The Mask Slipped. So Did Everyone Else.

There was a time when my calendar was full, my phone buzzed nonstop, and my entire identity was stitched together by other people’s attention. If I stayed busy enough, loud enough, fun enough, I’d never have to hear the quiet.

But the truth was darker: it wasn’t rejection I feared, it was recognition.  Of who I really was when the noise stopped. I wasn’t just performing for others. I was hiding from myself.

I was always texting, always making plans. A free Friday night felt unnatural, something I refused to let happen.  On the outside, it looked like connection, but most of it was performance.  I was constantly molding myself into whoever I thought people wanted.

I craved validation for being open, funny, real.  And while all of it was true, I wasn’t above milking it for applause.  I’d toss in a dark joke to test the waters.  If they laughed, they were one of the real ones.

I didn’t know who I was, but I was never alone.
My last few birthday parties before the great unraveling were packed.
I dissociated through my 27th birthday. But the bar was packed, so no one noticed. Not even me.
That’s how I kept score: bodies, not depth.

The times I’m referring to in this post are high school and grad school—nearly a decade apart, and sadly, way too similar.  (Except for the few I still keep in touch with from that time—Johanna, Hannah, Jon, Barb—hi, love you <3.)

We gossiped about each other and called it bonding, all while ignoring the gut feeling that none of it was built to last.  I’m sure there were deep conversations somewhere in the mix, but I can’t remember a single one.  What I do remember is the anxiety before going out, half-convinced no one would show. Not because they were flaky, but because they were never close enough to truly count on. 

I’ve always been insecure about my friendships.  It started back in seventh grade, one of my first core traumatic memories.  I had just transferred to a new school and didn’t have any friends.  Not to be dramatic, but I ended up eating lunch with my English teacher because I couldn’t stomach sitting alone.  The whole “eat lunch in the bathroom” trope grossed me out, and my OCD was kicking in around that time, so there was no way I was adding norovirus to my list of middle school problems.

I didn’t fear being alone.  I feared what it said about me.
Like if no one stuck around, maybe that meant they saw something I didn’t.
So I clung. Smiled too wide. Apologized too often.
It wasn’t about connection. It was about control.
I needed proof I was worth keeping, even if I had to perform for it.

Even with a full social calendar, I lived with the quiet panic that it could all vanish. So I latched on—casually, of course. I became whoever felt easiest to love, laughed off what hurt, and waited for the moment I’d be too much. Or worse, not enough.

It was a constant, quiet ache. And it was exhausting.

But insecurity doesn’t stay buried for long.
All it took was asking for more to break the spell.

Maybe your boyfriend was an emotionally abusive sociopath, not just constantly “going through it.”
Maybe hooking up with my crush was messed up, even if I pretended it wasn’t.
Maybe I did want to go to prom.  I just swallowed it because you didn’t.

I’d stuff it all down until one small thing set me off.
Boom. Friendship over.

Textbook insecure attachment, sure.  But back then?  I just called it surviving.

The moment I stopped nodding or said I don't like that, the vibe shifted.
Suddenly I was too much.  Too sensitive.  High maintenance.
That’s when the mask slipped.

Once it did, the friendship unraveled and I never had the energy to chase it.
I figured they wouldn't like me without the performance, so I let it go.

This cycle followed me through most of my twenties.
Until one summer night, four years ago, it all cracked.

A major falling out cut me off from people I once felt close to—even if the connection was mostly noise.
I wasn’t mourning them.  I was grieving the version of me that only existed in a crowd.

And when that disappeared, I had to face the question I’d been dodging for years:

What’s left?

This first big fallout hit the night before I flew out of Colorado.

The next morning, I sat on the plane, drowning in a silence so loud it felt like punishment. No texts. No distractions. Just me and the noise inside my own mind. I turned on myself the way I always did: quietly, relentlessly, without mercy.

A few months later, I lost another close friend, and suddenly the whole scaffolding of my identity started to collapse.
One by one, the friendships I’d built myself around were gone.

I had to ask the other question I never wanted to face: Was it me?

The answer was yes.
The call wasn’t just coming from inside the house.
It was coming from inside my own damn head.

That’s when the real work began.
The healing—just not the gentle kind.

Each friendship implosion was a controlled burn, torching the version of me I twisted to be liked.
They didn’t just make me look in the mirror. They smashed it over my head.

And under the wreckage?
Someone raw. Tired. A little harsh.
But finally, real.

I’m not building for applause anymore. I’m building for me.

And for once, that’s enough.