“Do you think I should apologize? Explain what was happening for me in that coversation?” I ask.

“Can I give you some feedback?” Her voice conveys such care that I recognize the sincerity immediately.

“Absolutely.”

“I have seen you, several times, feel pressured to give context to people for your feelings. You don’t have to justify your anger.”

“This is news to me and very valuable information. I have definitely gotten the message that my feelings are too intense for others and so I try to keep them under wraps. When they surface I feel obligated to explain them. Part of my masking toolkit to avoid making neurotypical people overly uncomfortable.”

“What does it feel like to take the mask off?”

“Take…the mask…off? I am not sure I have ever done that. Just added layers to make it increasingly opaque. Which I associate with increased effectiveness and therefore more belonging because other people are more comfortable around me.”

---

So, I have been wondering, what would it be like? What all is going on under that mask? And I have found that the mask is not just for other people. I use it with myself as well.

---

I am in a dimly lit room. The light is on mostly out of habit. It isn’t needed, I know every itch of this room because I live here. But I notice that one corner, which I’ve never really noticed before is particularly dark. I see the faint outline of…is that a door? I approach cautiously. There is in fact a door. I reach out and register the distinct temperature of the door knob. I put my ear next to the door. I can’t hear anything distinct but I feel drawn in. I close my eyes, turn the knob and crack the door open, feeling the shift in the air current. The breeze is fresh. It has a pleasant taste but is disorienting in its differences from the air of the room behind me. I peak through my eyelids. It is dark within. I have to choose whether to close the door and stay with what is known or risk entering far enough to flip the light on. I am certain I risk the door shutting behind me if I enter any further.

---

This has happened before. The certainty that I have an accurate read on my surroundings only to find out that there is another door I didn’t even imagine existed. The doorways I traversed to leave the music department, to discover my sexuality, to assert my gender… I am always relieved when I make it into that next room. It seems to fit my needs a little better each time. But only after I find the light which is just as likely to be a switch on the wall as a pull cord in the middle of the room. The only option is to believe there is a light here and to grope in the dark for it. Sometimes it really fucks with me and I find only a matchbook. There is no way to be graceful about the search, stripped of the comforts of pride. It’s a clumsy process. It requires existing in a vulnerability that is as transformative as it is painful.

---

I am in the room now. It feels like a mistake. As suspected the door closed behind me, the sound of the latch echoing. It is lonely. It’s too soon to know how deep the room is. All of my senses are reacclimating – the way the rooms smells, tastes, the humidity and temperature on my skin, the particular shade of black that precedes the light, the way this room sounds when I am alone here. I regret my curiosity. In this moment it seems it was a weakness. A miserable need for something different springing from a moral failing of mine that is ever wanting more. But I reserve hope. Hope that this room will be better. That continuing to deconstruct this mask could lead to something better than all there has been so far. That taking ownership of my feelings and sharing them with others might be the next right thing. But here, at this next start, it is intimidating and uncertain. I am hopeful and afraid