Masks

We may be more afraid of displaying our complicated, messy, genuine selves today than at any other time in recent history.

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This week, we’re going to take a ride in the Wayback Machine (the Way, Way, Waaaaayback Machine) as I share an essay I wrote for Freshman Comp in college. Considering that everything I wrote in college is saved in DOS-based WordPerfect on a handful of rusted, mildewing 3.5-inch floppy disks that may have been used as coasters during a 1999 New Year’s Eve celebration, it’s amazing I have this piece to share. I actually stumbled upon a hard copy of this particular assignment while packing the house for our move last year and dug it out again last week (from a stack of boxes we’ve yet to unpack a year after moving into our current home).

This was an extremely raw and personal reflection. I remember the headspace I was in when I wrote the first draft. It was a Saturday night when most of the other guys on my floor had gone out partying while I remained in the dorm feeling forlorn and broken, my friend Ben playing the Advanced D&D video game “Pool of Radiance" (circa 1988) on my computer while I wrote longhand. And I remember agreeing to let the class use this essay as a workshop piece—the fear and vulnerability I felt in that moment, facing the very rejection and exclusion by my peers that I described in the essay. It still hurts when I read this—both for the pain I was experiencing when I wrote it and for the adolescent angst and drama it reflects when reading it now.

I want to thank

Debra King

for inspiring me to dig through my “archives” and helping me to find the courage to share this essay. Debra writes the poignant and moving Substack blog, “Beautiful Things Grow Here,” where she reflects on her childhood experiences of abuse and the healing she is working towards in the present day. Debra’s is a true portrait of courage and survival, and I encourage you to check out her work. My share today was directly inspired by her ongoing publication, Sea Salt and Silence, where she shares and reflects upon the journal she kept as a teen.

I’ve never been a prolific writer. I tend to write in fits and starts with long gaps in between creative output. So here’s a rare glimpse into my 18-year-old headspace. I’m presenting it here unedited, in the version I submitted as a final draft 34 years ago. I think it’s still relevant today.

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Masks

Jeff Feldman
English 401, Section 31
Spring 1991

I have lots of thoughts and feelings. I tell them to no one. I keep them bottled up inside of me, instead. I’m not sure why, but I always have. Maybe it's because I don't feel comfortable telling people about myself. I can't even put my deepest feelings on paper for these assignments. I am afraid of what people will think of me, of what they might say. It's a silly fear, but I feel I have been hurt so many times that it's not worth confiding in people. Instead, I sit and suffer in silence, wrestling with my thoughts and emotions in a world of darkness that resides within me.

I trust no one. Why should I? Has anyone ever proven themselves worthy of that trust? Have I ever proven myself worthy? We lie. We cheat. We are two-faced and fake. We breed fear and self-doubt in ourselves and others. We patronize the weak and play up to the strong. I see this every day as I go about my normal life. Whispered comments and secret remarks that are loosed as soon as their subject is gone. No wonder I am terrified of sharing my thoughts with others.

I live behind a facade, rather than face myself and the world. The facade is a giant mask. I hold it in front of my face and gaze at the world through its eyes. It smiles a lot and pretends that nothing can affect it. At times, I try to remove it, but an irrational fear has welded it to my being.

Image not part of original essay.

I stare into a mirror, hoping to see who I am. The reflection returns my gaze, mimicking my appearance. I peer into its eyes and find darkness.

In the darkness is a child. He is lost. He stumbles through blackness, his arms outstretched, groping. The darkness embraces him, caresses him. It is tangible—thick and heavy. The child is submerged in it. His eyes are wide and clear, but within them lies a look of raw terror, as if he has been forced to bear too many horrors in his young life. The darkness laughs. It is a horrible sound in this place of utter silence. It is harsh and deep, rebounding off walls of black, bombarding the child, until he sinks to his knees, shivering. The darkness grasps him and wraps him in a cloak. He willingly pulls it tight about his body.

