The Woman Beneath the Mask

On becoming someone I no longer need to hide. Masks, mistakes, and finding my way back to myself.

The Mask Has Fallen

The mask has fallen,

and out came the real me,

The flaws,

The burdens,

The misunderstood and unseen.

Terrified of what is hiding,

The broken pieces,

underneath.

But I dig even further,

Just to see,

Who I could be.

The costume unzipped,

Revealing naked vulnerability.

Who am I when the mask falls?

Will I recognize who I see?

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I used to be scared to keep a personal journal. It went beyond being simply afraid that someone else would see/read it. I have been so afraid of being honest with myself.

Who was I really when I had to face my thoughts?

We get so used to being able to push away the icky thoughts, that writing them down honestly? Becomes a daunting task of truth. To face who we really are. The victim we play, the wrongs we are unwilling to admit, the addictions, the improvements needed, the lies we tell ourselves, the insecurities. The raw, real, and honest. It’s hard to accept who we have hidden behind, especially when it comes to thoughts of survival. Rather within people pleasing tendencies, coping mechanisms, flowery words instead of actions, or an ego full of pride and unwillingness to let its guard down.

So when the pen touches the paper, will you hold back in order to protect the identity you choose to identify with? or will this time, you be so honest with yourself it makes you cry realizing how long you have held onto certain lies?

Would you allow yourself to be honest, so therefore you can finally be free?

The Mask is Slipping

If you cannot be honest with yourself, you cannot be honest with anyone else.

Growing up I was always self conscious. At a young age I was shamed into hiding myself and quieting my voice so well, that it was natural to blend in. I dulled my own shine to allow others too, and gave opportunities meant for me away like candy. I hid myself in the dark corners, with a blanket over my head to keep the light from seeping through. I became afraid of being seen, something that was supposed to come natural became agonizing anxiety. Eyes on me meant judgement, rejection, feelings of unworthiness, and the greatest fear we all face: ending up alone.

I made good friends, and I also made friends that could only meet me as far as my mask would allow. If i wasn’t away of what I was hiding, the mask then fit as if it were skin. Opportunities passed me by without looking in my direction. I became misunderstood because no one truly knew where I stood. Perhaps I’d nod my head in agreement, say things I know people would rather hear, maybe I said nothing at all. Or maybe I'd over-explain myself in the middle of an anxious spiral, desperately trying to make sure everyone understood what I meant. Battling soul versus mask.

My Own Monster of Manipulation

Somewhere along the way, people pleasing stopped looking like kindness and became its own monster of manipulation. And in retrospect I know its not because I wanted to manipulate anyone, but because I was constantly changing myself to control how I was perceived. I learned which version of me made someone comfortable, which version made someone stay, which version wouldn’t cause an argument, which version wouldn’t make me too much, too loud, too strange, too difficult, too honest.

I wore different masks for different people. And the strangest part? I was still me underneath all of them.

Because when you become accustomed to switching yourself depending on the room you’re standing in, eventually you start to wonder whether you’re being authentic or simply becoming very good at adaptation. A skill to have in the bag, but not a way to live. Even when you’re telling the truth, someone might still experience you as fake. Not because every word is a lie, but because they’ve met three different versions of you.

And all three of them were real. That was the problem.

I could believe something deeply and then abandon it the moment I felt threatened, rejected, or afraid of losing someone. I would agree when I didn’t agree, stay quiet when I had something to say, say yes when every part of me wanted to say no. Then I’d find myself resenting people for crossing boundaries I had never actually told them existed. I sabotaged myself believing it was empathy. Abandoned myself to keep the peace in places I never belonged. Instead of saving myself the trip, I dove into the mask as if my life would crumble without. Perhaps it would have.

The Game of Telephone

I often wondered why nobody seemed to understand me. But how could they, if I didn’t understand me either? It became a strange game of telephone with myself. The message started somewhere inside me, passed through fear, shame, anxiety, people pleasing, and whatever version of myself I thought the other person needed...and by the time it came back around, none of the pieces matched.

So I started wondering something I didn’t particularly want to ask:

Have I been lying?

Have I become so accustomed to editing myself that I had become a compulsive liar without ever meaning to be? Because what is a lie if you repeatedly tell people something that isn’t true? If I nod along, and follow the herd, am I just allowing the world to write my life while fulfillment and time quickly pass me by? What is a lie if you tell someone you’re okay because you don’t know how to admit that you’re not? if you say you don’t mind because you’re terrified of what will happen if you do? if you keep changing your answer until you find the one that will make someone stay?

And as I experienced life, and my perspective changed, I realized the mask was no longer protecting me. It was sabotage.

I wanted to be known but I was terrified of being seen. I wanted people to understand me but I kept handing them edited versions of the truth. I wanted genuine connection but kept showing up wearing a mask.

So how could anyone possibly recognize me?

The Return

The full circle return back to self and vulnerability.

Now, the mask is tossed away, and replaced with the truth of my flesh. The woman I have become throughout this learning journey and discovery of who I have always been. I think about the girl I used to be—the young, naïve girl who thought being loved meant being easy to love, who learned so early to make herself smaller, quieter, softer, more agreeable, as if taking up less space could somehow make the world hurt her less. She gave pieces of herself away so freely that eventually she couldn’t remember what belonged to her in the first place. She learned to read the room before she ever learned to read herself. She apologized for feelings she hadn’t even finished feeling. She became whatever version of herself she thought someone else might stay for. And God, I wish I could go back and tell her that none of it made her difficult to love, and that she was never too much. She didn’t need to earn softness by becoming silent. That one day she would grow into someone who could finally look at herself without flinching. Because I’m realizing now that growing up isn’t becoming some perfectly healed version of yourself who never makes mistakes. It’s about having the courage to look honestly at the person you became to survive and loving her enough to let her change. It’s admitting that I’ve hurt people while trying desperately not to be hurt, that I’ve manipulated situations without realizing what I was doing. Sometimes I’ve said things I didn’t mean because fear was louder than truth. I’ve worn so many masks for so long that sometimes even I couldn’t tell where the performance ended and I began. And maybe that’s the hardest part of becoming honest: realizing that you are not always the victim in your own story. Sometimes you are the one who was wrong, or caused the hurt. I have learned to sit with that without turning my shame into another mask.

I have decided that I don’t want to hide from myself anymore. I don’t want to keep becoming someone else just because I’m afraid the real me might be too complicated to keep. I want to be able to say, without rehearsing it first. I have learned to accept that some people won’t like me, some people will leave, and some may even only love the version of me that made them comfortable. But that is the price of finally being free. To understand that it’s okay to be disliked, and those indifferences push us into the direction that we desire to be without restraints.

I spent so many years terrified that someone would see me clearly and decide I wasn’t worth staying for, only to realize that being loved while hiding is not the same thing as being loved at all. I don’t want love that requires a disguise anymore. I want the terrifying kind. The one that sees contradictions, the mess, the history, the mistakes, the softness, the sharp edges, the woman I was and the woman I’m still becoming, and chooses to stay anyway. And if someone can’t love me there, maybe that isn’t another reason to change myself. Maybe it’s simply an answer. Because I spent too long trying to become worthy of being chosen. I think I’m finally learning that the greatest act of love I can give myself is to stop abandoning me first.

♥ Kayla | The Khaotic Good™