It was surprisingly easy. In a way that defines irony better than Alanis Morissette ever could, fat people are all invisible. Though imposing in flesh and poundage, we are constantly ignored, pushed to the side as though we aren’t even there. That is, until we get in the way and then become a nuisance, a (large) object of mockery, a grotesque figure to despise. Oftentimes, we use that invisibility as an armour: if no one notices us then maybe, just maybe, we can get by and go on with our day. Maybe we can simply live.
I was already invisible by choice, too; opting to work from home, to wrap myself up in an introvert bubble, venturing out only when necessary and trying to limit outings to the daytime when most people are trapped in the nine to five.
But I truly became invisible the day I realised, quite randomly, over a phone chat with a long-distance friend, that time had sort of erased me. I did not matter, my life was leaving no trace, no legacy, no token, no lesson, no compelling story. I became completely see-through when it dawned on me that the only thing I will leave behind will be a bunch of stuff, a hassle to clean up and make disappear—something waiting to be rendered invisible, too.