I am the invisible girl. I recognize the reference to "Superboy and the Invisible Girl", a song from the musical Next to Normal. It's mainly about a sibling relationship, where the daughter feels invisible next to her dead brother. For me, my illness presented in my Sophomore year of high school, and I've felt inferior to my previous life ever since. The Superboy before my diagnosis of Amplified Musculoskeletal Pain Syndrome rode horses competitively, loved pilates, and attended school regularly. She was visible because she was present; she accomplished the visible things. Since my diagnosis, I've constantly compared myself to this dead character. Post diagnosis and depletion of my mobility, I had to quit horseback riding and transition to online school. Not only was I physically incapable of my activities, but I also became physically invisible. Instead, I was almost viewed as a transparent version of the girl I once was. I thought that those who cared for them only cared because of the slight reflection of my Superboy character and accomplishments. That hindered lifestyle seemed the only thing people could love about me, because it was all I knew. As I thought more about college and moved through my life, my perspective remained sheltered, as I was. I was locked away in my room. My mentality was that some people just get the short end of the stick, and that being invisible was the only thing I could be now. If I couldn't be the Superboy, why would I have to be anything? Doctors have tried to figure out my triggers and treat me for three years, but the closest to an effective treatment I got was addressing the mental battle of physical disability and chronic illness. My condition, AMPS, is difficult to find a community in, because it is so individual. I've felt the support of my community of doctors; however, the most important community is yourself. I may be in a wheelchair some days and walking the next, but the most noticeable difference in my life's outcome is the days when I'm depressed about it, compared to the days I'm attacking my next challenge. The college conversations crept in alongside my pain management's psychological transitions, and in this, I had to ask myself a question: How can I live with this? This question put aside my condition as my title, and instead left it as a note. It's easy to say that therapy helped me, or going back to school was a lifesaver. It's also easy to let yourself get lost in the cycle of disability, illness, and constant treatment from others. However, when will we save ourselves? My community can be described as those around me, but they wouldn't be here without me learning to take over my life. I decided to use accommodations and work through these mental blocks of comparison to reach a mental state of capability. I now attend school in person, and I've been very successful there. Yes, I use my accommodations. Yes, I often have to slow down. But, I've learned the incredibly developmental skill of intuition and diligence. I take a break when it's too painful, but I let myself dream and be visible. Because that's what I want. I want to be a writer, I want to be at school, and I want to have a lot of friends. That isn't impossible just because it's easier to stay at home. I want to be visible. In the self-discovery of real community and a guidance into visibility, I'm neither the Superboy nor the Invisible Girl, I'm Next To Normal.

I laugh a lot about how I put myself back in the closet even though everyone fully accepted me. In 7th grade, when I came out, my mom responded to my "I think I'm bi" text with a conversation about support. I am one of the lucky ones. Not all of it is funny, though. I came out in 2021. Every other person "dressed gay" or had colored hair; it was normal. However, normal doesn't mean accepted. Entering school after coming out over the summer, I was proud. I had a girlfriend, bright red hair, chunky eyeliner, and a pride pin on my backpack. I posted poems on my social media frequently. They described my identity and mental health. The first day, another girl with green hair and a lesbian-flag phone case came up to me and claimed me as her new best friend. Simultaneously, 3/4 of my friends looked the other way. All of them I knew were technically in support of LGBTQ+ people, but they avoided me at all costs. From my future understanding, I was too queer. The hair was too much, I was different, and it was embarrassing. Random girls found it funny to make fun of my appearance, TikToks, and poems after their friend broke up with me. They transformed her back to "normal" and deemed me an alien. They distorted pictures of me and called me "bloody tampon". At the moment, I didn't receive it as bullying. I just thought I was too much. Two boys followed me to the bus daily, barking. I was in denial. I thought these people just didn't like me, that I had a chance to win them over. Maybe if I toned it down, if I quieted my words. By summer, I had dyed my hair back and only wore neutral-toned clothes. I painted on light concealer and brown mascara, no eyeliner. I hoped that in toning myself down, my color wouldn't get in their way. Over the first 2 years of high school, I faded further from my identity. I still identified as bi; I just didn't tell anyone anymore. The closet door was closed, but not locked. I entered a Catholic private school with one goal: be likable. I looked through all of my classmates' everyday jewelry, clothes, and makeup, and copied them exactly. I made friends, and I fit in. My poems remained in my hidden folder. Every word approaching a truth I knew I couldn't speak. They were bad. Laughable. None of my writing aligned with my feelings, because I was trying to write what I should feel, not what I did. I stopped writing altogether. Eventually, with my health issues, I moved into online school. I broke up with my boyfriend from Catholic school. I turned grey in color, the in-between. With this newfound solitude, I did not have any outside opinion or perspective. While online school was lonely and not ideal, I gained a friend of myself. I learned what my true feelings towards girls were. I developed a sense of style, hair that matched me, and makeup I felt confident in. Most importantly, I started my blog. In the beginning, it was a passion project for college. However, it became a place to express these thoughts I'd hidden forever. I wanted people to hear them, to help someone. Through all of these changes, I still giggle about when I pretended not to be myself. It isn't because I regret learning that lesson, it's because I couldn't imagine not being authentically myself. My words, my colors, my identity will stay bright.

