Back when I was an entertainment lawyer representing clients like Michael Jackson, Quincy Jones, Lionel Richie, and major motion picture studios, I had to show up at work every day ready to meet with movers and shakers. My law firm was in Beverly Hills, and you don’t just shlep around Beverly Hills, lest God forbid you’re mistaken for a tourist. No, I had to appear like I truly belonged to that insular world of wealth, prestige, and celebrity.
And that meant always looking the part.
I did everything I could to meet the unspoken but stringent expectations—the hundred-dollar haircut, the charcoal gray Armani suit. My embossed vellum business card exuded credibility, my crocodile portfolio was the epitome of professionalism. No one would ever suspect the truth that lay beneath my polished facade: that I was severely mentally ill, struggling with a pernicious case of treatment-resistant bipolar disorder. I was convinced that the only way to keep myself safe—and employed—was to hide my secret self.
So I never showed up at work when I was acutely depressed. Depression leaches all the color and life from my face—I look ravaged, no matter how much makeup I spackle on. I can’t summon the energy to get in the shower, and no amount of Chanel No. 5 can disguise my inner stench of failure. I know that nothing I do can stop the inevitable march toward decay, so what’s the point of trying?
I used a thousand excuses to hide my many absences, most of them alleging some physical ailment, all of them well-rehearsed after a lifetime of hiding. I don’t know why no one ever guessed I was lying; I suppose I was as convincing a liar as I was a lawyer. My facade was as bulletproof as my pleadings, and no one ever saw the sorry mess that lived behind the mask.
That was decades ago; a great deal has changed since then.
I stopped self-medicating my illness, for one thing, and with sobriety came the bloom of better health. The right medications and rigorous therapy have helped lift the heavy burden of depression, so I move through the world with a lighter step. I no longer fantasize about killing myself, and that renewed commitment to life has brought a certain spark to my eyes—I’m curious now, and curiosity helps to keep one fresh. Of course, I can’t stop what aging has in store for me, but practicing mindfulness has allowed me to slow life down to the present moment. And in the present moment, life tastes sweet.
I realized how incredibly far I’d come the other night, when I was spending the night at my boyfriend’s house. He knows all about my bipolar disorder—that’s another huge change that’s taken place in my life. I actually tell people about my illness now; in fact, I’ve published three books on the subject. But to my immense surprise and relief, the unvarnished truth hasn’t stopped him from wanting to pursue a committed relationship with me.
It was late that night, and we were both getting sleepy. I’d washed my face and was getting ready for bed. As has become our custom, we cuddled together before saying a final goodnight. I looked into his eyes, and he smiled at me. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, and it suddenly struck me that I wasn’t wearing even a smidgen of makeup. My hair was in a messy ponytail, and I was wearing a comfy T-shirt that had seen better days. Where had it gone, that careful facade that had shielded me from scrutiny my entire life?
It had disappeared, along with any modicum of pretense. I’m finally able to show up as me—freckles and crows’ feet and bipolar disorder and lost dreams and hope and love and desire, all on unguarded display. It’s possible, I thought, to change your stars, to rewrite the destiny you were convinced was the only one you’d ever know. Sure, it takes a lot of things: patience, time, skilled doctors, supportive friends, and a certain amount of grace and luck. But it’s definitely possible, and the world needs to know that. It needs to know that taking off the mask is the first step toward fully becoming yourself.
I smiled back. “I feel beautiful,” I said. Better yet, I felt truly seen.
