A funny thing happened during my therapist’s appointment last Thursday.

Out of seemingly nowhere, he told me that sometimes he forgets that I have problems.

And that’s my therapist talking. The person who knows more about my problems than any other person in the universe. He forgets that I am sick.

It’s a rather shocking thing for one’s therapist to say.  But I instantly understood.

Because I put on such a good show.  If I am relaxed and feel comfortable, like in my therapist’s office, I come across as a  warm, charming, witty, articulate, insightful, and above all totally self confident guy.

I seem like the last person in the world who was wracked by neuroses and tormented by inner demons so profound that they have kept him from having an adult life.

And we know the reason why. I learned to hide my illness at a very young age. At first, it was self-protection. Reaching out for help only to be rejected or (worse) ignored taught me that there was no use looking for help because nobody could or would help.

Nobody. Anywhere. Ever.

So I grew a mask. A persona. One who tried as hard as he could to be interesting and funny and fun to be around in a desperate attempt to get people to pay attention to him for a while.

That meant sticking everything that was not fun into a deep dark trunk behind the curtains and only ever being bright and warm and fun.

If I could pull that off.I might just fool people into ignoring that I was horrible and worthless and revolting and should never have been born and the world would be a much cleaner and nicer and  happier place without me.

For the most part, this did not work. People went right on ignoring and resenting me whether they were my age or adults.

But it was my only gambit and I clung to it so ferociously that I am still doing it today.

The good news is that there is a certain truth to the whole “fake it till you make it” . I worked so hard to be that shiny happy person that eventually it worked.

Chalk one up for doing the thing that isn’t working until it works, I guess.

And as patient readers know,. I also became dependent on this bright and shiny mask of mine. He was and is, quite frankly. better than me.  I would much prefer to be the person I pretend to be than the loser I am.

Try not to think about that too hard or you’ll get dizzy.

Fruvous (my fursona) is an extension of this. He is an idealized version of myself that I invented and have developed over the decades. As him, I can be that lovely and lovable version of myself without any of my usual burderns or distractions.

In that sense, he is the ultimate manifestation of my social mask. As such, it goes without saying that I would rather be him than me.

Being him is a hell of a lot more fun.

Now if this was some kind of heartwarming narrative in which Warm Values are taught, someone in my life would get a glimpse of the real me and at first be upset and confused by the disparity but ultimately the plot would give them a golden opportunity to tell me that they have seen the real me and they like it, too.

And then there would be a warm gooey wonderful moment where I realize that I don’t need to hide my true self any more and do some small, brave thing to prove it.

That doesn’t happen in the real world. But it’s a nice thought.

In the real world. my disguise is nearly flawless. The fact that I like being that semi-fake version of myself a lot more than being my utterly wretched real self has caused me to develop that mask to the point where very little can make me drop it.

Even,. as we have seen, in the therapist’s office.

It’s so much easier for me to be witty and fascinating and warm and interesting there just like anywhere else. And that’s what I am comfortable doing.

But it doesn’t get me anywhere.  The show is not therapy.  The mask stays on. That’s what enables my therapist to forget that I am sick.

I forget too. That’s kind of the point.

So it takes focus and discipline for me to keep the mask off in therapy.  And it’s disappointing to see that my therapist, despite all he knows of me, can’t see through the disguise enough to help me in that respect.

I am just that mesmerizing, I guess.

This is why the question of “just being myself” has always confused me.If my social mask…. let’s call it Fruvous mode… was entirely artificial and not a part of me, then it would simply be a matter of not doing that any more.

That’s neither a simple nor an easy task. granted.but my case is more complicated/.

Because I like being in Fruvous Mode. It’s not some kind of artificially enforced person I was forced to adopt in order to fit in and get along or to avoid embarassing my middle class parents or anything like that.

I am Fruvous.  Fruvous is me. Just not all of me. My persona – fur optional – is not a lie in the traditional sense of the word.

It is, rather, a lie of ommision. It’s a real photograph that has been carefully cropped to conceal the ugly truth. It is an expertly edited news story that supports the dominant narrative in a way that seems honest and natural. It’s an ugly picture with a beautiful frame. It is a fresh coat of paint on a used car that’s a total lemon.

And that version of me is the real me – just not all of me.

Trying to figure out where the real me ends and the me I have created begins is a puzzle beyond my comprehension.

And is it even necessary?

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.