The Haunting of My Younger Self: No More Masks

Halloween has always held a special place in my heart. It wasn't about the candy or even the costumes; it was about transformation. On that one day of the year, I could become anyone other than myself. I could be Superman, someone invincible, free from the emotional baggage I carried. But the mask wasn't just for Halloween—it became a way of life for me. Every day, I wore a mask, pretending to be someone stronger, someone capable of handling the pain. But deep down, I knew I was broken, and no mask could hide that.

If only there were a time machine so I could talk to my younger self. But what would I say? Staring into those innocent eyes, I'd know all the hurt hidden behind them. It would be like sitting across from someone who knows your deepest secrets, but I would have to tell him the harsh truths of our future, and I don't want that little boy to hurt more than he already does. 

As I reflect on my journey, I realize how many emotions I buried deep inside. I used to think my childhood didn't matter, that it didn't shape who I became. But now, I see it did—shaping every decision, every choice I avoided, every attempt to numb myself. The pain and abuse from those years became a shadow that followed me, even as I tried to outrun it. I thought I could outsmart it, but I couldn't. The truth is, there was no escaping the damage I carried inside. 

Why did I keep those emotions hidden for so long? I thought it was the right thing to do at the time. But it ruined me in ways I didn't understand. If I had learned to love myself back then—truly understood the power of self-compassion—my life might have turned out differently. "Love yourself" sounds simple, yet for many of us, it was never taught, making it seem like a distant dream.

Looking back, I realize how my lack of self-love impacted every aspect of my life. It destroyed relationships, locked me in patterns I couldn't break. I tell myself I should have gotten help, but what 7-year-old seeks a therapist? I didn't. I chose to ignore the warning signs and kept pushing forward, as if nothing was wrong—my theme of adulthood. In doing so, I failed myself. I allowed myself to walk through life with pain; I never thought to stop and heal. Instead, I buried it deeper, pretending it didn't matter. But trauma doesn't stay hidden forever.

The choices I made in my youth were driven by my desperate need to escape the pain. I desperately wanted to be "normal," to fit in, to not feel different. But in trying to escape, I lost myself—the inner child who never had the chance to heal. What I once thought were survival mechanisms have now become the things that haunt me.

I wish I could tell my younger self there's no shame in asking for help. At 19, intrusive thoughts and actions landed me in the hospital, but my mother never spoke of it. I convinced myself it was a phase, a lie that led to a second hospital visit in my late 30s for the same thing. I eventually realized that I couldn't keep avoiding the pain. Healing required facing it head-on. I had to take off the mask and show the world who I truly was—a broken person in need of help and healing.

Today, I walk around hurting, but it's different. It's not the suffocating pain it once was. I'm learning to live with it, healing piece by piece as I let the pain surface and acknowledge it. It's okay to hurt. But sometimes, I find myself thinking, "I deserve this pain," which is a toxic mindset masquerading as survival. I've got to stop thinking that way.

I wish I could love myself, despite everything. I still cling to the hope that one day I'll look in the mirror and see something different. I long for the day when I see something good instead of the failures that have defined me. I want to see beauty, not the horror that's lived inside me for so long. I want to be able to look at myself and feel proud, to see someone who has overcome, someone who is whole again. It's a dream I hold close to my heart. But here's the thing about dreams—they don't always come true, and they certainly don't come without effort. The reality is that I may never fully heal. I may always carry these scars, and I may always feel like a compilation of my life's mistakes. 

So, what would I tell my younger self? I would say to him that the masks are no longer needed. The costume you wear for Halloween doesn't have to be the mask you wear every day. The pain will always be there, but it doesn't define you. You are more than your trauma, more than your mistakes, more than your fears. And one day, you will look in the mirror and see someone you can be proud of. Someone who finally learned to love himself, not just on Halloween, but every day.

Let's be honest, sometimes I'm not sure if I'll ever get there and take the advice I would give to my younger self. Sometimes, I wonder if I'm destined to repeat the mistakes of my past. Maybe I will always feel like I'm living with the weight of my parents' choices, carrying the sins of their failures as if it were my responsibility. I don't know the answers, and sometimes I wish I did. But that's the thing about healing—it's not always about having all the answers. It's about the willingness to keep going even when you don't know where the road will lead. 

When I think about what I would tell my younger self, I realize it's not just about warning him of the pain to come. It's about teaching him the power of resilience, the importance of asking for help, and the value of self-compassion. I would tell him that the road ahead will be filled with challenges, but if he learns to love himself through it all, he will find peace. I would remind him that healing is a journey, and it's okay to take it one step at a time. 

I wish I could go back in time and change things, but I can't. I can't undo the hurt, the mistakes, or the choices that brought me here. But what I can do is continue to move forward. I can continue to learn, heal, and try to love myself—even when it feels impossible. Because, in the end, the most important thing we can ever do is learn how to love the person in the mirror without a mask.