content warning: ableism, references to suicide

Until recently, my wardrobe was filled with dozens of different faces. Every single day, I would choose one carefully; some were so ostentatious that nobody dared draw near me, others so dull I slipped through crowds unnoticed.

Everybody wears masks. Perhaps others see theirs as a form of self-expression, but for me, they were a way to protect myself—my armour against the world.

Now, I look at where these rows of faces used to hang, and I remember.

i. blue is for diagnosis

I press the blue mask to my face and tie the strings securely behind my head. It is a half-mask the colour
of the sky, part of my uniform; my high school’s crest is stamped in gold over the right cheekbone. Looking in the mirror, I steel myself.

I arrive at the school counsellor’s office, and my skin crawls as the pads of her bony fingers press into my skull, digging for truths within. I watch, frozen, as she sinks into a trance. Her mask is the deep purple of days ending, the eyeholes outlined in white. The eyes beneath narrow at the end of our session, and she pronounces me autistic.

When I break the news to my mother over dinner, her heavy iron mask muffles all sound. Still, I can tell she’s sobbing by the way her shoulders quiver.

ii. purple is for shame

After my diagnosis, my parents buy me a new mask and do not speak of my autism again. My new mask is the mottled purple of old bruises. The cheekbones and chin glisten with hair-thin silver threads, and the lips are shining blue velvet. I slip it on and it presses against my skin, uncomfortably hot and slippery.

On the street that day, I see the maskless ones; they stumble along, grimacing and flailing their arms. On paper I am the same as them—I am autistic too—and the thought makes me nauseous. Everyone else crosses the street to avoid them, and I follow.

As I walk, I reach behind my head and check my purple mask is still tied tight. The idea of removing it only makes my nausea worse.

I wear it for five more years.

iii. gold is for revelation

The crackling of the pub’s stereo system mingles with the flurries and eddies of conversation around me. I concentrate on gripping my glass through the noise. The girl I’ve been speaking to leans forward, dark eyes shining with amusement from behind her golden mask, and I realise I’ve missed her last words.

“How do you get your masks?” she repeats.

“People give them to me,” I answer. “Or I find them.”

“I make mine myself.” She gestures. Her mask is made of gold-painted porcelain, accented by white and cream, with dustings of pink contouring the cheekbones and temples. It’s a full-face mask—pretty but cold, distant, intimidating. “You should think about making your own. It’s quicker and easier than waiting for life to give them to you.”

I laugh politely, and eventually the girl drifts off. Her revelation stays with me for the rest of the night, though. She corners me as I leave and gives me some strips of fabric, enough to make a small mask. I thank her, but anxiety grips me. She’s right. I have grown comfortable with stagnancy. Perhaps too much.

iv. white is for depression

I buy my death mask online and keep it hidden under my bed like a secret. The mask is pure white and unadorned, with a downturned mouth and black smudged under the eyes. I think about nooses as I criss-cross the dark velvet ribbons around my neck.

Fourteen times in one year, I don the death mask and visit the bridge near my dorm. Standing on the cold precipice between concrete and air, I feel poised between one life and the next. I could end everything here, or make myself anew. Every time, I remove the mask and let the cold air against my bare face sting me awake instead. Eventually, I stop going to the bridge.

v. green is for survival

My survival mask is green and made out of reflective jade. I buy it as a birthday present for myself. The greenness reminds me of new life, of springtime. Maybe that’s why I picked it: as a tangible reminder of life to carry with me.

This green mask is oval-shaped and featureless, with only the slightest indentation where the mouth should be. I rarely speak. People seem to prefer it that way.

One day, I make my way to my next class. My classmate keeps step—he has been babbling about psychology for the last 15 minutes. He pauses, and the sudden quiet makes me look up at him. He’s wearing a deep blue mask adorned with tiny seashells arranged into white waves.

“You know something?” The man leans in and lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I was the girl at the pub.”

His words leave me speechless. People change masks all the time, but I thought there was always a main mask, a through line, a current of similarity. Seeing evidence of a complete metamorphosis—the lack of a true self— terrifies me. I would rather be real than lose myself.

When my paralysis ends, I bolt for the nearest exit and erupt into daylight. I inhale lungfuls of cold air and the tears building in me finally erupt.

vi.

I return to my room and open the wardrobe where my masks are stored—rows of them suspended on hooks like severed heads.

One after another, I break them. I rip off the survival mask and throw it to the floor. I grind the green fragments between my shoes and the floorboards. I shatter the shame mask with my fists. I tear up the blue school mask, set the tatters on fire with a lighter. I smash the white mask into the brick wall beside my bed.

I stand in the debris.