Something to think about.

Don't be fooled by me.

Don't be fooled by me. Don't be fooled by the face a wear. For I wear a mask. I wear a thousand masks, masks that I'm afraid to take off, and none of them are me.

Pretending is an art that's second nature to me, but don't be fooled.

I give you the impression that I am secure, that all is sunny and unruffled with me, within as well as without, that confidence is my name and coolness is my game,that the waters clam and I'm in command, and that I need no one.

But don't believe me. Please.

My surface is my mask, my varying and ever concealing mask. Beneath lies no smugness, no complacence. Beneath it lies the real me, in confusion and fear, in aloneness; but I hide this; I don't want anybody to know it.

Thats why I frantically create a mask to hide behind, a nonchalant, sophisticated facade, to help me pretend, to shield me from the glance that knows.

But such a glance is precisely my salvation, my only salvation. And I know it; that is, if it is followed by acceptance, if it is followed by love. It's the only thing that can liberate me from myself, from my own self built prison walls, from the barriers that I so painstakingly erect.

It's the only thing that will assure me of what I can't assure myself, that I'm really worth something.

But I don't tell you this; I don't dare: I'm afraid to. I'm afraid that your glance will not be followed by love. I'm afraid that you'll think less of me, that you'll laugh. And your laugh will kill me.

I'm afraid that deep down, I'm nothing; that I'm just no good, and that you will see this and reject me.

So I play my game, with a facade of assurance without and a trembling child within. I tell you everything that is really nothing, and nothing of whats everything, of whats crying within me.

When I'm going through my routine, please don't be fooled by what I'm saying. Please listen carefully and try to listen to what I'm not saying, and what I'd like to be able to say. Honestly.

I'd really like to be genuine and spontainous- but you've got to help me. You've got to hold out your hand, even when thats the last thing I seem to want of need. Only you can wipe away from my eyes the blank stare of the breathing dead. Only you can call me into aliveness.

Each time your kind and gentle and encouraging, each time you try to understand because you really care, my heart begins to grow wings, very small wings, very feeble wings, but wings. With your sensitivity and sympathy and your power of understanding, you can breathe life into me; I want you to know that.

You alone can break down the wall behind which I tremble; you alone can remove my mask; you alone can release me from my shadow world of panic and uncertainty. So do not pass me by.

It will not be easy for you. A long conviction of worthlessness builds strong walls. The closer you get to me, the blinder I may strike back.

it's irrational, but despite what the book says about people, I am irrational. I fight against the very thing I cry out for.

But I am told that love is stronger than strong walls. In this lies my hope. My only hope.

Please try to beat down these walls with firm hands, but with gentle hands, for a child is very sensitive.

Who am I, you may wonder. I am someone you know very well. I am every man you meet. I am every woman you meet.

Anonymous.

From Dr. Walt Menninger's columns on mental health, which appears weekly in the 'San Antonio Express' Scene section.