If I had to blame my decorated history of relationship masking on someone, it would be Mischa Barton, Ben McKenzie, Adam Brody, Rachel Bilson, and the cast, crew, and creator of The O.C. I was just 16 years old when the “teen drama of the millennium” premiered on FOX. I found myself immediately captivated by the pretty faces, promise of petty drama, and theme song that still plays on a loop in my head to this day.
Despite the seed it planted, I rallied against The O.C. at home and school, denouncing it as “stupid” in an attempt to uphold my comically misguided punk-influenced ideals. I let my guard down long enough to become infatuated with the show, soon joining the hoard of hormone-ravaged teens who’d park themselves in front of their televisions every Thursday at 9 P.M. The O.C. reinvigorated the “teen” drama genre, but certainly didn’t reinvent it. Sure, the stakes were higher than your run-of-the-mill Saved by the Bell, but the tired tropes and exhausted archetypes from TV past were very much alive in the town of Newport, California.
When it came to reckless teenager love, Ryan and Seth (played by Ben McKenzie and Adam Brody) embodied the types of men I could relate to in a way that felt more authentic than the little I had in common with Zack Morris or A.C. Slater. Seth was a sheltered, nerdy Jewish kid with questionable taste in music, while Ryan displayed the cunning wit and brute strength all teenage boys think they have inside them. (They don’t.) I grew up with a perception of love and dating dictated by the television that filled my household every night. Enveloped in a world of true loves and ones that got away, I allowed fictional characters following wildly unrealistic storylines to dictate how love or lust was supposed to feel.
I grew up with a perception of love and dating dictated by the television that filled my household every night.
Neurodivergent people look to TV to see how communication and relationships work, because it’s laid out right there for us. We use it as a playbook for relationships and social strategies, but are often left with rampant masking and unfulfilling relationships.
C and I started dating during my junior year of high school, quickly evolving/devolving into a relationship as serious as two horny teenagers could muster. I told her “I love you” a month into it by writing a giant “I <3 you” in the snowy Barnes & Noble parking lot. Despite the nagging voice telling me that love should feel a little stronger and more genuine than what I was feeling, I saw this over-the-top, mega-saccharine move as a master stroke.
A master of masking is a sultan of suppression; you shove every opposing thought or pang of cognitive dissonance down to the pit of your stomach to keep your storyline going. I love-bombed C daily, allowing my saccharine words to drip out of my mouth while ignoring the constant voice in my head (known affectionately as Little Guy) whenever he’d shoot off his mouth with inflammatory threats and observations: She’s not your soulmate! This isn’t serious. Do you love her or like her? If you were really into her, you wouldn’t be flirting with that hot Christian girl during bus pickup.
Uncertain of my next move, I went back to what I knew. The shows that taught me how to be in relationships. I leaned into what I thought was Ryan Atwood’s quiet stoicism (which would later be reclassified as “bad at communicating”) and held back any potentially problematic thoughts, feelings, or ideas from C that could break the facade of the perfect relationship. C and I eventually broke up; I can’t remember who broke up with whom, but our storyline quickly faded into obscurity once we went to college.
Where some young men use their time away from their hometowns to grow as humans, I retreated into a new false narrative with the help of a new girlfriend. This time, instead of pulling from a TV show, I slowly let myself mask into a version of my partner. J liked to call herself a cartoon character. She dyed her hair, thrifted her clothes, and lived in a pseudo-reality that I admired. I took on her style, her attitude, and her taste in music. My closet exploded with checkers and plaid, burying me in layers of superficiality that corked my real self… whatever that was.
I retreated into a new false narrative with the help of a new girlfriend. This time, instead of pulling from a TV show, I slowly let myself mask into a version of my partner.
I was a cool guy. Cool guys didn’t give a crap about falling behind in school, managing temper tantrums, or hemorrhaging money.Cool guys could take a smack to the face — especially when administered daily and framed as “just a joke!” When it eventually came time for us to part ways, I sobbed; the profound relief of suddenly not having J in my life shook me awake in a way I wouldn’t feel again until the death of my brother. Because by losing her, I was also losing this part of myself that I had created through masking.
There’s no one specific moment that dissipated the fog of the false realities that dictated my relationships for so long. I always felt aimless, tired, and lost. The exhaustion of suppressing my authentic thoughts and feelings couldn’t be countered with loud music or hot coffee… and I didn’t think there was an alternative until I met the woman I would eventually marry.
While nearly 10 years would elapse between our first date, first breakup, and wedding, the incremental moments of honesty she unknowingly facilitated became markers of how to peacefully co-exist with another person you love.
That’s one of those things they don’t go into on sitcoms like The O.C. or its show-within-a-show, The Valley; the quiet comfort of finding the person who makes you feel like you. Watching two people share an afternoon reading together in blissful silence is bad television, but we exist in the real world, where love doesn’t need a soundtrack or cliffhanger. Once the mask comes off, you see the beauty in the unspectacular interactions that make you a more well-rounded person.