I laugh a lot about how I put myself back in the closet even though everyone fully accepted me. In 7th grade, when I came out, my mom responded to my "I think I'm bi" text with a conversation about support. I am one of the lucky ones. Not all of it is funny, though. I came out in 2021. Every other person "dressed gay" or had colored hair; it was normal. However, normal doesn't mean accepted. Entering school after coming out over the summer, I was proud. I had a girlfriend, bright red hair, chunky eyeliner, and a pride pin on my backpack. I posted poems on my social media frequently. They described my identity and mental health. The first day, another girl with green hair and a lesbian-flag phone case came up to me and claimed me as her new best friend. Simultaneously, 3/4 of my friends looked the other way. All of them I knew were technically in support of LGBTQ+ people, but they avoided me at all costs. From my future understanding, I was too queer. The hair was too much, I was different, and it was embarrassing. Random girls found it funny to make fun of my appearance, TikToks, and poems after their friend broke up with me. They transformed her back to "normal" and deemed me an alien. They distorted pictures of me and called me "bloody tampon". At the moment, I didn't receive it as bullying. I just thought I was too much. Two boys followed me to the bus daily, barking. I was in denial. I thought these people just didn't like me, that I had a chance to win them over. Maybe if I toned it down, if I quieted my words. By summer, I had dyed my hair back and only wore neutral-toned clothes. I painted on light concealer and brown mascara, no eyeliner. I hoped that in toning myself down, my color wouldn't get in their way. Over the first 2 years of high school, I faded further from my identity. I still identified as bi; I just didn't tell anyone anymore. The closet door was closed, but not locked. I entered a Catholic private school with one goal: be likable. I looked through all of my classmates' everyday jewelry, clothes, and makeup, and copied them exactly. I made friends, and I fit in. My poems remained in my hidden folder. Every word approaching a truth I knew I couldn't speak. They were bad. Laughable. None of my writing aligned with my feelings, because I was trying to write what I should feel, not what I did. I stopped writing altogether. Eventually, with my health issues, I moved into online school. I broke up with my boyfriend from Catholic school. I turned grey in color, the in-between. With this newfound solitude, I did not have any outside opinion or perspective. While online school was lonely and not ideal, I gained a friend of myself. I learned what my true feelings towards girls were. I developed a sense of style, hair that matched me, and makeup I felt confident in. Most importantly, I started my blog. In the beginning, it was a passion project for college. However, it became a place to express these thoughts I'd hidden forever. I wanted people to hear them, to help someone. Through all of these changes, I still giggle about when I pretended not to be myself. It isn't because I regret learning that lesson, it's because I couldn't imagine not being authentically myself. My words, my colors, my identity will stay bright.

My best friendship flourished through email for 4 years. Since adolescence, I've feared social interaction and the majority of presentations. I was the kind of kid who wouldn't raise their hand, regardless of whether they knew the answer. In fact, most people around me noted they didn't know I was smart. Entering middle school, everything in me wanted to succeed. I had been admitted to the honors English course they offered, and it was a passion I knew I could grow. My first few months in the class were smooth. I easily escaped presentations because of our mainly reading-based assignments. My teacher, Ms. Cohen, was a younger teacher who seemed to enjoy my writing. A simplistic appreciation for my effort was greatly appreciated. Her influence on me only grew when I was forced into communication. Midway through the year, we'd been given an oral presentation assignment of a short story. Early on, I brainwashed myself into thinking it wouldn't be a problem. I didn't want to make it a problem and bring it up to Ms. Cohen. However, the day came, and I froze before stepping onto the auditorium stage. In my quietness, I found a sense of defeat. After a moment of tears and the ring of the bell, that was the last time I'd stay silent. Ms. Cohen approached me later in the day to ask if I was ready for my presentation. Quietly, before thinking, I admitted my tears and stress. I didn't think it would become anything remarkable. I thought it was embarrassing. Without a second thought, Ms. Cohen told me to see her after class. For the next 2 months, Ms. Cohen and I emailed back and forth regardless of how often I saw her in school. She wrote comments on my work, gave me words of encouragement about my presentation, and modified the presentation for me. As I grew more comfortable, we met in person, and I was able to finally give my presentation to her. Nobody knew this trust we'd built, but it saved me. She taught me the importance of a whispered admittance of defeat. She stayed present, trusted my writing, and gave me the time I needed. In the end, I earned a 100 on the assignment and presentation. Throughout the next four years, I've given her countless life updates. From college to new writing projects, she always responded with a new piece of advice. Over my complicated years of online schooling, I learned more from Ms. Cohen through email than I did in any in-person conversation. She took in my stressed, half-grammatical upset and carried me through. This relationship was more than an email and a presentation. She became the one person who heard everything and judged nothing. She treated me as an intellectual, powerful, communicative student. Every time I'd hit submit, I'd hold my breath. Yet, Ms. Cohen continues to teach me that I deserve to share my story. There is always a way. Modifying an assignment or taking time to regroup doesn't make me less than. It makes me intuitive and strong. Today, Ms. Cohen is a high school teacher at my high school. I don't email her nearly as much, but I also don't struggle with my speech nearly as much. I advocate for myself, raise my hand in class, and share my writing. Most kids consider her a tough teacher. While this may be true, she sees the prospect of every student and pushes them to their greatest potential. I was pushed to my greatest potential, and here I am. Greater than ever.