Behind the mask. in Like No One Is Reading

I have very few friends who really know me, who I’m open and honest and completely myself with.

Like… two.

Okay, okay, it’s like none, because I’m never 100% open and honest about things that are going on inside me, about my mental health and well-being. Not even with my therapist, not totally.

This is probably the hardest thing I’ve had to (try to) come to terms with over this past year. I’ve been lying to everyone my whole life. Every person. There are things I have always kept hidden, things I could never bear to say out loud or even write down. And I’ve written down some pretty serious shit over the years.

Fully accepting ADHD, seeking and receiving diagnosis and medication, and allowing myself to open up just the tiniest bit more with my therapists than I’ve ever opened up before, opened a floodgate. I am trying to process an entire lifetime of pretending to be someone I’m not, someone I’ve never been. I’m trying so hard to take off a mask that I’ve worn for so long that I have no idea what exists under it.

I’m trying to discover the possibilities of what exists under the mask.

Without the mask.

Me-with-the-mask always holds her shit together. She always does whatever needs doing to survive. She never falls apart or breaks down. She never panics.

She never does any of those things where anyone can see her. She didn’t use to, anyway, not very often.

And then, later, she would talk about it like it’s funny, oh, haha, I freaked out, hilarious. But, really, she was dying inside, shriveling up, diminishing to nothingness.

Or, she talks about it like it was an episode she conquered rather than a single battle in a life-long war that she merely survived, and not unscathed.

She projects pride when what she really feels is guilt and shame and self-doubt… and, sometimes, self-loathing and, often, a sense of agony at the idea of continuing.

She’s tired. She doesn’t want to hold it together anymore. She’s not even sure that she can.

Because she doesn’t want to be me-with-the-mask anymore.

But, still, I don’t talk about these things because, always, whenever I even hint at them, someone takes it personally, someone gets their feelings hurt. I swear on all that I love that I do not feel these ways or think these things because of them, these things pre-date 100% of the people in my life currently. These things are within me. But someone always misunderstands.

So I don’t talk about these things.

The people in my life have other people in their lives. I… don’t. And they are talked-to by all of those many other people in their lives. I am talked to by no one else aside from internet strangers as words on a screen. The people in my life have others that they need to “be there” for. I… don’t. Yes, of course, I have my children, but that’s very different and not a great comparison. They have multiple people in their lives that contact them regularly, or daily, even. Friends and family members and co-workers and even spouses/partners. I do not have that level of human contact in my life and haven’t for a very long time and I struggle with that sometimes. It makes me feel empty inside; empty of family, empty of companionship, empty of worth, empty of life.

And, when I say things like that, people who love me often take it personally, as if I’m saying they are responsible for my discontent, my depression, my angst.

So I don’t talk about these things.

And I know my life could be different, will be different some day. I’m doing the work, goddammit, so it better fucking pay off.