Masks and Mirrors

   

                         

Masks and Mirrors

You know... it’s funny. When I was little, I thought if I just stayed quiet enough, if I just made myself small enough, no one would notice. Maybe then the shouting would stop, the crashing sounds of fists through walls and the way her sobs echoed through the floors, seeping into me like poison.

But they never did stop. The screams were always there. Always.

She never spoke about it afterward, my mother. She would just wear her mask of silence. A mask of bruises hidden beneath makeup, like it was part of her skin, part of her role in this play that never seemed to end.

I think I learned how to wear that mask before I even learned how to speak.

It’s strange, isn't it? To be so young and already know how to disappear. How to become whatever people needed me to be. Quiet. Obedient. The good daughter. The strong one. The one who kept it all together while pieces of me fell apart. My reflection in the mirror felt like a lie... always.

There are so many versions of me out there. I don’t even know which one is real anymore.

There’s the me that everyone sees polite, smiling, perfect. The girl who knows exactly what to say to keep the peace, to avoid the questions, the stares. Then there’s the me that stares back from the mirror late at night, after the lights are off and no one’s around. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t pretend. She looks at me with hollow eyes... asking me, begging me: Who are you?

But I don’t know. I’ve worn so many masks, I’ve forgotten what my face really looks like.

They say we are made of pieces... fragments of everyone we meet, everything we experience. But what happens when the pieces don’t fit? When you become a puzzle that can’t be solved? I am not whole. I am fragments. I am cracks.

“Shattered glass, I am,
A soul scattered like dust,
Reflecting the faces of strangers,
But where is mine?
Who holds my truth,
When the mask is all they see?”

There’s a version of me my mother knows... or thinks she knows. The dutiful daughter, never asks for too much, never causes trouble. But she doesn’t see the girl who hides behind her own ribs, screaming inside, aching to be heard. She never sees me.

And then there’s the me I show to friends—well, not friends... acquaintances, I guess. I laugh when I’m supposed to. I talk about normal things... about boys, about school, about dreams I don’t even believe in anymore. I tell them I’m fine, even when my chest feels like it’s caving in. Even when I can feel the darkness swallowing me whole.

The truth is... I don’t even know what fine means.

It’s like I’m living in a house of mirrors, each one showing me a different face, a different version of who I am. But none of them feel right. None of them are mine.

“Mirror, mirror,
Tell me what you see,
A thousand faces staring back,
But none of them are me.
I wear the mask of silence,
I wear the mask of shame,
But underneath the hollow smiles,
Do I even have a name?”

I keep thinking about the versions of me that live in other people’s minds. The girl my father sees... or refuses to see. The girl my mother clings to, hoping I won’t end up like her. The girl strangers pass by on the street, imagining she has it all together.

But none of them... none of them are me.

And maybe there is no true self. Maybe we’re just a collection of all these masks, all these broken reflections. Maybe who we are depends on who’s looking. And I’ve never had the courage to stop pretending long enough to find out. I’ve been so many people for so long... I’m afraid there’s nothing left underneath.

There’s this story my mother used to tell me about a woman who wore so many masks that, in the end, her face disappeared. All that was left was the mask... just an empty shell, hollowed out by everything she could never say.

Is that what I am? A mask? A ghost of a person who could have been real, who could have screamed, who could have fought?

Tell me... which one of these masks is really me? The obedient daughter? The quiet girl in the corner? The broken thing that cries alone at night, hoping someone will hear?

Or am I none of them?

Am I just nothing?

“If I peel away the layers,
Strip away the lies,
What’s left beneath the surface,
When the final mask dies?”

Because I don’t know anymore. I don’t know who I am. I’ve been shaped by hands that never cared enough to ask. I’ve been molded by pain, by silence, by a life that has never been mine to live.

And now... all that’s left is this. This mask. This empty reflection staring back at me in the mirror... waiting... wondering...

Who am I?