In love with a Mask, that line stuck with me, and made my actions have words that match. I have words for my actions. It seems I am going backwards, paying more attention to the action, the feelings, and just leaving the words out of it.
Do Masks talk? Do Masks think? Is a mask really a filter that disguises the voice? Can you have a full body masks? Can it mask your actions, or does it mask your intentions, can it? Where does reality stand with the Masks?
Are the Masks part of reality, the illusion, the play within a play? What is going On?
If I look back at my father’s trail, I would have to say, that there were two sides. One side, the Defense argued the side of the Mask. The other side was the Prosecutors and they argued the side of the man behind the mask. Who argued for the child? Did the judge? Did the Detective watch the child, who was watching the child?
This just gets weirder and weirder.
The greater part of the family loved the mask, and would then have to sit on the side of the Defense. They were defending the mask. You seem to defend what you love. But what happens to the children who don’t? Don’t what? In the beginning of the mask falling even, I intuitively knew, that you only got to pick one. Pick one. The mask or what lay beneath.
Now, wouldn’t it be cozier to pick the mask, but what happens if you feared the mask. What happens if when the mask fell, you knew it was perfect, now the feelings matched the man behind the mask? The mask did not hurt you, the mask did not scare you, the mask was warm cozy and your friend, the mask, oh my God that damn mask.
It was such a twisted father. There is song line “a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction” that refrain kept running through my mind. The contradiction is my world, without memory, the fear that raced through my body in his presence, seemed the traitor. The fear was not matching the mask. My body held back, not only a little, but always. Like it protected me when my mind tried very hard to change my actions. I couldn’t, so I became the failure, I became the cold-hearted daughter. I became the monster in the family, for I could not love the mask. I tried. I tried. Oh, my mind could pretend I did, my mind could do all kinds of tricks, but my body held fast.
This big ass body I like to say, remembered for 40 years the deeds done to it by a man behind the mask. What a terrific instrument this body is. I have read since that the body doesn’t lie. I didn’t need the book I was a living testament to that.
Even this blog, which I am not sure most of you have figured out, but this blog is the words to actions I have already done. Somehow the words on the paper have a way of validating my actions, of giving me a voice. This blog has taken a path of it’s own, I surely don’t know where we are going, but the truth is leading the way.
For this I know for sure, there is very little support for the girl who won’t love the mask, stands firm with her conviction that the man behind the mask is reality.
The detective came into my home, he asked me many questions. I had a few for him too. He asks “I hope this won’t affect the relationship you have with your father”….If that is his hope, then I knew it was hopeless.
A little girl sits. A little girl sits and watches. A little girl sits and watches the adults come in and waits to see what will happen. Will they too see a monster? Will they? Or will they too be fooled. There are two of us sitting.
The monster sits too. The monster waits too. The monster sits and waits to see if he has fooled them too. We both sit and we both wait. But in the end, the girl sits alone.
Alone, silent, wounded, unheard, unseen, confused, responsible, puzzled, she sits. She sits in a world that doesn’t make sense.
I asked Mr. Detective man, “Can you give me one common denominator between a father and a pedophile?” That was my question to Mr. Detective man and he was silent, I told Mr. Detective man, to call me when he had one. Just one. And so far no call.
Now I ask you, is there a common denominator, can you find one for me?
Somehow, the little girl feels responsible for tearing off the kind mask. It is our fault for making the monster roar. What did my do?
What did my do? I wrecked our family, I trashed our dreams, I brought the filth forth, I couldn’t pretend, couldn’t play games, for it was the games that started this whole mess.
Somebody started to pretend. Who and why? In fact it seems there are more pretending than being real.
The detective pretends to investigate, but his investigation leads to me…..why I asked, are you not talking to him? The Prosecutors pretends he can keep little girls safe, but he offers a deal to set him free. The Judge pretends he can be fair, Impossible this will never be fair.
When I watched my experience as I experienced it, the incredulousness of it all, became like a really bad comedy, with the truth indeed being stranger than fiction. Masks of Perfection….Masks pretending.
I however refused to wear one, nope, none. Not even for my sisters, my brothers, my mother, my father, my children, no one could make me, none.
You would think, that those who are standing alone, naked, with soiled underwear would be cheered it has not been my experience.
A few very brave souls walked in, friends with great courage.
Many want me to shush, to cover up, even me….for I didn’t want you to change your mind about me. I didn’t want you to think less of me, to not see me, to let me sit alone.
I had always wanted the book of proper etiquette for little girls who are standing naked, and I can only hope, that by my speaking out, little girls will not have to go through what I did.
I do not blame you all, I really don’t. I am just curious, confused and saddened. I know we are hard to look at, even if we appear normal. For you too can sense the presence behind my mask of normal. It is strong it is steady, it is reality, harsh, unkind, brutal, but real, mixed in with love and peace and hope.
I now know what a handicapped person feels….
Please don’t turn away.
See.
