My sisters and I are Irish Triplets. Born to the same mother within three years of each other. We have a strong family resemblance. Big light-colored eyes, small noses, full lips. My paternal extended family shared these same beautiful features, and my mother is beautiful.

My sisters and I shared physical characteristics growing up, but we viewed the world differently. My older sister had buck teeth. My younger sister struggled with her weight, but unlike my sisters there was nothing about my physicality which caused me to question my self-worth. My deviance was valued. I was pretty.

Sibling rivalry isn’t uncommon when there is a two to four-year difference in age between children. My older sister was born two years before me, my younger sister thirteen months after. It seemed unfair that my sisters had to suffer because of how they looked. It seemed equally unfair to me that I couldn’t say I was suffering for exactly the same reason.

Raising children in the late1950’s, early ’60’s had more to do with discipline than praise. The phrase “good job” had not yet become the qualifying anthem for all behavior, short of killing a sibling. Staccato commands to action and phrases which included “You want to cry, I’ll give you something to cry about” were more common. Innocence and ignorance led the march for child rearing when I was growing up.

Because of her protruding front teeth, adults frequently suggested that my sister alter her appearance. Without intent it was mean. She was hurt, and angry, and was often mean to me. We were mean to each other.

Being different as a child is awful. No kid wants to stand out. Not even for something seemingly enviable. While I’m sure that each of my sisters stores their own painful memories of wishing they could have looked different, my incessant thoughts of wishing I were different have plagued me for almost  my entire life.

My younger sister and I shared a room. She slept peacefully in the bed three feet away from me, while I stayed awake night after night, year after year staring at the ceiling; wondering what I had done to cause the attention I was getting.

Girls were mostly unkind. Conversely, I asked myself what had I done to deserve the adoration heaped upon me by boys.

The older I got, the more attention I received, and became increasingly unsure of how to act, but it didn’t matter how I acted, people made assumptions about me. The undeserved attention made me believe that I was superior. I began to think that I deserved whatever I wanted. I began to believe that I looked better, and therefore was better.

I was the subject of unsolicited adoration and/or misplaced anger. Girls that didn’t know anything about me ignored me. Boys wanted my attention, my time, my affection. It was confusing, and I felt like I couldn’t’ tell anybody that it was hard to be pretty.

I was pretty, but began to think that I wasn’t pretty enough. I began to think that I wasn’t enough of anything. I was consumed by self-doubt, but that didn’t stop me from receiving constant attention.

My sister’s braces were removed and my other sister lost weight, but my face looked the same. As a young girl I began to absorb the inappropriate things people said to me about my looks. Compliments or advances, or spiteful innuendo. People that didn’t know me would approach me as if they could. And I didn’t know how to ask them not to.

I wanted to  protect myself, but didn’t know how to, and didn’t know who to ask for help.

It seemed as if  there was no filter for who I let into my life, or who barged in. My introspection as self-preservation was often interpreted as being aloof and/or mean. And maybe sometimes I was, or am both of these things. Maybe I am.

In my late teens I asked my mom why I had to be pretty. Telling her that I sometimes felt like I wanted to wear a paper bag over my head. The constant ping-pong of emotion that ricocheted off my brain, bouncing between, so glad I am, wish I weren’t pretty was exhausting. I was tired of being judged for what I looked like.

“ Being pretty is a gift”, my mom said. I didn’t feel that way.  The random linking of my DNA resulted in facial features that align with scientific research, indicating that high cheek bones, thin jawlines and large eyes (relative to the size of the face) conform with how we are hard-wired to recognize beauty.

The “Golden Ratio” (defined as the mathematical formula based on the Fibonacci sequence of numbers, resulting in proportions closest to phi) cause some people to be considered more beautiful than others.

Was it possible that I was unlikable because my facial features met that formulaic criteria, or maybe I had become insufferable, and was just unlikable.

I didn’t have buck teeth, and I wasn’t overweight. I felt self-involved for being happy that I didn’t have these physical issues to cope with, but at the same time guilty that my frailties weren’t visible. I wanted to appreciate what I was given. But I didn’t. I vacillated  between feeling apologetic, or acting egoistic about my appearance.

Judging myself became the template by which I lived my life.

In the early 1980’s I was a mannequin make-up artist. I painted make-up on very expensive mannequins for the highly respected house DG Williams. It was not until I got the job that I became aware that mannequins (at this level of artistry) are either the images of actresses, entertainers or models.

My days were spent painting eyeballs of every color, lips, eyebrows, and as a final touch always lightly pouncing a large bristle brush across the nipples with a faint flesh color to make them appear “real.”  The Brooklyn factory was nondescript. Rows and rows of stunningly beautiful long-legged “women” stood on the factory floor waiting to be shipped to Neiman Marcus, Saks, Barneys and every other expensive store across the country.

Toni, Virginia, Tamara and I painted hundreds of ladies (and an occasional male) weekly. We worked in a small room just off the factory floor. Toni talked about her hunky husband Lou and their boat on Staten Island. Virginia was our boss. She talked about cooking and new make-up designs. She had followed and created mannequin make-up trends for more than twenty years. Tamara didn’t talk.

