A Rubber Brick Memory - How I Learned to Be Seen
Learning how to be seen is still a constant struggle when ingrained instinct tells me to be silent and hide away.
I had what I can only describe as an epiphany a few weeks ago. And—because life loves a bit of irony—it happened while I was sitting on the toilet. Classic.
It was moments after the end of a particularly painful argument. One of those that cuts deep but leaves you numb in the moment. I wasn’t crying—yet. I was trying to distract myself with an audiobook, letting another world carry me away. But then, I heard my boyfriend talking to his father. I kept hearing “she.”
Something about the way she thinks.
Something about how she sees relationships.
Something about her dad...
Yeah. That got my attention. I paused the book. I listened. And then, I started thinking—really thinking—about relationships. And my relationship to them.
The First One
I’ve only had one other long-term relationship. It was doomed from the start. Literally—I told my friends that. I knew I’d never marry him. He wasn’t “the one.” Hell, I’m not even sure I ever loved him. But he served a purpose.
He safely took all my firsts.
He was never overwhelming.
Never scary.
Because he was safe.
Because he was easy.
I spent three years with that man-child, and only once do I remember building any kind of emotional connection. Mostly, I used him to release everything I didn’t know how to process: pain, anger, confusion. I was 19. My parents were divorcing. My brother was dropping out of high school. My dad wanted to move me out of my room so he could crash there until things were “settled.”
And my boyfriend? He was trapped at his overbearing mother’s apartment. We both needed out. So, we got out—together.
We worked at this tiny coffee shop inside a giant casino. We made minimum wage plus “coffee” tips—usually $1–$5 per person, not exactly enough to live on. So we found roommates. His friends. People I’d never met before moving in.
It was a two-story townhouse with four of us:
A short, skinny, quiet guy who took the upstairs room.
A shaggy blonde who ended up dating my best friend (and caused a massive rift between us because he was a slob and I kept cleaning up after him—no, I didn’t like him).
And an alcoholic former army guy with a tragic childhood and even more tragic family ties. One day, he beat on his brother so badly he punched a hole in the wall. I had to stop them.
They were all wildly different, but bonded over one thing: Dota 2.
I tried to be part of it. I really did. I had a little chair in the living room where I’d sit after work and play my games on my Lenovo laptop. My ex would come home, and we’d play together. Or we’d watch Dota tournaments. Or I’d watch him play.
Every. Single. Day.
Eventually, I stopped playing. Then I stopped watching. Then they wanted my chair out of the living room because I didn’t “use” it anymore. The group became strained. I stopped drinking with them. I stopped being seen.
I remember crying, night after night, begging my ex to come spend time with me. I’d wake up every morning, pissed off and alone in bed, because he never came upstairs. Just:
"I’m playing my game, babe."
"One more round."
"I haven’t won yet."
"You’re distracting me."
"Fuck off."
And yet—I insisted. I insisted because he was supposed to be my Band-Aid, and he wasn't Band-Aid-ing.
I had no one else.
My parents were splitting up.
My friend downstairs wasn’t speaking to me.
My childhood best friend was dealing with her own shit.
I was so alone.
Those days blur in my memory. Screaming into my pillow. Waking up to cold sheets. Anger. At everything. At everyone. And slowly—a determination. A stubborn, fiery little spark that whispered: Stand up. Stand on your own two feet. You don’t need them.
I had already learned not to rely on anyone. (But that’s another story.)
Eventually, our lease ended, and we moved out. My parents were divorced. My dad was dating weird women. My mom bought a house so my brother could live with her (even though he wanted to live with my dad—who didn’t want him. Yeah. Another story.)
And my ex and I? We moved in with my mom.
Big mistake.
He took over the entry room with his laptop and planted himself in my chair. My mom hated it. She hated him. And finally, I started to see it, too. I was more myself with her. The emptiness started to lift. I was finally standing.
So one day, after a long morning shift, while listening to "It Ain’t Me" by Selena Gomez, I decided:
I’m breaking up with him.
I was 21. Living at home. Over it.
So I woke him up (at 3 PM, because of course), and told him I was done. He raged in Dota. I cried on the phone to my (newly reconciled) friend.
But all I felt was relief.
And freedom.
Bliss, honestly.
He left. And for six, maybe seven months, I was the happiest I’d been in years. I started online dating. Letting out all that pent-up frustration. Learning way too much about young men in my city.
And then?
Life moved on.
My brother moved out.
My mom decided to sell the house and start traveling.
And I had to move out too.
But this time, I was ready.
This Is Where It Hit Me
This memory—of all those nights in the cold bed, of begging for someone to see me—stung my heart in that moment on the loo.
The resentment I had felt. The anger. The pain.
It was nothing compared to the emptiness.
The void.
That was how I had come to see relationships. Not as a place of connection or sanctuary, but as a space where I had to protect myself. I was so used to standing alone. So conditioned to silence.
No one really wanted to know my feelings.
No one wanted to hold them with me.
No one wanted to help—so eventually, I just stopped reaching out.
I saw the way men—my father, my grandfather, that ex—looked at me when I broke down. Like I was dramatic. Too much. A problem.
So I stuffed it down.
Buried the ache.
Put on a brave face and got good at being “fine.”
I developed this deep, internal reflex to protect everyone else’s feelings before my own. I made sure they were comfortable. That they weren’t overwhelmed. That they could stay.
And in doing that, I hid myself away.
Even from the people I loved.
Especially from them.
I don’t remember exactly what triggered the argument that day—funny how that part always fades—but I do remember the realization that followed.
I had created a toxic habit of keeping the people I love at arm’s length.
It was my shield.
My defense mechanism.
My way of saying “I’m not going to get hurt again,” even as I slowly starved for connection.
I hadn’t realized I was pushing my current boyfriend away.
I hadn’t seen how exhausting it must’ve been for him—loving someone who kept building walls instead of doors.
I hadn’t understood how, if I had just opened up a little, that fight might never have escalated.
I might have saved us both from the pain.
But how could I know, when no one ever taught me how to be held?
Learning to Be Seen
So there I was, pants around my ankles, audiobook paused, sitting on the toilet having an existential meltdown. Honestly, I’ve had worse moments.
But in that quiet, almost pathetic stillness, something shifted.
It wasn’t dramatic.
There were no fireworks.
No “aha” music playing in the background.
Just a slow, sinking truth settling into my bones:
If I want a real relationship, I have to let myself be seen.
I have to be honest about my fears.
I have to tell the truth when I’m hurt.
I have to stop trying to “handle it all on my own” just so no one is uncomfortable.
Because if I keep pushing people away in order to feel safe, I’ll never actually feel loved.
That night, I sat on the edge of my bed, knees pulled to my chest, and I told my boyfriend the truth. Not all of it. Not everything. But enough. Enough to break the silence. Enough to start.
And something amazing happened.
He didn’t leave.
He didn’t call me dramatic.
He didn’t shut down.
He listened.
He stayed.
And that, to me, felt like a miracle.