I wrote the following piece over 32 years ago when I was in the process of healing from a traumatic childhood. During that process, I identified myself as broken. I believed I had little value in the eyes of God and man. Perhaps God loved me, but I was just one anonymous being in the vast multitude of the billions of people that He loved in a corporate sense. I existed in the world. “God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son.” Therefore, I was loved by default. I held little regard for myself as a person, and I vowed never to leave my masks behind.
A brief content note: The allegory below deals with the emotional effects of childhood abuse and trauma. It contains no graphic descriptions, but some readers may find the imagery difficult.
A note about the author: I originally published Masks in 1994 under the pseudonym KayJay on a website I had called On the Road to Healing. It was later republished in a print magazine for abuse survivors in Scotland. Those early online writings are no longer available, and I no longer need the anonymity that name gave me. But KayJay wrote these words, so I’m giving her the byline.
Masks
by KayJay (©1994)
In the murky shadows of an abandoned attic, behind broken chairs and torn kites, beyond tattered curtains and cracked vases, covered with dust and cobwebs, sat a trunk. Rusty at the hinges, the nondescript chest held the only reminders of a life once lived, a life seemingly abandoned.
As it opened, the trunk’s hinges and latches groaned and complained from long years of silent waiting. Faint aromas of camphor and mothballs mingled with the dusty confines of the attic. The scent of neglect and disuse evoked memories of whispered regret, broken dreams, and empty promises.
Within layers of yellowed and fragile newspapers from an era long ago lay masks of various sizes, shapes, and expressions. Although not visible at a casual glance, you could see a certain continuity, albeit a mysterious one.
The first mask to be unwrapped depicted an infant. Its face was innocent, trusting, and full of wonder. Lips red, mouth slightly open as if to drink in life; cheeks dimpled and pink. The mask was created to be kissed, and it was carved from the most delicate ivory and treasured indeed.
Another mask revealed the same child, but a few years older. Chin determined, red lips half opened with questioning. The face turned upwards and outwards, as if beholding a wondrous world. The mask was formed from delicate bone china and would have been flawless but for a few faint lines on its brow. These gave a slight hint that the child already carried burdens too heavy for one so young.
Buried deeper still was yet another mask—its expression no longer innocent. The child had seen too much. The face still held the roundness of childhood, but the eye slits narrowed as if to keep some truths hidden. The face gazed downward, and its lips were tightly closed. It knew that some words were not to be spoken. Made from smooth white plaster of Paris, the mask showed fine cracks and lines to the discerning eye.
A sense of sadness wrapped around the next mask, the face appearing to be old before its time. Its lips were pursed as if to strengthen itself against the world. The eyes were distrusting. The mask’s tint yellowed as if it had been allowed to weather in the harshness of the noon sun and left to its own devices. Anyone courageous enough to take a more extended look could easily see cracks and chips marring its surface.
The mask of a young adult lay near the bottom of the trunk, carelessly shoved in a paper bag. The face was closed in, now carefully guarding secrets. Its eyes were heavily hooded. A discerning eye could see the same person depicted in the first mask, but all innocence and trust were gone. The papier-mâché mask was discoloured and stained, making it difficult to distinguish it from the yellow-grey of its wrappings.
Shattered remains of a mask scattered the very bottom of the trunk, unrecognisable. It was doubtful anyone could put the pieces together, and it was doubtful all the pieces were even there.
As the trunk’s lid slowly closed, its hinges sighed heavily for the life once lived. Darkness crept in from the shadows, swallowing the trunk and its contents once again. Apathy and fear muffled the cries that longed to be heard.
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Thank God I am no longer shattered!
God heard my cry and brought me out of that darkness. One of the harder things I eventually realised was that although I hadn’t caused the wounds, I had built the walls that kept me hidden. Those masks had once helped me survive, but eventually they became a prison of their own. By His grace, Christ led me out of that old attic and into freedom. Although I still carry scars, they no longer define me.
Perhaps, like I once did, you believe God’s love for you is born solely out of pity. If so, you underestimate His undying, consuming, and relentless passion for you. When Christ wooed you to Himself, it was no “mercy date” on His part. His desire was always to draw you into relationship with Himself. The cross tells us just how far He was willing to go.
Over time, with God’s help and professional counsel, I realised the masks I wore only concealed the person I was created to be. As I slowly let go of the lies attached to these identities, I began to walk in wholeness, leaving behind the dusty old attic.
I pray that my story of God’s empowering grace will give you a gentle nudge to start the process of leaving your masks behind. Sometimes the masks we once needed to survive become so familiar that we begin to mistake them for our true identity.
It’s time to begin taking off the masks and discovering who you truly are in Christ and who He says you are.
I invite you to listen to this timeless song, Praise Him, by Janny Grein, based on 2 Corinthians 5:17. Unfortunately, Janny’s music is no longer available for purchase, but I discovered this precious gem on YouTube. As you listen, let its words remind you that in Christ, you are a new creation.
Praise Him
©1979 Janny Grein, Bill Grein
Sparrow Music
If any man be in Christ
Then he has become a new creation
Old things have passed away
Behold everything has become new in Him
God no longer knows the things
That brought you to this place
Before you came here
He only sees you whole in Him,
Faultless and blameless
As you’re standing there
Praise Him
Lift your hands and praise Him
Praise Him
Praise the name of Jesus
Through the blood of Jesus,
His righteousness
Is like a robe upon you
Clothing and covering,
His garment of praise
Will now adorn you
You’ll live and reign forever
As kings and priests and sons
He’ll call His own
His blood is flowing in you now
Royalty has finally found a home in you
If something in this article stirred something in you, and you feel it’s time to start on your own road to healing, you don’t have to figure out the whole journey today. You only need to take the first step.
That first step might be reaching out to a trauma-informed counsellor or therapist, a local abuse recovery organisation, your doctor or healthcare provider, or a trusted pastoral leader who understands the importance of professional support.
Wherever you live, I encourage you to look for trauma or abuse recovery resources in your own country or community. You don’t have to walk this road alone.
Until next time,
Kath