Dropping the Mask

Some words cling to you when you aren’t even looking for them. For me, it was this line from Franz Kafka: “I was ashamed of myself when I realized that life is a masquerade party, and I attended with my real face”.

But what about when the mask isn't just something you wear—
what about when it has become a second skin?
When you’ve worn it so long, you hardly know where it ends and you begin?

As a late realized (I heard someone recently use this phrasing and I liked it very much) autistic woman, much of my identity is wrapped up in masking. Masking is one of the many reasons women and girls are so under diagnosed as neurodivergent.

Women excel at masking in general— neurodivergent or not. We women are forever the queens of smoothing things over, giving a polite smile or laugh even when we are uncomfortable. We are told beauty is pain. To be a women is to know pain. So much of our conventional engendered roles as women involve servitude, hospitality, caretaking and a general hostessing for all the world’s nurturance.

It isn’t a wonder that many women who are neurodivergent find themselves so highly masked they don’t hardly know who they are?

It’s me. I’m women.

I have been taking my time— the prompt of my instagram live stream this morning that lead me to writing this essay: What will I allow myself to take my time with today? I have been taking my time. With everything. I allow myself time to transition between tasks big or small. Whether it is the transition between the shower and getting dressed or the transition between leaving my career as an escort and focusing fulling on writing, I am allowing myself to take time. Holding space for rest, relaxation and recuperation. Avoiding the hustle. Doing my best to avoid obsessing over productivity metrics so I can show up authentically, drop the mask. And what a task that is in the social media landscape that we currently inhabit. Most everything we see is curated, honed for marketing complete with a visual hook! How does one even begin to unmask when it seems that life is a masquerade party? Do I even want to attend with my real face?

For me, the answer is yes. I want to attend life with my real face, unmasked. I want to show up authentically, even in a world where superficiality seems to be most rewarded. I created an entire career for myself where my ability to mask was rewarded. I could mask through a 5 night booking with 5 other escorts, coming off as effortless to my client amidst my personal hell— group socialization. Oh, the effort it takes for me o come off as effortless. The rub is, it comes more naturally to me to mask than it does for me to exist in my truth. I have always said that being raised mormon is what prepared me the most for escorting but, the strict expectations and gender roles gave me the perfect blueprint for masking which in turn made me an excellent escort.

Before I realized that I am on the spectrum, I would often talk about feeling as though I am cosplaying as a person—yes, that’s the autism ma’am. The problem is, putting down the mask is a lot harder than you’d think. I have been doing my best to drop the mask ever since my suspicions of neurodivergence were confirmed September 2023. Recognizing that neurodivergence was all wrapped up in my decision to become an escort has helped me leave. Recognizing that I shouldn’t have to feel alien in all that I do has helped me take my time, be gentle and kind with myself. Take baby steps like Bob in What about Bob. Recognizing that I will likely feel alien no matter what I do has helped me be more committed to dropping the mask. Maybe I can feel alien without feeling so exhausted all the time from masking, that would be an improvement.

I have struggled through so many of my identities— mixed race, immigrant, raised in a christian fundamentalist style doomsday cult (yes, that’s mormonism but, an essay for another day) in a blended family with rampant undiagnosed neurodivergence and all the struggles that go along with it but, the hardest thing seems to be dropping the mask.

The only practice that I have employed longer than masking: writing. I know that this is the closest place that I get to being fully unmasked, here on the page as I pour my heart out It seems like writing will save me once again. I know I owe it my life in no uncertain terms.

So, even if life is a masquerade party, I will show up with my real face. Unashamed. Accommodating my sensory needs in the corner of life’s house party talking to a pet.