The Masks We Wear.

Recently, my fiancé and I started pre-marital counseling, which has been an odd transition for me after 8-plus years of seeing counselors individually. We are supposed to work through things like "how will you raise your kids" or "what is your approach to money management"; yet, our conversations haven't been able to address those topics quite yet. We have had to talk to death a challenge we are currently facing. While a necessary part of the couples counseling process, it has been painful and unpleasant. But it has also led to some pretty astounding revelations. Last night, my crippling fear of masks was the revelation of the hour.

Not masks like Halloween masks- albeit I will be the first to tell you that I am truly terrified of costumes that cover peoples faces- but the masks that we create and wear to protect ourselves from other people, from hurt, from ourselves. For years, I wore a mask. Every day, I worked tirelessly to make sure that no one would see the real me- the girl struggling with depression and anxiety, who felt like she couldn't keep herself glued together no matter how much primping took place. I wanted to be the perfect daughter, sister, student, sorority woman, employee, friend, sweetheart. Mental illness isn't perfect; it is messy. My mask covered that mess.

Until January 28th, 2016, when I decided to publicly take off my mask and toss it aside. That day, I promised that I would be authentic and real. I committed myself to sharing stories in order to help others see that mental illness is not something to be ashamed of or embarrassed about. I gave up the mask and it was scary and painful, but so worth it. Yet now, over a year later, I have found myself wearing a mask once again... pretending to be someone I am not. I find this mask suffocating and cruel. I want to fight it. Everything in my body is telling me to rip it off and throw it away with spite and anger.

But I can't. Because this mask isn't for me. It is for someone else. Sometimes we are asked to wear a mask in order to help others... like when visiting a sick friend and bringing cheer and smiles when all we want to do is cry. It may sound counterintuitive, but there are times when pretending is the best way to be authentic. Deep, meaningful love and tremendous care for others may mean gently settling into a part, a role, a place, a mask. It may be uncomfortable. It can bring great sadness.

That is the gamble that comes from sharing your life with others. There are days when you must wear a mask for someone else... to ease their suffering or to make their life better. But that doesn't mean that you lose yourself behind that mask. My revelation was that, although I hate wearing a mask, there is so much freedom in being able to decide when and where I will wear it. You have the control to decide the fate of your story, to decide who get to be apart of it and who gets to know it. That freedom is liberating. It is cleansing. While we all must wear masks from time to time, know that the decision to embrace that mask is yours alone.

“No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true.” -Nathaniel Hawthorne in The Scarlet Letter

Family Secrets.

When I was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder in September of 2009, I made the promise to myself that no one would ever know. I wanted everyone who met me to think I was perfect- an unattainable goal that no one can ever meet. A mental illness would mean that I wasn't perfect; that I was broken and flawed, a reject from God's assembly line. The shame of having a mental illness would drive me to great extremes, including lying to friends, family, boyfriends, and bosses. If my depression chained me to my bed for a day, my excuse was that "my car wouldn't start" or I had "caught a stomach bug". If I couldn't contain my emotions- sadness, anger, anxiety- then I was "just on my period". This sham went on for nearly 6 years. I was afraid that, if people found out about my mental illness, then everything that the depression and anxiety had been telling me would be true. No one would love me. My friends would leave me. My family would be embarrassed of me. As the years (and therapy sessions) went by, I started to overcome this fear and became more and more comfortable with sharing my story with others. First, my sorority sisters, then boyfriends and other friends. But I could never find the courage to talk to my family about it.

I am so very blessed with two of the most amazing parents on the planet, a sister who is both my foil and my soulmate, and an army of aunts, uncles, cousins, second-cousins, and people who aren't biologically related, yet absolutely part of my family. I was so deeply ashamed of my diagnosis- the idea that I could possibly bring shame to them was paralyzing. Mulan had nothing on me...

"Dishonor. Dishonor on your whole family. Make a note of this- dishonor on you. Dishonor on your cow." -Mushu to Mulan, Disney's Mulan (1998)

The thing that truly scared me the most was that I was afraid that they would blame themselves. That they would see my depression as a result of something that they did- that they weren't loving enough or didn't give me enough attention. Often, when trying to process mental illness, people seek something or someone to blame. I was terrified they would think it was their fault, that it would hurt them, or bring them guilt. That would be the farthest thing from the truth ever possible. I had an amazing childhood. I come from a family that bubbles over with love for each other. Although far from perfect, my family is perfect to me. The idea that they may feel like they were to blame for my mental illness felt like it may kill me. I couldn't bare to think of it.

So I decided that they would never know. The manager of our insurance account, my mom knew I was seeing a therapist and that I was struggling with anxiety and some depression- but what college student isn't? She would get the bills from my doctors, so there was no use trying to hide everything from her. But my dad and my sister? I couldn't let them know. I couldn't let the facade of the perfect daughter and sister drop.

That is, until I decided to start this blog. While home for Christmas break this past year, I knew I needed to tell them myself rather than let them read about it secondhand. I sat down in my father's office- him behind his desk, I in the recliner across from him and my mother on the bench next to me. I remember that my mom was doing laundry in the adjacent room so I could smell the clean, fresh scent of detergent- I thought "please help me clean this air, make this easier". Through tears, sobs, and snot, I explained to my parents that I had been struggling with a mental illness for years and that I was going to start sharing this story, my story- with them and with strangers. My dad's response?

"Okay. You know I love you and am going to support you no matter what."

It felt so anticlimactic. I had waited nearly 6 years to tell them that I was sick and the response I got felt so easy and relaxed. Like I had just told them that I was starting a new job or buying a new car. That's when I realized that it didn't matter that I had a mental illness, I was still me. My depression and anxiety had never defined me, thus my family saw me for who I was. I was the one who had built up this idea that their love could be swayed by the revelation that I was not their perfect daughter or sister. Their love would never change- mental illness is no match for a family's love.

And for that, I am most thankful.