We all wear masks

“We all wear masks, and the time comes when we cannot remove them without removing some of our own skin.” ― André Berthiaume

Thursday, October 10th was World Mental Health Day.  October is a funny time of year.  We come into darker days and nights and sometimes for those who suffer with mental health problems, this can add to the difficulty with less daylight and sunshine to help lift moods and a general feeling of winter.  On the other hand, there can be a cosiness to this time of year too, a reduction of pressure to be outside and active.  Sometimes winter takes us into ourselves and just sometimes, that’s where we need to be.

Halloween makes me think of masks and this year, so does World Mental Health Day.  I can’t speak for everyone but, for me, the effort put into masking how I feel a lot of the time is exhausting.  I can’t blame anyone else for it.  It’s something that has always been instinctive.  My therapist called it apparent competence-the ability to come across as much more ok than one really is.  Psychiatrists rarely pick up on it.  They report that smiles and being smartly dressed and good eye contact means that you are ok.  For many people, the worse they feel, the greater the effort to come across as well.

Masking is something we all do.  We learn it at a young age.  It’s the polite stuff…pretending we want to be where we are, hiding our uncertainty, fitting into our peer groups.  Sometimes it’s a coping mechanism when there’s a real and desperate need for it.  Pretend everything is ok.  Get on with it.  Snap out of it.  We all know how to do these things too when the situation demands it.

In my work as a social care worker, it was fascinating and very refreshing to be with people who did not mask, who were themselves in every given situation and able to express their feelings as they were in the moment, not as they should be, or how they might be expected to be…they were so raw and real.  Working with people who didn’t communicate verbally taught me so much about how we communicate our feelings and how, without words, they are carried by the body.  But what happens if they never have a chance to be expressed, or more importantly, heard?

Have you ever stopped to examine your body language at a random moment? Have you noticed the tightness of your shoulders? The inward curl of your muscles? Have you noticed your shallow breaths that never get further than your throat and chest? Have you ever felt the physical effort it takes to keep the mask in place?

Masking on a continuous basis is a strange feeling mostly because it isn’t really a feeling at all.  It becomes second nature and you forget that you’re doing it.  For me, the first hints started to come at work about 7 years ago. I would be on top of things, happily juggling a dozen different things and in my own mind, thriving on the feeling of being busy and getting things done.  But more and more a strange thought would sometimes enter my head:

This is costing me.

I would push it away, not really wanting to examine what it might mean.  Being busy was my safe place and as I later realised, the area where I placed any self-worth I had.

It was only later when I began to understand what masking really meant that I started to feel the energy that went into it and from then on, I started feeling the exhaustion. Even now, social occasions take a lot of planning for and a lot of breathing space after.  I feel quite ashamed of this; I feel pathetic.  Why is this suddenly so difficult?  It never was before.

But I never really felt it before.

Sometimes I miss that ability to quickly tuck everything away and keep going. Sometimes I feel relieved when I can still do it. It’s been a crutch.

Putting masking aside is a scary business too.  It means being able to own how you feel and trusting people enough to share it when you can and want to.  It means taking risks and sometimes being the one to say something out loud and hope that maybe others will follow.

I’ve come to realise that maybe the best we can do is be true to ourselves in the moment.  It’s much, much easier said than done but if we can aim to forget about how we come across and what’s expected of us and just say what our reality right now.  The beautiful thing is that being real encourages the same from others.  It leads to those important “me too” moments and the revelations of realising that we’re not the only ones.

Admitting our reality can be scary when it’s not an easy time. But it also gives us permission to feel it.  I’m tired. I’m sad. I’m lonely. I’m ok. I’m feeling better. I’m lost. I’m relieved. Say them inwardly and outwardly.

Taking off the mask can be terrifying and painful. But it also allows you to breathe.