This child is a dreamer. His life is built on happier times, magic moments, and the hope that the world is not as terrible a place as it seems. The darkness constantly reminds him that it is. It forces him to live in disillusionment. He peers into the darkness, searching for anything. The cloak hisses in his ear, filling his head with negative thoughts that chip away at his resolve. The darkness has many names, but is best known as doubt or self-pity. The child weeps, his piercing wail ascending toward the heavens. An evil laugh erupts around him, and his anguished cries are swallowed by the darkness. The child's name is Self.

I back away from the mirror, unable to face myself. Questions flood my mind. Who am I—man or mask? Am I paranoid? Could people really act as I believe they do, or am I just imagining it? Maybe it's just the way I see things. Except I know it's not. I've seen it first-hand. I've heard the comments whispered behind people’s backs, witnessed the looks that are exchanged between people. The worst part is, I participate. I can't help myself.

I hide within myself and let the mask do all the work. It copies others, acts as they do, talks as they do. It puts on a good act. My mask protects me. It keeps me from getting close to anyone, from being known.

What good is honesty and openness when we can’t trust someone to keep our secrets? Do we share our innermost thoughts and feelings with someone, only to have them laugh about them when we leave? Could someone really do that? Do we really mean it? Our opinions seem to make us the unwitting butt of some cruel joke. I need the mask. It can stop the questions, hide the answers. It allows me to be someone different, someone who can be kind one minute and cruel the next. But is that what I want, the ability to turn on my friends and family at any minute?

The mask keeps me from humiliation. If I go along instead of go it alone, I just might blend in. That's what we all want anyway. The mask protects my fragile ego from being bruised. It ensures that no one will ever know who I am or know anything about me. On the other hand, I don't know anyone else either. Is this some side-effect of the mask, or something more? Does anyone really know another person?

I go to the mirror and look at myself, at my mask. It is black and unsculpted—a plain, dark front. No one can see in, but perhaps I can’t see out, either. I try to forget my inhibitions. I take hold of the mask and pry it from my face. The mask floats before me, the same, yet different. Maybe I'm just seeing it from another perspective. I examine the mask and notice it doesn't stop with me, but extends outward into infinity. There are eyeholes set at regular intervals, and at each set of eyeholes is a small face, looking outward at the world.

Somewhere in a realm of darkness, a child sits, hunched over, crying. Darkness hems him in on all sides, torturing and plaguing him. It wears away his faith in himself and in the world. But then, for some reason, the child stops crying. He smiles, and the smile becomes a laugh. He laughs at himself and at the darkness. It is a bubbly laugh, not forced or false. A high-pitched laugh, filled with innocent merriment and glee. It is a laugh from the heart, one that raises the spirits of all who hear it. The child's eyes sparkle, and darkness cringes, then slowly yields. He raises his arms, and an unwanted cloak slips from his shoulders as he slowly rises into the air. The darkness speaks in a booming, disembodied voice. It tells the child the horrors of life, whispers words of despair. The child hesitates and the darkness cries out, reaching for the child with a tendril of blackest night. It curls about the child's leg, trying to anchor him to its will. The child lashes out with his free foot, somehow severing the dark cord. The darkness howls as the broken end falls back into its nothingness. The child rises higher, an unnoticed thread of darkness clinging persistently to his leg. Looking down, he sees not the world of darkness he envisioned, but a dark island floating in a sea of light.

In front of me, the surface of the mask ripples, the calm broken. I stare in mute amazement as a small crack appears at the top of the mask. The crack grows larger by the second, then splits, and the mask breaks, giving birth to a golden child. He hovers several feet above the floor, his gaze never leaving my face. His eyes are what hold my attention. They are large and bright, but beneath them is a story of pain and sorrow that I immediately connect with. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. The child smiles. He is like a star, and I the planet beneath. His brilliance dwarfs me. A tear swells in my eye, then rolls slowly down my cheek. The child extends a tiny hand, palm up, fingers splayed. I take a timid step forward, my hand raised ever so slightly. The child nods, and I see myself reaching for his hand. I move as in a dream, watching my every motion. I see through the eyes of the child, and I realize he is me. I reach out and take his hand. The two halves of the mask crumble to dust.

