When people meet, there is a standard exchange:

“How are you?”

“I’m fine, and you?”

And life goes on. This happens in any and all settings, even when initially greeting a doctor. I was thrown off today when I had my first appointment with an orthopedic surgeon to get my back pain managed, and he called me out.

“Bullshit. You’re not doing fine.”

Well, shit, I guess I had to take my mask off. I didn’t have to pretend that I’m not in excruciating pain every day. I didn’t have to pretend that I don’t feel completely trapped in my body, that I’m not okay not being able to do basic tasks, that my independence is pretty much gone. I didn’t have to pretend I was fine.

I’ve never been comfortable being vulnerable. With anyone, even the very few people I feel safe with. My therapist, whom I’ve been seeing for almost a year even pointed it out to me recently, and she’s one of my safe people. It was always safer wearing a mask, putting on some kind of show, that I was okay, fine, functional.

Smile through the pain.

Don’t let anyone see the hurt, all the hurt, your demons, skeletons, hell, even your light. Hide it all. Be who they want you to be. That is safe.

One statement of understanding cut through my studio production, Countess Wolf Presents: A Fine, Functional Human. To be seen and heard, especially by a medical professional is such a fucking rarity. They know what they know and see what they see. They stare at my fat, but they don’t hear the words I speak, they don’t see the black and white test results. So I pretend I’m fine, because no one is going to fucking listen to me anyway.

But this doctor did listen. He saw ME. A person, with pain, with struggles, with a history.

And for a little while, I took off my mask and set it aside.

Just for a little while.