The Mask

I am very, very good at fine. Oscar-worthy. BAFTA-nominated. I could perform fine at a funeral and people would offer me a biscuit and move on.

The mask goes on at 7am. Before the children are up. Before anyone can see the transition. One minute I’m the woman staring at the ceiling who slept for three hours and cried in the dark. The next I’m Mum. Capable. Functional. Making porridge and finding shoes and answering questions about the lifecycle of a butterfly with the kind of cheerful authority that suggests I definitely have my life together.

I don’t have my life together. I have a very good mask and a routine so tight that there’s no gap for the truth to fall through.

The mask is different for different audiences. For the children it’s bright and present and endlessly patient. For the clients it’s professional and competent and slightly funny. For my parents it’s grateful and managing and not too much because too much makes them uncomfortable. For the school gate it’s friendly and breezy and absolutely, categorically fine.

Nobody gets the real one. The real one is too much. Too heavy. Too complicated. Too likely to make someone’s face do that thing where they want to help but don’t know how so they say “you’re so strong” and change the subject.

I’m not strong. I’m performing. And the performance is exhausting. Because every smile is a decision. Every “I’m good, thanks” is a lie. Every laugh is a note held at precisely the right pitch to convince the audience that the woman making it is not falling apart.

I’ve been doing this since I was a child. Reading rooms. Adjusting. Performing the version of myself that keeps the temperature stable. The skills I learned in the quiet house are the same skills I use now. Different stage. Same performance. Same girl in the wings waiting for someone to notice that the actress is not the character.

Nobody notices.

Because the mask is very, very good.

And some days that’s a source of pride and some days that’s the loneliest thing in the world.