Fragments of Cassandra

I feel dull tonight.

Not empty;
empty would imply there is nothing here.

There is plenty here.
That might be the problem.

I feel like a house with every room lit  
and no one bothering to look through the windows.

I know there are things I am good at.  
God, I hate even writing that,  
because somewhere along the way  
I learned to make myself smaller  
before anyone could accuse me  
of thinking I was too much.

But I am good at things.

I can sing.

I can take an empty canvas  
and make it confess something.

I can disappear into a subject  
I knew nothing about yesterday  
and return carrying its anatomy in my hands.

I understand people.  
Their pauses.  
Their contradictions.  
The small betrayals of the body  
when the mouth is trying to lie.

I know how to care for something fragile- 
people,  
animals,  
wounds,  
rooms that have fallen into disorder.

I have learned the languages of psychology,  
of nursing,  
of marketing and sales,  
of knowing what someone needs  
before they have found the words to ask for it.

I can make strangers comfortable.  
I can make people feel heard.  
I can cook.  
I can clean.  
I can create.  
I can write a feeling down  
and somehow make it recognizable  
to someone who has never lived inside me.

And there is more.
I know there is more.

So why do I feel like a failure?

Why, when someone asks what I am good at,  
do the people who know me  
name one thing-  
maybe two-
as though the rest of me  
was written in invisible ink?

And why does that hurt so fucking much?
I don't need to be exceptional at everything.

I don't need applause  
every time I enter a room.

I don't need to be the smartest,  
the prettiest,  
the most talented,  
the most anything.

I just want to be accurately remembered.

I want someone to look at the entire constellation  
instead of pointing to one star  
and telling me,  
there, that's you.

No.
Look again.

There is more of me than that.
I've shown you.

That is perhaps the part that hurts most.

I have sang in front of you.  
Created in front of you.  
Learned beside you.  
Cared for you.  
Fed you.  
Listened to you.  
Helped you understand yourself  
while quietly trying to understand myself.

And sometimes,  
you will tell me about someone else.

Your eyes light up  
as you explain how talented they are,  
how fascinating their mind is,  
how much they know about something,  
how beautifully they make something,  
how naturally they understand people,  
how impressive it is  
that they can do this  
or know that.

And I listen.

I nod.  
I let you finish.

While somewhere inside me,  
a quieter version of myself  
is raising her hand.

I do that.

I've told you that.

You've heard me say the same thing.

You've watched me do that before.

And I hate the jealousy  
that sometimes follows,  
because I don't want to take  
anything away from them.

Their brilliance does not threaten mine.
I know that.

It isn't-

Why are they special?

It is-

Why wasn't I special when I did it?

Why did it become fascinating  
when you discovered it in somebody else?

Why does their knowledge become a story  
you cannot wait to tell me,  
when the same knowledge  
once left my mouth  
and disappeared into the room?

Why does their talent make you stop and stare  
when mine became part of the furniture-  
something you grew so accustomed to  
you stopped noticing it was there?

That is the part  
I don't know how to explain  
without sounding selfish.

Because I am not asking you  
to admire them less.

I am asking why  
you never seemed to admire me there at all.

Sometimes I want to interrupt you.

Not cruelly.  
Not to compete.  
Not to steal the moment  
from someone who deserves to be celebrated.

I just want to say,

Do you remember when I showed you that?

Do you remember when I told you about this?

Did you think it was interesting when it was me?

Did you ever think I was impressive, too?

And underneath all of those questions  
is the one I am too embarrassed to ask aloud:

Why did you have to see it in someone else  
before you could see that it was worth noticing?

I have handed people evidence of who I am  
and somehow still watched them  
return a verdict  
that does not resemble me.

You're good at this.

One thing.
Two, if they're generous.

And something inside me wants to grab the list  
from their hands,  
tear it open,  
and scream-

I AM SO MUCH MORE THAN THE PIECES OF ME YOU REMEMBER.

I am more than the small collection of qualities  
you happened to notice.

More than what was useful to you.

More than the version of me  
you needed me to be.

And maybe that is why I sell myself short sometimes.

Not because I secretly believe  
there is nothing remarkable about me.

Maybe I have simply spent too much time  
using other people's eyes  
as mirrors.

And when enough mirrors  
fail to reflect what you know is standing there,
you start checking yourself.

Am I imagining it?

Am I actually talented?

Am I actually intelligent?

Am I delusional?

Or have I been loving a version of myself  
that no one else can see?

But tonight,  
beneath the dullness,  
beneath the humiliation of feeling like a failure,  
beneath this childish, human ache  
to point at myself and say

please, look at me properly

I think I know the answer.
I do not want admiration.

I want recognition.
There is a difference.

I don't want someone to tell me  
I am extraordinary  
just to soothe me.

I want someone to pay enough attention  
to discover me without being given the map.

To notice how many languages  
my soul has learned to speak.

To understand that I have spent my life  
becoming many things  
because curiosity has always made a home in me.

I want someone to see my mind,  
not only what it can do for them.

My tenderness,  
not only the comfort it provides.

My creativity,  
not only the finished thing.

My intelligence,  
not only when they need an answer.

My soul,  
not only when they need somewhere safe  
to put their own.

Maybe that is another reason this hurts so badly.
I have made a career out of seeing people.

Their hidden gifts.  
Their wounds.  
Their potential.  
The things they don't say.  
The beautiful little details  
they assume no one notices.

I have spent so much of my life saying,

I see you.

And tonight,

I think some tired part of me  
is finally asking-

Does anyone see me?

Not the role I play.
Not the thing I do best.
Not the easiest word  
you've found to describe me.

Me.

All these rooms.  
All these languages.  
All these strange little talents  
I have collected along the way.

The woman behind them.

And perhaps I need to stop confusing  
being unseen  
with being nonexistent.

A museum does not lose its art  
when someone walks through it  
without looking.

A song does not become less beautiful  
because someone wasn't listening.

And I do not become less capable  
because someone failed  
to pay attention.

So maybe I am dull tonight.

Maybe I feel small.  
Maybe tomorrow I will doubt myself again  
because knowing your worth  
does not make you immune  
to the pain of having it overlooked.

But I am still here.
Still full of rooms.

Still learning.  
Still creating.  
Still caring.  
Still becoming.

And even if no one has ever stood  
in front of me  
long enough to understand  
just how much is here-

there is still so much here.
I know that.

I just wish,  
sometimes,

someone else  
would look long enough  
to know it too. 


Be'ahava,
The Mourning Bird