The Void Inside

The Mask I put on

We meet again, the same old room. As I sit on my bed, my mind in a gloom and wanders to another dream-like state. My body becomes disoriented, and I feel detached from everything. I begin to disconnect from the world as I begin to feel weightless from all the emotions I've been stockpiling. My vision blurs, obscuring my surroundings. My mouth slowly opens as I raise my head, bringing me out of that state. As my pupils dilate, I slowly blink and feel cold sweat trickle down my pits, causing shivers down my spine. I begin to see again and look down at my hands, perplexed as to what the hell just happened.

This all started after the day I wore the mask. What kind of mask? You're probably wondering. The mask we're all wearing. Some do it to fit in, to feel included, and to seek validation, but that is not the case with me.

The mask I wear, conceals my true emotions. Every day, I wake up with the same duty of camouflage. As toxic as I am to myself, I cannot allow myself to be truly seen. Why? I'm sure that's what you're wondering. The fear of being judged, ridiculed, or hurt as a result of revealing my true self.

As illogical as it may appear, I chose to be this way. I don't think I was always like this. I don't remember how it all started, but childhood trauma may have played a role. As the days pass, I begin to feel weary. I'm feeling helpless as I lose more and more of myself.

First, my emotions begin to dissipate as I become unreposnive, like a frozen laptop screen. As I look around, I notice people with smiles on their faces and affection for one another. I begin to think to myself that the thought of someone being affectionate to me makes me feel uneasy. Why? That feeling of warmth when someone hugs you, I dont feel it. It feels like a body is squeezing the juice out of me. Depending on how long the hug is, it can feel suffocating at times. I want to pull out because of the sudden awkward tension between the person and I. I wonder why people enjoy this. Perhaps I'm just socially awkward or dislike being touched.

When I try to recall the last time I was myself, I am bombarded with memories of being betrayed, belittled, ashamed, degraded, and inferior. I start crying, wanting to forget everything. I scream and pound onto my pillow, tears streaming down my cheeks, suffocating from the weight of my emotions. This is probably why I wear a mask. To avoid feeling like this. As the days turn into weeks and months, I begin to forget myself, my past, and my memories. I begin to feel disconnected from my emotions.

I go about my day, mask firmly in place. Its cold porcelain surface conceals my true self from prying eyes. Social anxiety grips me, so I avoid connection, watching from behind my facade.Familiar faces from the past now seem alien. The longer I don this mask, the more my perception shifts. I see through the false fronts of those around me. Their real motives, actions, and expressions are laid bare. I begin to doubt everyone I thought I knew. Hearing their cruel words and witnessing their betrayals shatters my illusions. Why are people so ugly beneath the surface? As I numb my own feelings, I become hyper-aware of others. Their masks may fool the casual observer, but I see the cracks. The more I hide, the more I notice the falseness in those around me.

The mask I wear is a shield, a barrier that conceals the depths of my emotions. It is a facade, a carefully crafted illusion that hides the vulnerability that lies beneath. Like a delicate flower, my truest self is protected by the thorns of this mask, for I have learned that safety lies in concealment.

The origins of this mask can be traced back to my childhood, a time when the fear of judgment, hurt, and gaslighting loomed large. In those formative years, I learned that revealing my true self was a risk too great to take. The sting of criticism, the pain of betrayal, and the confusion of manipulation – these were the thorns that pricked my tender heart, teaching me to retreat behind the safety of a mask.

And so, I have grown adept at this dance of concealment. The mask has become a well-worn companion, a trusted friend that shields me from the harsh realities of the world. But in the quiet moments, when I am alone, the mask slips, and the tears flow freely. It is then that my concealed self cries out, longing for the freedom to be seen, to be understood, to be accepted.

What kind of mask do you wear?