I Didn't Know Who I Was Without the Mask
How I slowly learned who I really was. It started with Frida Kahlo.
When I was diagnosed with ADHD, I was adamant that I was going to be open and honest about it. For the first time in my life, everything that I did made sense, and I felt like I had an explanation for, well, me. I wanted to own that.
My friend Shari called me almost immediately. She’s neuropicy, too. She gave me so much love in that conversation, but the greatest gift she gave me was telling me she sees me and has always seen me. She also saw my mask. I didn’t, but she did.
She mentioned it to me in March when I sold my house, and she and her husband were considering buying it. What she said detail of my life that hit me about four minutes before I wrote this sentence. This is part of what has become a regular process for me: 1) realization, 2) gasping, 3) feeling overwhelm, and 4) sitting with it.
She told me that I seemed like I was finally acknowledging who I was, and I was giving up being what I wasn’t. It would be six more months before I would even consider that I had ADHD.
It wasn’t the first time someone pointed out my mask. It turns out, I don’t think I was nearly as good at masking as I thought I was. A few years ago, someone said something to me that knocked my world a little off its axis. It was small and simple, but the impact hit like a sucker punch.
I had a friend over for dinner. He had never been to my house before. We had gotten to know each other a fair amount. He kept looking around my house. It was noticeable. I asked. He said it wasn’t what he expected.
“What’s on the other side of this wall?” he asked pointing to the main wall that runs through my small house. I told him it was my room.
“Show me your room. I swear, I mean no ill intent.” He didn’t. At least not in the way one might assume. He walked in and said, “Your bedroom makes me sad.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. I had a flood of different feelings. Confusion. Annoyance. Anger. I felt insulted in a weird way. This is my house. It had been my house for 12 years.
“I’m not trying to be mean. It doesn’t reflect the depth of your character.”
There is a compliment in there, but a horribly backhanded one. Any positivity in that statement was totally steamrolled by him, basically telling me my home was bullshit.
I got defensive fast. I explained. I made excuses. I defended the stupid painted wood sign that hung above my bed that I bought at Hobby Lobby, of all places.
No one should ever find themselves in a position to feel like they should defend a purchase they made at Hobby Lobby. Not because it’s a good purchase but because we’re openly defending Hobby Lobby.
I struggled for justification. It felt horrible. Not because I felt strongly about my home decor, but because I knew he was right. The sad fact was that I had no idea what my house, what my bedroom, would look like if it did express who I was. I deeply wanted it to but getting there felt exhausting.
It took me weeks to find out and required facing a lot of issues I had buried. I knew the only way to get there was to strip the entire room and start over. Make it mine. This was the first time I really tried unmask and I had no idea.
It started with Frida Kahlo.
I love Frida Kahlo. I have always wanted something in my house that was Frida. My favorite is The Two Fridas. It was too morose. I didn’t want that in my space. I wanted power. I wanted calm. I wanted Me and My Parrots.
I looked at hundreds of rugs. I’m not kidding. It took days. I waffled between two. One was light-colored and much more versatile. The other was bold. Big. Vividly colored. My inclination was the former.
But, I was not the former. I’m not three muted colors. I’m rich, deep jewel tones. I’m bright colors. I’m the rug not everyone has in their house. I’m the rug that may only appeal to few.
My entire house had been decorated to be agreeable. I have feared judgment and rejection my entire life. I had made my house so basic and so cookie-cutter that no one could possibly find fault with it. Until someone did.
I spent the next couple of weeks repainting the room. I bought more plants than I was sure I can keep alive. But, I wanted life in there. I wanted nature.
I made shelves out of iron pipes and wood that I cut and stained. I gave all my bedroom furniture to my daughter. I built all new furniture myself. I moved a ridiculous amount of books in there.
Doing this wasn’t easy. I had to come to terms with my own self-acceptance. I had to allow myself to be unapologetically me.
My bedroom was my haven of vulnerability. It was my temple of “I don’t give a shit what you think.”
When I sold that house and moved into a funky downtown apartment, I bought a link bought. Bright salmon pink. It’s the most “me” thing I own. My entire tiny apartment stands testament to me removing my mask.
Little changes happen. It started with Frida. She gave me life. She gave me rich colors, a stronger self, and vibrant life, no matter how flawed it may be. We start small and we keep going. We find our way back to the us we were before someone else decided who we were. We start small. Then we get bigger and bigger and bigger.
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