I should have become an actor — it was a role I mastered long before I understood what survival meant. Since childhood, I learned to play a part. I walked through life wearing a mask and a suit of armor. The mask was simple: a face that showed nothing negative. No fear. No disappointment. No unhappiness. Those expressions weren’t allowed in my parents’ house. I was expected to smile sweetly and appear grateful, even when the “corrections” to my behavior were cruel. I was supposed to be thankful they took time out of their busy day to recalibrate my attitude.
So I pretended. I hid the turmoil brewing inside. I learned how to disappear behind that mask of happiness.
To the outside world, I looked like a sweet little girl — always cheerful, always appreciative, no matter what I was given, good or bad. I was taught it was shameful to show anything but a pleasant persona. I rarely took the mask off, terrified I’d be caught off guard and punished. Only at night, in the quiet darkness of my room, would it slip. I’d cry. I’d feel anger. I’d argue with myself about how unfair my parents were. I hated my reality down to my very soul.
Eventually, the mask became permanent. Automatic. It snapped into place the moment I woke up. What once protected me as a child became a trap as an adult. People mistook my mask of happiness for approval — as if my silence meant consent to whatever hell they chose to hand me. Abuse, disrespect, trauma… my face said, Sure, bring it on. Inside, I was falling apart. Confused. Unsure. Crying where no one could see.
I hated how the mask shaped my life, but I had worn it so long I forgot how to take it off.
Now, I’m learning to face life without it. I’m learning that I don’t have to accept what I don’t deserve. One of my bedroom walls is covered with masks — a reminder that they belong there, pinned and powerless, not on my face. I survived what required them. I don’t need them anymore.
Still standing, my masks pinned securely on the wall,
K.
