Aug 022012
Are you living your true self? The masks we wear in daily life!

Growing up with an alcoholic father I become an expert of wearing a mask to hide the hurt of living with the reality that was mine and the hurt that I suffered. As a adult the more of the hurt from my childhood I heal the less I need to wear a mask.

Often when we meet people that are offense and that ‘rub us up the wrong way’ it is because they are afraid of their authentic self and wear a mask for the fear of being unaccepted. When I meet those people now I try and send them love and light as they need it most of all.

Take a couple of minutes to look at your life and your interactions with people and see how much of it is your true self and how much you are wearing a mask. Are you living your life with the fear of rejection? Are you able to give and receive love easily?

The poem below really touched my heart and describes beautifully what its like to live life wearing masks 🙂

PLEASE HEAR WHAT I’M NOT SAYING.
             
                Don’t be fooled by me.
               Don’t be fooled by the face I wear
               for I wear a mask, a thousand masks,
               masks that I’m afraid to take off,
               and none of them is me.
 
               Pretending is an art that’s second nature with me,
               but don’t be fooled,
               for God’s sake don’t be fooled.
               I give you the impression that I’m secure,
               that all is sunny and unruffled with me, within as well
               as without,
               that confidence is my name and coolness my game,
               that the water’s calm and I’m in command
               and that I need no one,
               but don’t believe me.
               My surface may seem smooth but my surface is my mask,
               ever-varying and ever-concealing.
               Beneath lies no complacence.
               Beneath lies confusion, and fear, and aloneness.
               But I hide this.  I don’t want anybody to know it.
               I panic at the thought of my weakness exposed.
               That’s why I frantically create a mask to hide behind,
               a nonchalant sophisticated facade,
               to help me pretend,
               to shield me from the glance that knows.
 
               But such a glance is precisely my salvation, my only hope,
               and I know it.
               That is, if it’s followed by acceptance,
               if it’s followed by love.
               It’s the only thing that can liberate me from myself,
               from my own self-built prison walls,
               from the barriers I so painstakingly erect.
               It’s the only thing that will assure me
               of what I can’t assure myself,
               that I’m really worth something.
               But I don’t tell you this.  I don’t dare to, I’m afraid to.
               I’m afraid your glance will not be followed by acceptance,
               will not be followed by love.
               I’m afraid you’ll think less of me,
               that you’ll laugh, and your laugh would kill me.
               I’m afraid that deep-down I’m nothing
               and that you will see this and reject me.
 
               So I play my game, my desperate pretending game,
               with a facade of assurance without
               and a trembling child within.
               So begins the glittering but empty parade of masks,
               and my life becomes a front.
 I idly chatter to you in the suave tones of surface talk.
               I tell you everything that’s really nothing,
               and nothing of what’s everything,
               of what’s crying within me.
               So when I’m going through my routine
               do not be fooled by what I’m saying.
               Please listen carefully and try to hear what I’m not saying,
               what I’d like to be able to say,
               what for survival I need to say,
               but what I can’t say.
 
               I don’t like hiding.
               I don’t like playing superficial phony games.
               I want to stop playing them.
               I want to be genuine and spontaneous and me
               but you’ve got to help me.
               You’ve got to hold out your hand
               even when that’s the last thing I seem to want.
               Only you can wipe away from my eyes
               the blank stare of the breathing dead.
               Only you can call me into aliveness.
               Each time you’re kind, and gentle, and encouraging,
               each time you try to understand because you really care,
               my heart begins to grow wings–
               very small wings,
               very feeble wings,
               but wings!
 
               With your power to touch me into feeling
               you can breathe life into me.
               I want you to know that.
               I want you to know how important you are to me,
               how you can be a creator–an honest-to-God creator–
               of the person that is me
               if you choose to.
               You alone can break down the wall behind which I tremble,
               you alone can remove my mask,
               you alone can release me from my shadow-world of panic,
               from my lonely prison,
               if you choose to.
               Please choose to.
 
               Do not pass me by.
               It will not be easy for you.
               A long conviction of worthlessness builds strong walls.
               The nearer you approach to me
               the blinder I may strike back.
               It’s irrational, but despite what the books say about man
               often I am irrational.
               I fight against the very thing I cry out for.
               But I am told that love is stronger than strong walls
               and in this lies my hope.
               Please try to beat down those walls
               with firm hands but with gentle hands
               for a child is very sensitive.
 
               Who am I, you may wonder?
               I am someone you know very well.
               For I am every man you meet
               and I am every woman you meet.
 
                                          Charles C. Finn
                                            September 1966

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