The Purim Persona

By: Jonathan Green

One of the themes of Purim is the unmasking of each person’s persona, which makes it a very psychotherapeutic holiday.

On Purim, we dress up in bizarre costumes, replacing our everyday outfits with disguises. How does this costuming unmask us? It seems like we’re putting on masks during this holiday, not taking them off.

By exchanging our everyday masks for fictional ones, we draw attention to the nature of the clothing and personas we wear every day, admitting to ourselves and to our communities that our everyday personalities are just that—personalities—not our true selves.

The psychoanalyst, Karen Horney, wrote that a person’s idealized image, the unrealistic one they show the world, is responsible for much of their anxiety and inner conflict (when their unrealistic image does not live up to their true self). People behave as if their “idealized image” reflects their true selves instead of the flawed, human that lies beneath it.

Carl Jung famously coined the term “persona,” which he defined as a kind of “mask” that is designed to make a certain impression on others while also concealing their true nature. Generations of therapists have observed how the tremendous amount of energy people put in convincing others that they are a certain “public persona” or “image” is exhausting, anxiety-inducing, and ultimately, counterproductive.

A person’s idealized image or public persona is not the only mask they wear. We all don masks reflecting particular emotions, relational styles, defense mechanisms, and ways of communicating in our daily lives. These masks, like surgical ones, are meant to keep us safe, but in truth they make it hard to communicate face-to-face and after a while, they’re really uncomfortable.

During graduate school, I worked as a therapist in a halfway house with a man I’ll call Nigel, who let me write about his story. Nigel had difficult labels: felon, recovering addict, parolee, halfway house resident. But what struck me most were not these identities, which he too felt did not characterize him. It was the small, situational personas he wore.

With his older sister, Nigel felt like a “babbling child.” He was sure she was embarrassed by him: her brother, the addict, the felon, the “toothless bum living under a bridge.” He was afraid to ask her for money even when he was behind on his rent. He was afraid to press her to search harder for their younger brother, who was still homeless and in danger. He feared being seen as burdensome and unworthy of help.

With authority figures, a different mask emerged. After years of incarceration and bureaucratic indifference, Nigel was cynical and quick to anger, assuming others would not help him. When a parole administrator frustrated him, he threw his phone and told her he hoped her house would burn down. To a security guard who tried to placate him by saying he had “paid his debt to society,” Nigel shot back a line he loved: “I’m not a part of your society; I’m apart from your society.” In his mid-50s, he was like a teenager, defiant and quick to lash out.

After these episodes, shame would set in. Nigel would spend his nights cleaning the public spaces of the halfway house, scrubbing the stoves, spraying the windows, tidying the pantry. His efforts to organize and improve the institution that housed him were noticed by the staff, who thanked him sincerely. For once he felt seen and heard, despite everything. “People like me around here,” he told me.

One night, while waiting for the elevator, he saw the same security guard he had previously lashed out at watching his beloved hometown team’s March Madness game. Nigel swallowed his pride and approached him: “How about them boys? Think they can make a run this year?” he said. The guard responded and they had a short chat. “Hey, man,” the guard told him. “You’re alright.”

Nothing dramatic changed. Nigel did not shed his criminal record. The guard didn’t become his close friend, but a mask loosened. A defensive posture softened. Contact became possible.

Much of the work of therapy is the slow and gradual uncovering of a person’s true feelings, values, preferences, and needs. First, a person begins to articulate these truths to himself; later, they will be able to be increasingly truthful in their relationships to others and their community. The goal of therapy is simple and necessary: to help an individual let go of their masks so their authentic self can emerge, leading to healing, genuine connection, and a more vibrant life.

On Purim, we play with personas. We exaggerate it. We parody it. We admit publicly that our identity is at least partially, a costume. And in doing so, we create a spiritual opportunity. For a day, we loosen the grip of the klipot of our personalities, the blockages we habitually create that prevent us from connecting more deeply with ourselves, with others, and with our Creator.

The morning after Purim, we put on our weekday clothes, drink a large glass of water, and return to our normal routines. We have important roles to play; we do not get to be astronauts, Purim heroes, or presidents for long. But throughout this holy day, while wearing our masks and costumes, they remind us that our souls are the true, holy essence of who we are, not the external costume we wear.

Freilichen Purim. 

Jonathan Green, LMHC, is a psychotherapist in private practice in Cedarhurst. He specializes in therapy with men and teenagers struggling with relationship conflict, low self-esteem, anxiety, depression, and addictions & compulsions. He draws from psychoanalytic and spiritual disciplines to support the emergence and strengthening of each patient’s true and complete Self. He can be contacted through his website, JonathanGreenTherapy.com, or by calling him at ‪917-720-6506. He is grateful to Rachel Ruchlamer and The Shidduch Project for giving him the opportunity to formulate the above thoughts for a talk at a recent Shabbaton.