I am invisible. Our eyes don’t connect in a crowded room. You refuse to see me, because to see me might mean you have to acknowledge my existence, or worse yet, I might approach you and say, “Hello.” That would be threatening and uncomfortable wouldn’t it? Who wants to talk to the woman with schizophrenia? What can she possibly have to say that would benefit you? And it is all about benefits isn’t it? What can we get from one another? And you think I have nothing to offer, that I am a hole that will require you to throw something in, but not be able to take something out, and what you throw in will clamor and bang along the sides until it hits bottom with a thud. I am nothing to you. I am invisible. Less than a ghost, because even with a ghost you believe, you listen for the knock on the wall, or look for the flicker of a light. With me, there is nothing. To be invisible is to be without value, and to be without voice. I have cried into the stillness of night about how your language, the words you use, are like pins being stuck deep into my skin, not like acupuncture needles that don’t hurt, yours hurt, they wound, and I bleed. But my blood is like a drop of rain in Seattle, not noticeable, noteworthy, or cause for alarm. There will be no ambulance, no medics, no help is on the way, because I am invisible and there is nothing I can do to make you see me. I stand waving in the yard outside the windows of your house, but it is no use. I am invisible to you and you will never set your eyes on me until you change your mind and let loose a piece of your heart.

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