The Stage Forgot My Name

There was a time when my name meant something. I was always called - to perform, to direct, to organize, to help. I was part of the noise, the light, the movement. I was needed.

Now, the silence feels heavier. People remember me only when they need something - a contact, a favor, a piece of advice. Then, when it’s done, the quiet returns.

And in that silence, I start to wonder if I was ever really seen, or if I was just a tool - useful until I wasn’t. Maybe that’s what hurts the most: not being forgotten, but realizing I was never truly remembered.

I used to find purpose in giving, in showing up, in being the reliable one. But lately, I don’t even know what’s left to give. I feel drained - emotionally, mentally, even spiritually. It’s as if all the versions of me that people once needed have slowly faded, and what’s left is someone I barely recognize.

And now, they’re doing benefit shows - the same kind I used to organize, perform in, and direct through the years. I see the posters, the photos, the laughter, and not a single message, not even a small invitation to be part of it. Not even to watch.

It’s a strange kind of pain - to watch something you helped build continue without you, as if you were never really there. Maybe that’s what it means to be forgotten - not suddenly, but slowly, piece by piece, until the world goes on and doesn’t even notice you’re missing.

I tell myself it’s fine. But some nights, it’s not. Some nights, it hurts more than I can say.