Unmasking
As I write this blog, I am making my final preparations for DragonCon. One of the last things I’m figuring out is deciding which of my hand-painted face masks I will be wearing at what time. I’ve meticulously prepared my masks that will hopefully protect me from COVID, but there is one kind of mask I can’t wait to shed as soon as I pick up my con badge.
Presenting as neurotypical when being neurodivergent - it’s like pretending to be “normal” - is a common behavior among people living with mental illness. I’ve read a lot about “masking” a variety of diagnoses, and as soon as I saw the term, it made so much sense to me, as it’s something I’ve been doing my entire life.
For me, it started when I was doing behaviors deemed inappropriate by family, therapists, and teachers, and I had to learn how to be socially acceptable. I’ve gotten good enough at it that, sometimes, when the worry becomes too much or I forget myself in a moment of pure joy, people don’t mind if something slips, as it’s such a rare occurrence. I’ve even heard “I would never have guessed” about me having any kind of mental illness before, and took it as a compliment.
I started masking many years ago. When I was a kid, I was extremely loud when I spoke. I was so excited to share every little thing in my life and that excitement bled into the volume of my voice until I was practically shouting every little thing I found interesting. Everything felt so urgent that I felt the need to interrupt others and share my newest idea or discovery. It felt just as urgent as the compulsions I knew I was supposed to be hiding, too.
I have vivid memories of learning how to give the conversation to others, how to tell when people were not interested in my interests, and which topics I should stick to that most people would be interested in. Over the years, I learned to value each little scrap of conversation about something I truly loved, every “what are you playing/reading?” even if I knew I should answer like a “normal” person with only a sentence or two.
Hiding this huge part of myself is incredibly frustrating and difficult. As a kid, I retreated a lot into my head because there, I could think about what I loved for however long I felt the need to, and no one would say it was wrong. One of my favorite coping strategies has always been retreating into stories I’ve grown in my head, ones that I have no desire to type because they’re not objectively anything I’d consider good, but that bring comfort to me after imagining them what feels like a million times.
Even though I’m in my late 20s now, I still get the impulse to monologue about my favorite things in the loudest voice I can muster. Just a couple of weeks ago, I saw the teaser image for Amazon’s new Lord of the Rings TV show coming out in a year and got so excited I started crying and bouncing in my office chair, then promptly wanted to share the photo and my in-depth thoughts about it with every single person I ever met - in caps-lock.
Because of my therapy and training, I stifle these reactions. I know that most of the time, my family and friends don’t care about what I care about, or are willing to put up with it to a certain extent that feels like taking the tiniest nibble off the hugest, most decadent chocolate bar. My positive obsessions run as deep as my negative ones, and as someone who has successfully been able to switch most of my focus from the negative ones to the positive ones, it feels like I have an endless well of passion that always has to have a lid.
Always, except at DragonCon.
There, the lid comes off, even more so than at other conventions I’ve been to. From the moment I get there, I feel like every one of the rules drilled into my head by my therapists and parents and teachers and everyone else to help me fit in flies right out the window, and I fit in perfectly.
I realized this when, fifteen minutes into my first-ever convention in 2015, a stranger recognized my outfit from an obscure video game I discovered right after I got out of the hospital that has one of the most powerful trauma narratives I’ve ever read. Her response to seeing my mostly-duct-tape costume was to squeal (remember your indoor voice, I remembered everyone telling me), run over and hug me (think about the person’s boundaries), rattle off a dozen facts about the character she was dressed as from the same game (the other person might not be interested), and invite me to a photoshoot taking place later that afternoon (they might be trying to escape the conversation).
She’d broken so many rules, and yet, in the picture she asked to take with me, I am laughing and hugging her back just as tight.
That moment, and the days I spent hanging out with her and my new group of friends afterward, cemented a powerful love of cosplay and conventions in my mind. After all, I took my cues from the girl who first found me - when I made my way to the group, I wasn’t shy telling everyone about my favorite scenes from the game and laughing too loud at people’s funny props and asking for dozens of pictures. And I was one of many, instead of feeling like the strange girl who has to keep myself in check at all times.
At DragonCon, my outfits scream, “I’m extremely passionate about this character and the game/fandom they come from to the point that I have spent a lot of time and money to look like this, and continue to wear this insanely hot outfit even though it’s almost 90 degrees in Atlanta right now. PLEASE come up and talk to me about it!!!”
I carry around heavy or bulky props to show off my sense of humor. I am a whirlwind of energy, dancing at the annual Lord of the Rings elf party, rushing from one photoshoot to another, jumping up and down to get an autograph from a favorite celebrity, smiling so hard that my face muscles hurt because I simply can’t stop. I talk too much and too loud and still manage to make lasting friendships. (Case in point - I’m going to be sharing a hotel room with a friend who rushed through a crowded photoshoot to laugh loudly at the toothpaste I was carrying around as a joke, and years later, we are very close friends who still joke about oral hygiene.)
I never had a desire to break rules like doing drugs, drinking underage, or staying out past curfew. But I get such a thrill out of breaking the rules of neurotypicality at DragonCon. I get a rush from not having to censor anything I say or how I say it, and have it work out instead of feeling like my real self is “wrong.”
I’ve gotten picked for trivia games out of a room of hundreds of people by being the loudest volunteer or jumping while raising my hand. I’ve been the first person to rush onto the dance floor at the elf party and never lacked a partner or group to dance with. I’ve shouted the name of a character and run across a crowded hall to embrace a total stranger, and just like at my first con, I’ve made friends who think - like I do - that our extremely strong passions are a good thing.
This year, it’s going to be different. DragonCon is going to be smaller, although still large enough to make me debate whether or not I should go considering the current state of the pandemic. I talked things out with my therapist for a long time, received opinions from friends and family, and ultimately decided that after a year and a half of looking after my physical health first, I was going to prioritize my mental health.
When I thought about not going to DragonCon, I knew I would miss the shopping and the celebrities, the silly traditions like mourning the old Marriott carpet and finding little hidden souvenirs to enjoy and share. But what I would miss the most was the freedom I feel, finding others for whom the weekend represents the same freedom, and sharing in our joy together. After the last year and a half, a time during which I have struggled a lot with the legacy of my germophobia and felt a near-total lack of control over my circumstances, I could at least give myself this.
At DragonCon, no one “puts up with” me. I bother no one, and no one bothers me, as we do so many things that are frowned upon in polite society. I’ve seen people doing all sorts of things they would likely never normally do, and we are united through the depth of our passions and how liberating it feels to express them wholeheartedly.
As I finished arranging my cosplay across my bedroom floor earlier today, I saw a commercial for the DragonCon parade on TV. I felt my face bend into that face-hurtingly huge smile and let out a tiny squeal, remembering to stop it before it would annoy anyone. In just a few days, I thought, I’ll be putting on my multi-layered face masks to protect myself from COVID. But I will also be taking off the mask I hate to wear the most, and letting my genuine self have a few days in the sun.
Ellie, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.