Invisible – Eric A.

Two days ago, I was sitting in a meeting listening to a man tell his story – my story. I listened, and I cried through almost the whole meeting. He had a hard time trying to convey his feelings – my feelings – so I am going to try my best, even though I have not been very good at describing the mental anguish I went through for those oh so many years. Two days ago, I was sitting in a meeting listening to a man tell how he became invisible – how I became invisible. I use the word normal talking about my childhood, and I guess in many ways it was. I guess in many ways I was a normal child – fully alive and fully visible. When we say our stories disclose in a general way what we used to be like, I’m talking about my childhood until that point when I found a liquid substance that would change my life, and change me from normal to invisible. Let’s take a look at what invisible means. I began a downhill spiral that lasted twenty years. I drank to survive the rigors of living life on life’s terms. I drank and became invisible to society at large. I could walk down the street and no one would give me a glance. If they did, I would see that look – the one that said, “Oh my God, look at that BUM.” I would look into restaurant windows and see families sitting at tables eating, and no one would look at me. I could walk down a street and see inside houses where kids were watching television, or a lady was washing dishes at the kitchen sink, and no one would notice me. I became invisible to normal society. I believe they thought if they ignored me, I didn’t exist. But, I was invisible not just to society’s eye. I was invisible inside, to my mind’s eye. I was stoic. I wanted to die. The man telling my story said he wanted to die, and I’m so glad he didn’t. I’m so glad he lived to tell my story. He reawakened for me feelings that were lying dormant for a few years. You know, the program says we will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it. The man telling my story reopened a door I had unintentionally shut. The man telling my story made me cry, and I’m so glad he did. I believe that crying is good for the soul. It’s a cleansing of the emotions we need to deal with on a daily basis. I have been in the Fellowship for a few years now, and that allows me to be truly grateful to the man who, like me, felt invisible. I am grateful that he told his story – my story. I am grateful that, today, that invisible man can be seen and heard. I am grateful that, today, people not only see me, they hear what I am trying to say: Pain is necessary for growth, but suffering is optional. PEEK-A-BOO – I SEE YOU I