What If You’re Not Broken—Just Masking? (I wasn’t broken. I was masking.)

I was 28 years old, married to my military husband, living in base housing somewhere in Maryland. It was the weekend, like always. Our tiny dining room was packed with Marines and their wives or girlfriends, everyone already halfway through their first drink, yelling over each other, laughing too loud, refilling red solo cups like it was a sport.

It was one of those “safe” weekends. Nobody had to drive. We all lived on the same street, so we could go harder.

And we did. Every. Single. Weekend.

I drank so much during those years, I don’t even remember full chunks of them. But I do remember the vomiting. The blackouts. The way I’d wake up feeling like my body was punishing me for something I couldn’t name. This wasn’t partying to me. This was routine. Normal. Expected.

Because I grew up in a house where alcohol was a given. My parents drank daily, heavily, constantly. There was always a bottle hidden somewhere. Always a reason. I learned early how to pour just enough that no one would notice. By 16, I was sneaking vodka into my orange juice cup before school. Not to rebel. Just because that’s what I knew.

By the time I got married, I didn’t think twice about drinking until I puked. My husband at the time could get wasted and still wake up to run miles like nothing happened. Everyone respected it. I did too. Because I didn’t know any different.

I thought everyone drank like that. I thought everyone needed to.

But eventually, the alcohol stopped numbing me. It started poisoning me.

One of my biggest wake-up calls came during a drive from Philadelphia back to Baltimore. I had been partying hard all weekend. I was in the passenger seat, head hanging out the window, violently throwing up as we sped down the highway. I couldn’t keep anything down. I couldn’t speak. My body felt like it was failing.

When we got back, I was taken to the hospital with alcohol poisoning.

It was fucking awful.

Not poetic. Not cinematic. Just pain, shame, and fluorescent lights. That’s when something cracked open.

I didn’t change overnight. But the voice inside me whispered, “This isn’t you. Not anymore.”

So I did what I had always been taught to do when life falls apart. I ran to God.

I went back to church. Back to the strict religion I was raised in. I stopped drinking. I stopped partying. I cleaned myself up. Tried to do it right. I thought maybe if I could just be good enough, maybe I could be saved.

My husband didn’t follow. He kept drinking. I didn’t blame him. I had done it for years too. But it became a breaking point.

While my aunt—more like a sister—was dying of cancer, my marriage was too.

I was swimming to shore. He stayed out at sea.

So I left. No plan. No dramatic exit. I just left.

But religion didn’t save me either. It triggered everything I had worked so hard to bury.

So I started searching.

I found spirituality. I found meditation. I found shadow work. And in that space, I found people who talked about masking and meltdowns and overstimulation. Things I had never had language for.

A girl looked me in the eye one day and said, “You know you’re autistic, right?”

I was 40 years old. And finally, everything made sense.

I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t lazy. I wasn’t dramatic.

I was autistic. And I had spent my whole life surviving in a world that wasn’t built for me.

So I started healing. I reparented myself. I rewired my brain. I cut alcohol out of my life for good. I lost 40 pounds of inflammation, trauma, and old habits. I became someone I actually recognized. Someone I like.

And I’m telling you all of this now—this bitter, brutal, beautiful truth—because if you’re stuck in it too, if your coping has become your cage, I want you to know:

You’re not too far gone.

You’re not broken.

But you do have to do the work.

And you’re worth it. Every fucking step of it.

Journal prompt:

Where did I learn to survive this way—and what part of me is ready to let go?

Write it down. All of it.

Your story deserves to be witnessed, even if it’s just by you.

We created RedRoom Society as a space for truth, healing, and being seen for who you really are.

If this cracked something open—stay with me.

This isn’t a one-time story.

It’s the beginning of everything.

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