Who's Tired of Perfect?

Who's Tired of Perfect? (1)

November 27th 1:36 pm

Dear Diary,

I am me. Just me. Holliday (I love my first name) Lorraine (I hate my middle name) Whitehead (I hate my last name - I'm sure you can imagine the jokes). How can I be anything but? The problem is, I feel inadequate. In a world of perfect, isn't everything subpar? Isn't everyone? This needs to stop. It has to stop. We need to BE. Nobody's perfect so why do we keep pretending to be? Instagram is the devil.

I got this diary today from my dad. This is my first entry. I want to write, so I remember. Remember who I am, who I was, where I'm going. Look at it when I'm old and grey. Today's my 16th Birthday. Today's the day I get my nose job. So I can be perfect. I wished for this day for so long and now it's here. Now I can look like Kendall Jenner and be like everyone else on Instagram.

Except I don't want the nose job anymore. I'm scared of who I'll see in the mirror looking back at me. A stranger looking at me through my eyes. A "perfect" stranger. Until I hit 20 and notice I need botox. Then at 25, the line near my mouth that shows how much I laughed will be filled with restalyne so that I can look like a porcelain doll that doesn't age. The tapestry of my face will be erased until I don't recognize myself anymore. I will look perfect, but will I feel perfect? Inside, the china is cracked with moments of life. Forgotten are my triumphs. Forgotten are my sorrows. All of it erased. The time I laughed so hard my stomach hurt when I was studying with my friends jacked up on smarties. The time I cried so hard after Riley made fun of me. The time I worried so much when my dad had a heart attack and almost died. All those times are me. Make me who I am. I'm not perfect. I live my life. A life that's a roller coaster full of ups and downs...so why be afraid to show the road map on my face. Why am I afraid to be different? Why must I use a black and white filter on a photo if the light isn't just right? Why do I choose face tune instead of living in my skin? Why why - why? I'm worried about the day when I'm 35 and my daughter's 5 and sees a world full of fembots. A world where she can barely have a moment to live in her skin and think of how she will change the world with her mind. With her ideas. The noise will be too much. The Instagram-Pinterest-Etsy-perfection will likely have swallowed us up. Swallowed up everything that makes us different, that makes us great, that makes us unique. That makes us US.

Okay diary, that's enough for now. I have to run. I'm going to tell my mom I want to leave my nose alone.

P.S. I got the day off school!!! Wahoo.

xo

H

_________________________

Okay, I am back. I can't believe it. My mom is mad at me. Like actually mad at me that I didn't want a nose job. She's so vain and vapid and her face is made of marshmallow. She threw a fit that she had to cancel the appointment. On MY birthday!!! What the hell is wrong with this world. Or my mom. Mom thinks the way to look and feel your best starts with your outer appearance. She just told me she took an extra line of credit just so I could get the nose job 'cause she thought it was important to me. Ha. Maybe it was important to her and her "position in the community." She always says she has a position to maintain in the community, whatever that means. She's a yoga teacher and a medical aesthetician...meaning she fills peoples faces with botox and restalyne. She does it out of the house, so I have to see all these weirdos. I can't believe she took a line of credit for my nose job. I mean we're not rich by any means and have a small house in Scarborough, but I had no idea she was taking a loan to get me a new nose! Apparently, there are 14 types of noses. I've done A LOT of reading on the subject. Mine is called a "fleshy" nose. It's like a British nose. Looks good on my dad, not me. My dad's British. Mom's Ukrainian.

I wish my dad were still here. I mean he isn't dead. They just couldn't make it work after my sister died. It was awful really. The ol' ball rolled into the street thing. Sorry, I'm being sarcastic and disrespectful, but it's true. How many kids die chasing a ball into the street? A LOT. That year was the WORST year of my life. My dad had a heart attack and almost died and then my sister DID die. I was 9. She was 6. We were like peas and carrots and then she VANISHED. Left me alone on this planet to deal with MOM!!! Cause dad moved out. To an apartment. All he could afford. Mom was deemed more stable. Poor Dad. I have to tell you though that I've been seeing her ever since. My sister Madge. For 7 years. I've not told a soul. Until now. Diary you are the ONLY person that knows that I see Madge. If I told my mom she would tell me I need a shrink. If I told my dad, he'd probably get stressed and have another heart attack. So here I sit with it bottled up that the ghost of my sister visits me ALL THE TIME. I'm so far gone that I don't even know if it's a ghost or if it's really her. Oops, gotta go. She's here! What's even weirder is she aged. But more than aged, she like doubled her age. It's like her NOW. Age 13.