The Fragile Facade: Hiding Pain in Plain Sight

I wear a mask. Not the kind you see, but one that hides the fractured pieces of who I really am. Deep down, I feel like a fraud. Imposter syndrome claws at my mind, whispering that I don’t belong, that I’m unworthy, that I’m deceiving everyone around me. The noise in my head is deafening, a relentless storm of doubt.

Some days, the urge to disappear becomes almost unbearable. I imagine leaving it all behind—friends, family, everything I’ve built. I fantasize about starting fresh in a place where no one knows my name, no one recognizes my pain, no one expects anything from me. I wonder, would my absence even matter? Would the world shift? Or would it remain utterly indifferent, carrying on as if I’d never existed?

To escape the chaos inside, I take refuge outside. There’s something about the open air, the vast sky above me, that gives me the space I so desperately crave. I let my thoughts untangle, planning how I’d break free, while part of me hopes someone notices my absence—someone who might truly care.

But even when I return, I never truly let anyone in. The pain I carry is like a secret I protect, terrified of what would happen if it escaped. I let people see only the cracks that are too big to hide, the fragments of despair I can’t fully conceal. But the rest? That, I bury deep.

Instead, I perform. I joke, I smile, I become the entertainer, the one who seems strong enough to weather any storm. No one suspects how close I am to breaking.

And so, the facade remains. Day after day, I keep the charade alive. But a part of me can’t help but wonder—how long until the weight of it all pulls me under? How long before the mask shatters, leaving me exposed and vulnerable?

Because pretending to be okay is exhausting. And I’m not sure how much longer I can keep it up.