For as long as I can remember, I was always considered a bit weird, and I was bullied for being nerdier than everyone else. And to survive, I had to adapt. Without realizing it, I found myself building a persona. I found myself acting like a different person in public, performing for people's respect. If I'm being honest, it was fun. I made friends, gained acceptance, and finally became a member of my community. But the truth is, it was fragile and exhausting. I felt like I was forever chasing my classmates, begging for their validation. And it made me do things I regret even today. To stay on the right side of the laughter, I became the thing that had hurt me. I found someone weaker or weirder, and I pushed them down so the group would keep looking up at me. And it worked. At that time, for me, this was just how things were. But now, I hate the simple thought of it.

And even then, the mask would slip. There were moments, like a joke that landed wrong or a flash of the real me showing through. The room turned, and suddenly I wasn't in on it anymore. I was the joke again. Those moments burned worse than anything before, because they proved what I already feared: that I was faking it, and that everyone could tell. So I decided to double down. Slowly, I became a performative clown, a jester who made it his life's mission to make others laugh, turning the humiliation itself into my identity.

When I reached high school, I had to move to a completely different establishment, leaving behind all the friends and classmates I'd grown up with. Since I was making a fresh start, I had the time to reflect on everything that had happened, to see the 'conclusion' of it all. And that was the breaking point. All the pressure I'd carried since primary and middle school caught up with me at once, and it broke me. I went from a charismatic, extroverted person to a silent, traumatized, bitter-looking loner. And it has followed me ever since. I can't even meet people's eyes. Every time I try to act like my old self, I come across as inauthentic and strange. So now I mostly hide in my room, and only go outside when I absolutely have to.

Looking back, I don't think my experience was random. It wasn't just 'kids being kids.' It was a rite of passage, one that all boys went through. To be more precise, was forced to perform masculinity. Everything I did during my childhood traced back to this one single concept. A concept I was once proud of, ignorant that it was the cause of my downfall.

When you're a boy, there are certain rules you must follow. But no one ever explains them to you. They don't need to. You just know. You know because the room shifts when a boy cries. I remember crying once in front of my classmates, and the silence that followed was worse than any insult. Then everyone started laughing. The laughter was so loud, so energetic, every laugh felt like a hit. Then came the words: 'Soft.' 'Weak.' 'Loser.' No one supported me. Not even my friends. Not even the teacher, the so-called 'trusted adult.' They just watched, smirking, as if I were a chimpanzee in a zoo, waiting for me to shut up.

From there, I learned. And fast. I learned that sadness was weakness, and that weakness made you a target. That showing any of it, even once, was enough to turn everyone against you. I more than just laughed at; I was also casted out. One moment you belonged, and the next you didn't, and no one was coming to bring you back. So I locked it away. I turned everything inward, the pain, the confusion, the loneliness, and covered it with something louder. Confidence. Humor. Aggression. Whatever worked. Whatever kept them from seeing that underneath all of it, you were still the kid who wanted to cry and wasn't allowed to.

That's what the persona really was. It wasn't a choice. It was a survival response to a world that told me, every single day, that who I actually was, sensitive, nerdy, emotional, was not acceptable for someone like me. Not for a boy, at least. I wasn't just performing for acceptance. I was performing masculinity. And the worst part is, I believed in it. I believed that if I could just get it right, be funny enough, tough enough, loud enough, I'd earn something real. But masculinity like that doesn't give you anything real. It gives you a role. And the moment you can't play it, you're nothing. Less than nothing, even. Because at least before you started performing, people hadn't seen you try and fail.

That's what high school was. The moment the role collapsed and I had nothing underneath it. Not because I was empty, but because I'd spent so long building the mask that I never built what was supposed to be behind it.