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Reflection

Let’s start with the fun fact first. I loved (re)discovering that I had an affinity for the em-dash as far back as college. No one ever taught me how to use it; I think I just absorbed that writing style from the books I read. Screw the current thinking that says the em-dash is nothing more than archaic punctuation whose use reveals a piece to be the work of generative AI. The em-dash is a vital, compelling, and powerful writing tool that conveys thought, meaning, and emotion better than any AI-derived mimicry of human expression. AI uses the em-dash because real writers use the em-dash. The defense rests.

I remember the first draft of this essay had a much darker ending. The child was unable to escape the darkness around him. It continued to weigh him down, keeping him trembling behind his mask, afraid to show his real self to those around him. I changed the ending to be more uplifting after my professor returned her comments on the first draft. The conclusion was so depressing, she said. Even though it wasn’t how I truly felt, I decided to end the revised version positively, so she’d like it better. Anything to make sure I got that “A.” Honestly, it’s a perfect example of masking—I pretended to be okay because I thought it would make her feel better and think more highly of me.

In part, I think writing this essay was a cry for help. I felt isolated and was drowning in undiagnosed depression. Therapy was far less common for the “walking wounded” in the early ‘90s, reserved for those who had “real problems.” That wasn’t me. I wasn’t sick, I thought; just a sad loser. It would be another five or six years before I entered therapy, after breaking down in front of my Dad and begging him to find me someone to talk to—someone who could help me feel better about myself and about the world in which I lived.

The golden child was a fantasy, a representation of my purest, most innocent self—one I was not yet able to embrace. It took decades, but I feel like I’ve finally reached that point—the place where I can look upon and relate to my younger self with compassion and empathy, rather than scorn and hatred. As a young adult, I felt a yearning to feel validated, accepted, and whole. Now that wish has come true.

The public-facing masks we wear are just as prevalent these days, if not more so. Consider the performative nature of most social media—the facades we create to show people only our most curated, sanitized selves. Consider how people can pass off AI-generated writing as real, human thought and emotion; how AI and deep-fake technology can be used to create images that warp reality and masquerade as truth. How we rush to identify with our tribes and affinity groups, fail to challenge groupthink, and succumb to the hypnotic call of demagogues and influencers. We may be more afraid of displaying our complicated, messy, genuine selves today than at any other time in recent history.

I’m so happy that Substack is a place where many of us feel we can be our authentic selves. A place where we receive each other openly, share honestly, and validate our lived experiences. I’m on Substack to be real and to connect with other people who want the same. Come join me in the comments and let me get to know the authentic you. I don’t want your curated self. I want your beautiful disaster.

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ICYMI

If You Prick Us, Do We Not Bleed?

Give Yourself Permission Not to Hate

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This Week’s Moment of Unconditional Love

This is our little Dora (the Explorer), so named because she was the first of three foster kittens to poke her head out of a box and wander our living room. I can’t believe that was more than 10 years ago. Like most pre-teens, Dora really wants a phone, which is why she curled up on top of my wife’s Samsung Galaxy. Dora can be a but ornery, so I wouldn’t call her the poster child for unconditional love. But when she does want to love you, she does so with her whole feline self—for five minutes. Then she smacks you and runs away. Still, we love her unconditionally, and I bet you would, too. Just look at that sweet face!

Your favorite furry friends can be featured in the Moment of Unconditional Love, too. Just email photos to jeffreyafeldman2015@outlook.com. I’ll work them into the weekly mix, and just maybe, share a little something special about you and your animal friend, too. (Hint: this is a good way to get me to share your Substack! 🤫)