I wear my masks with a twisted sense of pride and shame, upset that I no longer recognize the face beneath. We all wear masks to some extent; it’s how humans survive. But the urge to mask in every place, every day, every moment of waking existence begins to take its toll and distorts reality from what our senses perceive. For if we know not ourselves with a face bare and free, how do we even know which masks to wear, and when?
I wear a mask at work with coworkers, and another with customers; both are extravagant, flamboyant things with frills and makeup like I’m heading to Venetian Carnevale. I wear a mask with strangers, basic but secure, like an N95 filter. I wear a mask with friends, light and loose and clear, so there’s at least an attempt to see the real me. I protect myself from family with a thick and heavy balaclava, to conceal the truth of my identities and keep me safe from their cold. Yet I never drop the mask entirely, for there is a strange and spiteful comfort of knowing my self, my true self, is protected at all costs. The sensory pain on the bridge of my nose, the tightened straps looping around my ears, the pressure pushing on my face as the mask tightens its grip on my very being; it is my cradle. For as long as I feel this pain, I know I am safe. Protected. I love myself enough to know the world will never love the true me, and so I mask to give myself a fighting chance. The masks hurt. I don’t want to wear them. But the fear of living without them outweighs any freedom gained. The consequences of unmasking are too great, too destructive to even entertain the notion.
In my dreams, sometimes the mask falls off. Sometimes I rip it off myself, and other times a loved one will gently pull it off my face. How I long for the day where I can feel truly safe and free without the mask, the covering, the deception. For would it not be better for the world to know who I truly am? Is that not what we are told when we are young; to be honest, truthful to others? Or does that sage wisdom stop at the line where honesty to ourselves becomes discomfort for those around us?
I’ve started unmasking with purpose. Only for small, select moments. Only for a breath. Only with those I truly trust; those who know the extent I mask and with those who have given me the privilege of seeing themselves unmasked, if only for a moment as well. It’s not much, but it makes all the difference. If not to myself, then to those I claim to care, for if they are not entitled to my truth, then who in this world? When I take the mask off, I feel the breeze of life hit my squished, sweaty face and I feel uncomfortable. Exposed. But I also feel the sweat of shame and burden begin to evaporate. My pores open and my muscles release their tension.
I feel vulnerable, but I feel free. If this is the cost to unmasking, it might be worth it.
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