Annyeong Chi'inga!
This is all in diary form, and it's really short, but you don't expect Sydney to write a whole essay for a diary entry, right?
Anyways, this is Sydney finally coming to terms and telling her diary, as if it was a friend, about herself. You can research it if you want to, it's really quite interesting!
Anyways, enjoooy!
- S x
Chapter 5
EEC Syndrome.
It's short for an overexagerated, unneeded long name, which you probably really don't want to hear.
You do? Really?
Okay then: Ectrodactyly, Ectodermal Dysplasia, Cleft Lip and Palate Syndrome
Dare you to try and say that five times fast.
In short, missing fingers, missing toes, cleft lip and palate, no hair, no eyelashes, no eyebrows, horrible teeth, and in some cases, hearing loss.
I'm the lucky one.
I have hair, it'll never grow past my shoulders, but it's still there. Somewhat tame-able in the mornings. I have all of my eyelashes, all of my eyebrows, braces that fixed up my horrid array of teeth, and only one ear that can hear slightly better, known to my friends as the Good Ear. I usually tell them to stand on that side.
Lucky. That's what I have to tell myself. I'm lucky.
Yeah, lucky
It's somewhat normal to me now, you know, being like this. I've been answering questions with ease, even the ones like "oh, why are you like that?" It's never bothered me.
Until recently. Now it's all I think about. All I can think about is how I'm incomplete, that something's missing from the big picture. How I'll never be whole I'll never be like them. While they're out with boyfriends, I'll be at doctors appointments, getting operations, and fantasising about being different.
Why aren't a different? Beautiful, like them? Why was I made like this?
A curse. Not a blessing. All I want to do is be normal. It's hard, challenging, diminishing, humiliating to be someone like me.
Overreacting? Maybe.
But lying? Never.
Like an endless fight with myself, with the mirror, with my insides.A constant gnaw at my stomach. A constant scream in my head. A constant scream saying you'll never be normal, you'll never be like them.
But yet, who is normal? What is normal? Is anyone normal? Can I ever be normal?
Is normal even possible?
It's hard to accept that fact, the fact that hiding isn't possible, that people will never stop looking at me. Will anyone look past all that and see who I am inside? Is the outside all that matters?
If I could give a message to the world, I would say 'I don't want your pity, or your laughter, o your sympathy, I just want you t understand. Stop pointing, stop mocking, because I'm real, with feelings, and you're destroying them.'
One day I might just loose it. Rampage, break down, run away. What would people say then? Would they even notice?
Would they see me crying?
I've never told you, Diary, and I thought that it was time for you to know. This is who I really am.
This is me, warts, missing fingers and all.
Sydney.
YOU ARE READING
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