for over forty years. The cap was too tight to remove, and there were visible traces of dried wine inside. I
remembered the thick glass along with the loop near the top, and the memories slammed into my soul. As a kid, I drove him home countless times, while he tipped up a similar jug by the glass loop; listening to him calling out for the whirlwind (his ardent belief of the Ghost Dance), while the acrid smell of cheap
wine permeated the inside of the truck. I struggle with guilt over my childhood ‘job’ of diluting each hidden jug with water. In my mind I was both betraying them, as well as adding to my trauma by enabling them to drink. The dilution did make a difference though. Originally it was a suggestion made by a family
friend, a chemist with the department of ATF (Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms) who, ironically, turned out to be an alcoholic.
I brought the glass jug home. It took time to carefully cut away the metal cap without breaking the glass. The odor was beyond definition after so many years. Filling it with water to rinse it out was an act of futility. I implemented different soaks over two weeks, leaving each one to set for a day or so. Over time,
the mixtures of vinegar and baking soda, powdered and liquid soaps, and foaming cleansers slowly dissolved the decayed remains. It was cathartic, this purging of the past. The smells, the memories were overwhelming, but they were also a part of a healing process for me, finding a way to create a bridge
between the man I loved so deeply, and the broken soul that fell into the depths of alcohol to deal with his own pain and loss. The slow cleansing of this bottle led me on a journey of forgiveness and in some ways, understanding.
The jug sits in my home office space now. When I clean out my purse or backpack, pennies go into the jug. The accumulating coins are a reminder that I am healing the past. Among the Ancestral trauma, grief, and loss, I continue to hold on to hope and trust.
There is a duality between being invisible and visible. I wanted to be visible, and to be heard, but I was also limited because of the circumstances that were beyond my control. I needed to control the narrative, so no one would know what my true reality was. For a long time, I only skimmed the surface, unwilling
to look any deeper.
There are moments when I feel like an outsider, however, I am reconnecting with classmates, and it is a welcoming experience. I am discovering a sense of freedom that once eluded me. I am healing myself and through my actions and accountability, I am healing the past of my Ancestors.