Copyright 2012 – Rebecca Nietert
Recently, my town was ravaged by a violent and troubling hurricane, leaving destruction in its wake. Despite the urgent calls from my in-laws and even an old acquaintance I hadn’t seen in years, I made the difficult decision to remain in place. I voiced my concerns on Facebook, but as the days passed and the power outage persisted, I found myself unable to update my online friends and family. What I didn’t have the chance to express was my genuine worry for my safety.
Eventually, circumstances forced me to hit the road, facing pouring rain as I made my way to Dallas. I documented my journey on my social media page, in an effort to keep everyone informed. However, in the chaos and difficulties I encountered, I ended up taking a few days’ break from posting. It was only after the holiday that I shared the relief of having safely returned home.
During lunch with a close friend, we discussed my experiences, and she mentioned how it would have been nice for others to have at least acknowledged what I had been through. If they couldn’t even do that, she suggested, it’s possible I’m not on their minds at all. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.
Last year, when I attended my father’s funeral, I faced a heartbreaking reality. It seemed to be the straw that broke the camel’s back, the insurmountable hurdle I couldn’t overcome. How is it possible that so many people didn’t know about my existence? Not a single photo of me adorned my father’s house, and he never spoke a word of me. I felt like a complete stranger, living in the shadows of my own life.
This wasn’t just a distant memory; it was my present reality. It served as a harsh wake-up call. The weight of this revelation hit me like a ton of bricks. They didn’t even know my name. My own nieces and nephews had no clue who I was. My sister’s children, in particular, seemed afraid to even engage in conversation with me. It was as if I had been branded, marked with an indelible label. I can’t help but wonder why. Could it really be based on a few posts on a Facebook page, as my mother suggests? I’m left pondering the inexplicable reasons behind this rejection, and all I feel is the sting of emotional turmoil.
Many people advise me not to let it bother me, but how can I not? These people are my family. Why shouldn’t it hurt that they don’t seem to care enough to reciprocate the love and affection I’ve shown them my entire life? I’ve been patiently waiting for them to acknowledge my existence, hoping to finally matter to them. I’ve poured out constant love, commitment, and taken meaningful actions, hoping for a connection that seems perpetually out of reach.
It’s a perplexing situation, but I believe it’s important to address these emotions and seek resolution. After all, family is a fundamental part of our lives. With time, understanding, and open communication, perhaps we can bridge this gap and create the meaningful connections we all long for.
When I reflect on my childhood, there are memories that are difficult to shake. The moments when my mother would pull me out of bed and harm me, I would find solace in dreaming of my father rescuing me. With a broken jaw and a fractured arm caused by my mother’s hands, all I could do was yearn for a family that didn’t inflict such pain. The vision I had for my life was far from the reality I saw before me. It’s funny how perception can shape our worldview.
Occasionally, a glimmer of insight surfaces, reminding me that I am not a priority in their minds. It’s a challenging truth to accept, but acceptance is necessary for my own well-being. I find myself grappling with discontent, a feeling that lingers.
Life’s journey is complex, and each of us faces our own set of challenges. It’s in these moments of reflection that we deepen our understanding of ourselves and the world around us. May we all find the strength to navigate the hardships and discover the peace and happiness we seek.
Reba Nietert 