After she moved out, I had to practice by myself. I tried to speak loudly, uncomfortable with the way my voice echoed inside my bedroom. I tried to take up space, sitting with arms and legs spread and books spaced widely across the desk in front of me. Tried to put myself first, to say what I really wanted, not what I thought others wanted. It’s still difficult. Invisibility is a hard habit to unlearn, and in my family, substance is a limited resource, depleted with every “Whatever you’d like,” and “No, you go first,” and “Sorry, this may sound stupid.” Some days I can feel myself being erased. So, at night I check my skin before I sleep. I practice visibility, saying to myself over and over “I have a right to be here. I have a right to be here. I have a right to be here.”
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