Every Lost Song: If You Have Never Been Known

You're born with something missing. Eyes, maybe ears.
One half of your family blames the other. You become a problem. You become a situation. You're not objectified, you're treated like you need to be solved.
You're confused. This environment isn't natural to your brain's own wiring. You see people who seem to navigate it more smoothly. You're frightened, and feel inadequate.
You struggle to learn. You observe everyone and constantly think about what's going on. You try to interpret actions, discern intentions. You're irrationally determined on keeping your head above water, a dog with a bone. You're passionate and emotional and it clashes with your need to be logical in order to survive even daily situations, which seem utterly alien to you.
You come to love puzzles. They teach you about the world. You realize, painstakingly fitting piece to piece, that you can't know anything about a puzzle that moves itself.
You flare up internally, wanting to challenge that thought. You don't lift your head to meet anyone's eyes, but your own eyes harden. You will find a way. If you don't come to understand your surroundings, you resolve to put your feet where you choose to and force your body to take the necessary steps.
This only comes after years of tightly held panic, which always seems to escape its leash. You go through several diagnoses. You eventually reject them all. You need to not be afraid. You know that you won't be so broken looking when you aren't so anxious. You know that inside, you aren't what you look like.
No one else does.
You're labeled a million things: inadequate, irrational, unreliable, ungrateful, liar. All you wanted to do was hug those people but they didn't appear to want a hug if it came from someone with your exterior.
Those in close proximity to you, those who love you, call their expectations by your name instead. They blame the fact that you are not that person on everyone you choose. Arrangements among your family and friends grow toxic and strained. Eventually, people drift away from you. You close your eyes. You want to sleep.
You put on a mask just to make speaking to family and old friends easier. You smile through the tears you don't cry. You used to cry all the time. Your family knows you as a very emotional child. So everyone assumes you're happy when you smile.
You start to realize that you aren't known at all, and you don't know anyone. You want to break that silence. You go looking for people in the strangest of places. You turn to the rest of the world--maybe seeking validation at first, but definitely seeking understanding all along. You want to look someone in the eye. You want to fall in to step with someone else. You bridge gaps that seemed impassable. You start to heal.
Everyone from before firms their opposition against this new turn of events. More and more, you are not the person they call by your name. You start to take off your mask. You take a deep breath.
The water is cold, colder than you've imagined. Everyone you have seen are behind you, traps in hand. Those boxes look so familiar. You start to turn around.
Someone you know calls your name.
You hang undecided. You could be safe. Sad, yes, but safe.
There comes that voice again.
It thrills in your blood, that memory of belonging.
You will be in uncertain territory. You will be searching and unsure and the people who you spent your time around will drift away because you are not like them anymore. But you know where you belong and you will be actively pursuing it. You will feel loved and give love in return.
You keep moving forward.
You look back, and occasionally someone looks for you on the horizon. But you don't go back. You let yourself grieve, because you know that no level of malice dictated the conditions you lived in. You know you were loved, you just weren't known.
You want to open your eyes again, so you do that.
Eventually someone from the shore splashes out to join you. You laugh and hug and cry, and you're not really sure why, except that it feels so indescribably right.
No one knows if you're flying or falling. Sometimes, you do both. But you don't do it alone anymore.