Here is what I know:
My name is not Anne.
I am an abuse survivor, a rape survivor and an Adult Child. I am apparently a very good actor, because if you knew me "in real life" you'd never know I was anything but a happy, well-adjusted, confident, bubbly person. Over the years I've even managed to lie to myself. The pieces of that mask are starting to fall away, though, and I'm learning who my true friends are. I have begun to cut the toxic people and relationships out of my life. But I have a long way to go, and that road is going to also require me to forgive, something that I'm not quite ready for yet. Outside of knowing that I'm a good actor, I really struggle with figuring out what else I'm good at.
I was recently diagnosed with Bipolar II, Chronic Depression and PTSD, but I'm trying not to let those diagnoses define me. I'm trying not to be ashamed of my diagnoses and I'm learning that these things are medical conditions, and like any medical condition, I need treatment for it.
I started therapy a year ago with the intention of learning how to deal with certain things that were going on in my life, but in the process I've realized that first and foremost the journey is within me and before I "go" anywhere else, I need to figure out who I am outside of all the usual labels that society (and I) have put on me. And what scares the living hell out of me is that I have no idea who I am behind this mask.
People need to realize that mental illness isn't all that uncommon and the person standing next to you on the street, in the classroom, in your workplace or in your family could be experiencing the same struggles that I have and you probably wouldn't even know it.
So with this blog I hope to continue to discover who I am - the good, the bad and the ugly. I want to fill in this empty shell with something more concrete. And for the first time in my life, it feels good to move forward.
Please Hear What I'm Not Saying
Don't be fooled by me.
Don't be fooled by the face I wear
for I wear a mask, a thousand masks,
masks that I'm afraid to take off,
and none of them is me.
Pretending is an art that's second nature with me,
but don't be fooled,
for God's sake don't be fooled.
I give you the impression that I'm secure,
that all is sunny and unruffled with me, within as well
as without,
that confidence is my name and coolness my game,
that the water's calm and I'm in command
and that I need no one,
but don't believe me.
My surface may seem smooth but my surface is my mask,
ever-varying and ever-concealing.
Beneath lies no complacence.
Beneath lies confusion, and fear, and aloneness.
But I hide this. I don't want anybody to know it.
I panic at the thought of my weakness exposed.
That's why I frantically create a mask to hide behind,
a nonchalant sophisticated facade,
to help me pretend,
to shield me from the glance that knows.
But such a glance is precisely my salvation, my only hope,
and I know it.
That is, if it's followed by acceptance,
if it's followed by love.
It's the only thing that can liberate me from myself,
from my own self-built prison walls,
from the barriers I so painstakingly erect.
It's the only thing that will assure me
of what I can't assure myself,
that I'm really worth something.
But I don't tell you this. I don't dare to, I'm afraid to.
I'm afraid your glance will not be followed by acceptance,
will not be followed by love.
I'm afraid you'll think less of me,
that you'll laugh, and your laugh would kill me.
I'm afraid that deep-down I'm nothing
and that you will see this and reject me.
So I play my game, my desperate pretending game,
with a facade of assurance without
and a trembling child within.
So begins the glittering but empty parade of masks,
and my life becomes a front.
I idly chatter to you in the suave tones of surface talk.
I tell you everything that's really nothing,
and nothing of what's everything,
of what's crying within me.
So when I'm going through my routine
do not be fooled by what I'm saying.
Please listen carefully and try to hear what I'm not saying,
what I'd like to be able to say,
what for survival I need to say,
but what I can't say.
I don't like hiding.
I don't like playing superficial phony games.
I want to stop playing them.
I want to be genuine and spontaneous and me
but you've got to help me.
You've got to hold out your hand
even when that's the last thing I seem to want.
Only you can wipe away from my eyes
the blank stare of the breathing dead.
Only you can call me into aliveness.
Each time you're kind, and gentle, and encouraging,
each time you try to understand because you really care,
my heart begins to grow wings--
very small wings,
very feeble wings,
but wings!
With your power to touch me into feeling
you can breathe life into me.
I want you to know that.
I want you to know how important you are to me,
how you can be a creator--an honest-to-God creator--
of the person that is me
if you choose to.
You alone can break down the wall behind which I tremble,
you alone can remove my mask,
you alone can release me from my shadow-world of panic,
from my lonely prison,
if you choose to.
Please choose to.
Do not pass me by.
It will not be easy for you.
A long conviction of worthlessness builds strong walls.
The nearer you approach to me
the blinder I may strike back.
It's irrational, but despite what the books say about man
often I am irrational.
I fight against the very thing I cry out for.
But I am told that love is stronger than strong walls
and in this lies my hope.
Please try to beat down those walls
with firm hands but with gentle hands
for a child is very sensitive.
Who am I, you may wonder?
I am someone you know very well.
For I am every man you meet
and I am every woman you meet.
Charles C. Finn
September 1966
