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I hate Halloween. I know, that’s crazy, right? How can I hate something that involves eating candy and pretending to be something you're not? Well, given that I am a bariatric patient, the first part of that should be self-explanatory (Candy + Cari = Dump), but the second part? What's so wrong with pretending to be someone else?

 

To explain that, I have to go back a few years. Okay: 40. That's because it's the first Halloween I actually remember. I was dressed up as Bugs Bunny and had a big bowl of carrots to enhance the effect.

 

Trust me, a few years of that, and I was a tad bitter about the holiday. Eventually, I got “smart”: Wouldn't it be better (I thought), to just sneak the candy, rather than handing it out to other kids? My mom always bought "good" stuff that she didn't give out because she liked it so much. Why not filch a few of hers?

 

Fairly quickly, Halloween became more about sneaking candy, than about dressing up and walking around the block. But then, something magical happened: My mom thought it would okay for me to go outside and trick-or-treat with other kids.

 

Yeah. That meant that my costume was completely covered. (Trust me, this ruled out cute costumes like "prima ballerina," or "pretty princess" or "Barbie.")

 

Needless to say, I ended up feeling like a flasher – "Here's my costume! [Flash] Like it?"

 

Fast-forward a few years. I got older, and I got fatter. So, by the time I might actually have worn a sexy Halloween costume (outside…without the coat), I couldn't, because they didn't come in my size. I was convinced I’d have looked terrible in it anyway, which left room for only one option: Scary mask and a baggy, oversized costume.

 

What did I learn? To be accepted, I must hide the real me behind a mask. Every day.

 

Believe me, as time progressed and the pounds packed on, I acquired a lot of masks…and, I didn't just limit them to Halloween.

 

Sometimes I wore the "non-athletic-funny-fat-girl" mask to hide my embarrassment over the fact that my PE bloomers "didn't bloom." Other times, I wore the "I'll-draw-a-cartoon-of-you-and-your-boyfriend-for-free" mask so the popular girls would like me. (Heck, they traded their boyfriends for new ones every week, so my services were in demand.)

 

But not all of my masks were harmless. I often wore an "I'll-insult-you-with-super-big-words-that-you-can't-understand" mask, so people would know that I was fat, but not stupid. I frequently donned protective masks, like the "I-can't -believe-you're-intimidated-by-me-when-I'm-not-doing-anything-to-make-you-feel-that-way" mask. That was a good one, because even I didn't believe I was wearing it, but I'd intimidate anyone who said that I was.

 

There was one, troubling mask that I used to wear called the "I-work-for-a-prestigious-financial-institution-in-downtown-Los-Angeles-and-I'm-better-than-you" mask. This was one that my best friend constantly accused me of wearing. He'd say that I was a different person on Friday night than I was on Sunday afternoon. He said he despised the person that I was on Fridays, and wondered why I couldn't just "be me" for the entire weekend? Of course, just like my other "less-than-attractive" masks, I didn't admit that I even owned this one (let alone wore it.) I'd piously proclaim that he was making things up, and didn't know what he was talking about. I actually had the audacity to LAYER masks to defend my position. It's true. I'd put on the "insult" mask over the "intimidation" mask, then cover those up with the "professional" mask, so no one would know what was happening beneath the surface…not even myself.

 

How many masks did I wear at any given time? It's difficult to know, because I did such a good job of applying them, I didn't even know I had them on. Or, if I did know, I could defend myself by labeling it a "protective" mask (and who could argue with self-preservation?).

 

Over the course of 40 years, I collected a lot of masks, and not all of them were pretty.

 

Then I had gastric bypass surgery, and suddenly, the old masks stopped fitting. More than that, I didn't want to hide behind them anymore. I wanted to show my face to the world, and scream, "Look at me! I am happy! I am thin!" Ahh, but the world is not always as forgiving as you'd think, and people have a hard time adjusting to you when you aren't wearing a mask any more. Sometimes, it's because they just don't recognize you; other times, it's because they liked the "old mask" and don't want you to change. Still other times, they feel self-conscious because they aren't comfortable enough to step out from behind their own mask, or worse, they are angry that you were ever wearing a mask to begin with.

 

Thanks to a lot of therapy, and even more self-assessment, I've come to terms with some of the old masks on the shelf. I've apologized for inappropriately (or unintentionally) "scaring" people in my past. I’ve acknowledged that I wore masks that I swore I didn't own, and I've gently packed away masks that I wore for protection, but no longer need.

 

I like to think that I’m pretty honest now; that I don’t wear a mask anymore, since I have nothing to hide. Of course, one can never really be sure, but the fact that I am no longer ashamed of myself helps me to accept the real me. And that’s the person I work hard to show the world. Every day.

 

You know, as I approach my third year as a post-op, for the first time, I'm actually looking forward to Halloween. My daughter thinks my husband and I should dress up as "Lucy and Ricky." Who knows? Maybe we will.