Chapter 12: The Mask I Wore

Before I had a diagnosis, I had a disguise.

I wore it everywhere—at work, with friends, even around family. It looked like ambition, wit, energy, compassion. It looked like “fine.” Like “just tired.” Like “she’s always like that.” But it was a mask, carefully layered to hide the chaos underneath.

I became a master of deflection. I smiled on command. I cracked jokes. I excelled. And all the while, I was unraveling inside.

Because if I could make people laugh, they wouldn’t ask why I wasn’t sleeping.

If I could overachieve, they wouldn’t notice the days I couldn’t get out of bed.

If I looked strong, they wouldn’t see that I was breaking.

There was safety in the mask—but there was also suffocation.

Over time, I began to lose track of where the mask ended and I began. I was afraid that if I ever took it off—if I ever showed someone the raw, messy, too-much version of me—they’d walk away. I thought survival meant staying hidden. I thought healing would only come after I figured it all out behind the scenes.

But healing didn’t wait for perfection.

It started the moment I let someone see behind the mask. The moment I whispered the truth and didn’t implode. The moment someone said, “Me too,” and didn’t flinch.

Taking off the mask didn’t make me weaker.

It made me real.

And in that realness, I began to breathe.