Her flesh colored mask allowed her to move through the world unnoticed, but not necessarily unencumbered. As time wore on
she convinced herself that the mask no longer hid her perceived imperfections and decided that potential friends weren’t interested because they sensed something afoot, and potential lovers weren’t interested because the mask had become too worn and considerably aged. Ultimately she concluded that perhaps it was the mask that was her limitation. Her breathing labored, shoulders slumped — the mask didn’t conceal her fragility. She would paint rosy colors on her mask, but it didn’t obscure the toll, the burden of carrying baggage filled with years of negative thoughts. So, instead of a new mask, she worked to muster the strength to remove it. After all this time, however, it was plastered on firmly, and it took a great deal of hard, painstaking work to release it. Then one day, she was finally free and unburdened by it. Yet, nothing changed. Absolutely nothing changed. Who was she without the mask? It was easier having the crutch and something to blame. Now, she had to learn who she was and how to be okay with simply being that… and maybe others would be okay with it, too. She’s still hopeful.