Masks

"Boldness is a mask for fear, however great."

- John Dryden, British Poet & Dramatist

*****

Stamped Youth Ministry: The Christmas Thing '08

Shaking. My hands were shaking. I couldn't tell you why. Maybe it was the knowledge that I'd have to MC soon. People looking at me. Contrary to popular belief, I've never been at home in crowds or in front of an audience. Strangers. I get scared, and anxious, and fidgety and uncomfortable. My throat constricts and my first instinct is to run. But I read in a book once that "Courage is doing the ordinary under extraordinary circumstances." So I suppose I try to practice some small measure of that.

But then, maybe it was the knowledge that she'd be there. Maybe it was the knowledge that I would soon debase myself for the entertainment of others. I don't know what it was. But I was scared. My throat closed up and my stomach tied itself into a knot far tighter than the one Ian had tied into my tie. At that moment, I did not want to be there. Anywhere but there. On the moon with no oxygen, climbing Everest in a blizzard, at home crying my eyes out. Anywhere but there.

But time moved on despite my misgivings. People arrived, the group adjourned to the cafe downstairs to have dinner and listen to the performers. Who were good. Really good. So good that I had to keep repeating to myself that they were bad, picking flaws in their music, their singing, if not I never would have had the guts go step up and sing when it was my turn. At that moment listening to them play and sing, I felt so insignificant. So...invisible. I wanted to run. In the worst way I wanted to just jump into my car and drive all the way home, leap into bed and hide under the blanket for a million years.

I stood outside and pretended I wasn't scared to death of half the people there. Pretended I wasn't scared out of my mind about what would happen if I had to talk to her. Pretended I was outgoing, and loud, and completely Sanguine. Baby sis came to see me. Asked why I hadn't come to their table. I was the MC after all. The MC should greet the guests. My only answer was that I was scared of her. Yeah. But she came by anyway. And I didn't know what to say. So I said whatever came to my mind. As per usual. Talk, but don't say anything.

My eyes never left the floor. I'd rather not have looked at anyone. Rather not have looked at her. Rather not entertain a hope. Why look? Why hope? Why dream? I'm a lot of things that are not complimentary. But I'm not stupid. I don't like looking people in the eye. I see myself reflected in their eyes. But it's not a liking, it's a tolerance. I'm an amusement to be cast away when I've lost my charm. But I couldn't help searching her out in the crowd each time I stood at the fore. Memorise her face, every nuance of voice, every expression.

The night moved in a blur. My song, "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas." The song I butchered. I stood there with a spot in my face, half blinded. My lungs contracted and refused to expand again. My throat closed off as if telling me it wouldn't allow me to begin. My fingers wouldn't play. But I started. I butchered the first line, but I started. Games that I facilitated and barely remember. A movie I didn't watch. My stomach in knots, always hurting. My hands always in my pockets so no one would see them shaking. Especially not her. Never her.

The masks one can put on are numberless. A myriad of faces each distinct in it's own right, but all the same in the fact that they are used to hide the part of you which you do not want seen. The part you do not want hurt. The part that wants to cry when someone tells you that you aren't good enough. The part that breaks a little more with every broken relationship.

In truth. I am scared. Of people I don't know. Of people I do know. Of myself. For myself. By myself. Sometimes I wonder how I get the strength to step out of bed each morning, and go through the day. The fiercest battles are often the ones that are fought, unseen by others. The ones inside. I don't know what makes me able to continue. I don't know what gives me the will to pull on that mask everytime. The mask that people think is "me." The mask of the loud boy who basks in attention. Whose ego could envelop the moon. Who is oblivious to the fact that people tune him out when he talks. Who can talk non-stop.

That mask is no more me than a porcupine is its quills. I know. I can see. I know no one listens to what I say. I know they're tired of my voice. But I can't stop. Because in the silence people see the real you. I hate the silence. I often wonder if people really do see how scared a person I am and maybe they just play along. Because you have to lull a scared animal into a false sense of security before you do anything with it. But there's no way to know. And besides, I don't think I really want the answer anyway.

Anyway, it doesn't matter. I just thought I'd record it. Because sometimes it's easy to lose yourself. I suppose I'm writing more to convince myself than anyone else. But in the end it doesn't mean anything anyway.

My hands are shaking. And I still can't tell you why.

Jared

*****

"Who knows what true loneliness is - not the conventional word but the naked terror? To the lonely themselves it wears a mask. The most miserable outcast hugs some memory or some illusion.”

- Joseph Conrad, English Novelist