Pod 5: Masks

“I am no longer the influenced child of innocence

But the undecided prophet of the future,

Unsure of decisions but certain of their existence.

Loving and learning; turning and yearning,

I am searching for my caged soul.

The innocence of society sickens yet heals this undecided mind.

Tactfully in influences, yet bluntly it cuts.

I am sad yet with a flash of an eyelid

My tears wash back happiness and joy.

So, unprevented and naïve my life is ruled

And the only individuality I have

Are my socially perverted thoughts of freedom.”

– Nina Peycke

I wrote this in Std 8 or 9 (Grade 10 or 11). Brimming with angst. My English teacher at the time, Mrs Young, gave me 8/10 and commented something like “Well done. This proves that behind your façade lurks a sensitive being.” (or something like that) I remember feeling entirely exposed and deeply violated. Something incredibly raw had bled from my soul and she had seen a part of me that had slipped past the guards. What had I done? What could she see? Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. I wanted to crawl under my desk, I felt like a transparent being with exposed raw nerve endings. Vulnerability was dangerous. It wasn’t cute. It wasn’t brave. It was a dead ass liability.

I had worked so hard at curating my persona by then, that kickass, confident, funny, loudmouthed, slightly unhinged kid. My own glittery fortress of “cool” – well, as cool as I was going to be without being mates with the “in” crowd. Strutting in confidence (mostly bolstered by substances throughout my 20’s and 30’s) and bouncing through the world like I was untouchable, unbreakable. It wasn’t confidence, it was camouflaged survival. Re-reading that poem now, I can’t but laugh at myself. So desperately wanting to be authentic, but absolutely revering the mask I had, in this case unsuccessfully created, as a protection to the world that had inadvertently shaped me. But safety that requires performance is not safety. And love that depends on pretending isn’t love.

Keep in mind, I come from the generation that was raised by “I’ll give you something to cry about”.  This is not a dig at our parents, we are all formed by the generation that raised us. That’s just how it is. Our parents come from a generation where there was value in productivity. The generation of “What will the neighbours think” – not “how do you feel”. You didn’t feel, you did. “Children are meant to be seen, not heard” (I know, right???)

The year after I left school, one of my friends was killed in a horrific car accident. It really shook me. It was the first time I was confronted by the idea that I was mortal. A few days after hearing the news I was at a shopping centre, when something triggered me and ashamedly I started getting teary.

My mother seeing this said “What are you crying about?”

Me: “My friend died Mom”.

Her: “She is in a better place! You are only crying because you are feeling sorry for yourself, that you won’t get to be friends with her. This isn’t about her, this is about YOU!”

This conversation is still so jarring to me.  I remember many of these and it was entirely the reason I believed it wasn’t safe being sensitive. I didn’t want to be seen, I just wanted to be loved – even if just for the character I played. My experience was that currency of love was compliance. It reinforced my belief that emotion wasn’t safe. Sadness made other people uncomfortable, and I needed to edit myself to be acceptable.

So, I kept smiling. Kept laughing. Kept bouncing off the walls like a feral firework. And that’s what masks do. Masks are brilliant. They have to be. They are your armour. Your smile that says “you’re fine” when you are dying inside. You nonchalant bravado that says “whatever” when the rejection burns. Your sarcasm that says you’re tough when you are terrified. You’ve got a mask for every occasion, and you’ve worn them so long, they feel like skin. That twisted sense of humour because the horror of reality, would hurt too much.

But here’s the thing. Masks are prisons. The more you wear them the more you forget who’s underneath. You perform. You please. You perfect. But you never truly show up as yourself. You built them to fit in. And then, this in turn creates the feedback loop – “I can’t be myself, it’s not safe. I am not enough” that quiet brutal lie, you have started to believe. Masks don’t just hide you from the world, they hide you from you.

Masks are a way of outsourcing. We put on a mask, pretend to be someone else to be loved.  Why? Because we need approval, external approval. Outsourcing the validation we so desperately crave when all the while we are discounting the most important opinion in the world: our own. The more we perform, the more we betray ourselves with inauthenticity. How can we approve of ourselves if we are fake? And I guess that’s what happened to me.

After decades of trying to be who I thought the world needed me to be, I had a break down. I found myself on a remote farm, alone and stripped of all I knew. It took about 9 months of catatonia followed by the process of getting to know myself, the real me. I had denied myself the privilege of being authentic for so long, it literally got down to barebones business of: who am I? What does love look like for me? What does it feel like? What do I like doing? What makes me happy? Just like the Emperor’s New Clothes story – except, I was the Emperor- parading around, convinced I was clothed in the finest fabric of charisma, confidence, and charm. The emperor was only stripped of the lie because someone dared to say “But you are naked”. And the person to call out me… was me. It started with the simple question of: Who are you when you aren’t twisting yourself into palatable shapes? When you aren’t auditioning for love? Who are you when nobody is watching? Because out there in the middle of nowhere, on that farm, no one really was watching.

You hear all these gurus and pop spiritual folks say “you need to love yourself”- I had no idea what that meant. How could I love what I didn’t know? This isn’t about ripping your masks off all at once – that’s just another performance. It’s about noticing them. Questioning them. Daring to take them off, even just for a moment, even with just one person. Masks may feel protective, but they steal your right to be known. If no one knows the real you, then no one can love the real you either.  And even if they do say they love you, it won’t feel like love. (Can you say “I-M-P-O-S-T-E-R  S-Y-N-D-R-O-M-E?)

But then slowly the shift happens. Ever so slightly, your existence is no longer torn between the terror or “What if they see me?!” but more the intriguing possibility of “what if they see me…and they stay?” What if my mess is actually the magnet? What if sharing my path is the permission slip someone else needs to unlock their own cage?

I am still unmasking. Still learning to sit with the twitchy discomfort of being real. Still learning to trust my voice. Still catch myself responding to something and thinking: “wait, is that really me?” My eternal soul now knows I will be fine no matter what.  And for the first time: I want to be loved for what’s under the mask, not despite it.  Because masks may be pretty: but my face – my real, wrinkly, scarred, wildly feeling, unedited face – that’s fucking gorgeous.

And I love that I am a feral firework.

(and yes, Mrs Young, I am still writing)