Slight

I hung up on my parents and my brother W over our weekly Skype session earlier.

My parents have this habit of turning these conversations into consultations in which my brother is the perceived expert on subjects such as technology and politics, the quintessential keynote speaker. And I sit there, trying to engage, barely getting a word in.

Well today it happened again. More than fed up and consumed by rage, I hit the Hang Up red button. Goodbye!

My presence is obviously not needed here. Guess what, I have better things to do.

Growing up, I always felt like my brother's opinion mattered more than mine. We'd have unofficial family meetings where I would not feel heard at all.

I suddenly realize today that that's where a lot of my deep-seated anger is coming from.

You know that quote that you can feel only as small as you allow them to make you feel?

I seem to recall that my therapist used to advise me to stand my ground with (at least) my mother. (My father was not part of the problem, or so I thought, during that time. In hindsight, as they say, it's the parent you don't talk about...)

My father was supposed to be on my side. I was supposed to be his favorite. We each get a parent we like better, and vice versa. Seems fair.

Oh, the sting.

I'd like to think that today I did more than stand up to my parents for their disrespect.

I'll probably regret it in the morning.

After I hung up, my hands shaking from the fury, I typed a quick note on WhatsApp where we have our family group chat:

"If you are only going to talk about politics, take your time. Don't mind if I back out. Catch you next week."

Still shaking, I stormed out of our study and went off to do something pleasurable instead: read one of the many New York Times magazines that I've been running behind reading.

But I can hardly concentrate.

I decided I needed to blog. Before I did, I made sure to shut down my WhatsApp for Windows window, to avoid distractions and interruptions.

It looked as if my message to excuse myself hadn't even been read. They probably hadn't even noticed.

Before COVID hit, I had the pleasure of dragging RJ to see a live performance of Chicago. Chicago is one of my favorite musicals. RJ is not categorically a fan of musicals. But he's always gracious to accompany me to things that I enjoy.

It was a lot of fun for me. I knew every song, albeit not necessarily all the lyrics (a good portion, though). And I appreciate a killer choreography.

After the show, glowing in delight, I told RJ that Mr. Cellophane had always been my favorite song of the set because, I said, "I relate." Utterly surprised, he reacted with a half cough/half chuckle.

My knee-jerk reaction to his reaction was a little bit of hurt, a little bit of disappointment. How did he not know that I had felt invisible for decades?

How could he, though? Unless you have felt second-best and overlooked yourself.

'Cause you can look right through me
Walk right by me
And never know I'm there...