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The Mask

by | Sep 1, 2022 | ComLine, Voices of Recovery

I woke up at 5:15 am, covered in sweat. Scared. Tight. Shallow breaths. What in the world?
Took some breaths. Deep. In. Out. Breathe.

I held my arms around myself. You are okay. I am here for you.

Why? Where did this come from? Why do I continue to have these feelings?

Gently and quietly spoken, “Listen to yourself. Your dream.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

My assignment: Make a mask of Nixon for an upcoming play. No tools or instruction given. But make it happen within budget. Make it quickly before deadline! I plunged into the project like I always do. Head first, no holds barred, rush. Rush. Get it done. There’s a deadline, you know! Underpromise and over-perform. Get it done.

Not knowing exactly what material to use, I chose a clay-like substance. It molded so easily under my hands. I created the perfect bulbous nose, made it red and obtrusive. Obscene. I formed each and every detail. I added the baggy eyes. My hands formed the saggy skin under Nixon’s long neck. Meticulous. Worked on it for days. My artistic creation was the perfect replica. Perfect. No one would be able to guess the person behind the mask was not Nixon himself.

I presented it to the cast and director for review. Naturally, before deadline. Just in case anyone had changes to be made. They gasped. They applauded. They cheered for my creativity, especially with no tools and no instruction. Queen of the Work-around. I was wondrous.

Folks from the play group helped me cover the mask and put it away in a safe, secure, cool spot.

Dress rehearsal day came. Gulp! I put on the mask, toured the elementary school classrooms where I worked as a para-educator.

Each classroom I entered adored my work. Each audience envied the talent, the creativity, the exacting detail of the remarkable disguise. The concealment of identity was complete. There were oooohs. There were aaaahs.

I put the mask away safely once again. In its cool place with notes all around in bold letters exclaiming, “PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH. Please do not handle.”

The day of the play arrived. My stomach is all aflutter. My heart is gripped with excitement. I turn the doorknob of the closet where the mask was stored. I hold my breath. I open the door.

The mask has melted.

The notorious nose has shifted downward. The wrinkled neck has shrunken and collapsed into a pile of mush. This mask would not conceal identity. This mask would not provide any disguise what-so-ever. A pile of mush! Mush.

The mask has melted. It is no longer sheltering me.

I am scared. I am me.

And I am exposed.

It was truly a nightmare, only a dream. It’s ok to be vulnerable. It’s ok to be me. I am loved.

by Julie N

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