I was hired by the owner, but almost never saw him. Virginia told me one day that he had seen me and thought I looked like a model they wanted to hire. Famous women would come to the factory to be sculpted, and within a matter of weeks their exact likeness would become a DG Williams mannequin. I too  became a mannequin.

Instead of hiring the model I resembled they gave me a box of jelly donuts and the afternoon off. Weeks later the “Jill” mannequin was on the floor. 8 x 10 glossy tear sheets were printed for publicity and were stacked in the studio where I could see them. My face was on that mannequin body. “Jill” was spray painted with flesh tones which included a peaches and cream kind of girl next door look, olive skin tones, much like the real me, and different shades of white, black, and brown. I painted myself with green eyes (which I actually have) and every other color.

The “Jill” mannequin wore black, brown, red and  blond wigs. Long hair, short, and high fashion bald looks all became “Jill.”. Arched eyebrows, not so arched eyebrows. Every possible permutation of myself was brought “to life.” My 5’4” body became 5’11”. My petite frame was transposed and I became perfect, with perfect measurements. “I” stood unclothed on the factory floor. Dozens of me. The guys that made “me” looked at the mannequin and then stared at me. It was creepy. I was jealous of myself. “Jill” was very popular in the south. After I became immortalized I didn’t work their much longer.

I personally didn’t know what to do with my face and now there were hundreds of me. My face has once again been recreated.

One of my daughters looks very much like me.

My children and I were separated when they were 8,10, and 12. We endured years apart and have journeyed through Parental Alienation. Defined as the programming or brainwashing by one parent to denigrate the other, coercing children into alienating one parent with the goal of proving that one parent is emotionally superior.

My children and I never lived together again. They are now 17, 19 and 22. We are, and have been reunited for some time.

Sadly, children that physically resemble the absent parent internalize their grief. Trapped in this situation, the children often wish their appearance were different so the alienating parent will not be reminded of, and hate them for looking like the former spouse.

It is only recently that my daughter is willing to acknowledge our physical similarities. I worried that she would succumb to the same uncertainty about her looks that I had suffered because of mine. But my daughter is much more sure-footed than I ever was.

My girls all have inherited the features I have described. As my family members that passed this gene pool on to me begin to die, I am honored and happy to look the way I do. To be the visual constant of my ancestors. I am privileged to be the mother of beautiful daughters.

My joy comes from knowing that my girls see themselves as beautiful from the inside out.

My face looks much as it did when I was a teenager, a child, a baby. My heart and soul however look much different to me.

          PINK

“F__kin’ Perfect”

Made a wrong turn once or twice

Dug my way out, blood and fire

Bad decisions, that’s alright

Welcome to my silly life

Mistreated, misplaced, misunderstood

Miss ‘No way, it’s all good’

It didn’t slow me down.

Mistaken, always second guessing

Underestimated, look I’m still around

Pretty, pretty please, don’t you ever, ever feel

Like you’re less than f__king perfect

Pretty, pretty please, if you ever, ever feel

Like you’re nothing, you’re f__king perfect to me

You’re so mean when you talk

About yourself. You were wrong.

Change the voices in your head

Make them like you instead.

So complicated,

Look happy, You’ll make it!

Filled with so much hatred

Such a tired game

It’s enough, I’ve done all I could think of

Chased down all my demons

I’ve seen you do the same

(Ohh ohhhhhhh)

Pretty, pretty please, don’t you ever, ever feel

Like you’re less than f__king perfect

Pretty, pretty please, if you ever, ever feel

Like you’re nothing, you’re f__king perfect to me

The whole world’s scared, so I swallow the fear

The only thing I should be drinking is an ice cold beer

So cool in line and we try try try but we try too hard

And it’s a waste of my time.

Done looking for the critics, cause they’re everywhere

They don’t like my jeans, they don’t get my hair

Exchange ourselves and we do it all the time

Why do we do that, why do I do that (why do I do that)?

(Yeah!)

I’m Pretty, pretty, pretty

Pretty, pretty please, don’t you ever, ever feel

Like you’re less than f__king perfect

Pretty, pretty please, if you ever, ever feel

Like you’re nothing, you’re f__king perfect to me

(You’re perfect, you’re perfect)

Pretty, pretty please, don’t you ever, ever feel

Like you’re less than f__king perfect.

Pretty, pretty please, if you ever, ever feel

Like you’re nothing, you are perfect to me.

I didn’t tell my older sister  how I felt about being pretty until I wrote this piece. I wasn’t able to read it to her without crying. Her friendship is one of the most valued relationships I have as an adult. It took more than forty years for us to forgive each other.

Is there something you didn’t want to talk about when you were growing up. Would love to know your comments, or please consider writing Raw and share your story. Submit to jill@rawcandor.com

The Raw posts I write are my details, but could be anybody’s story.

Irish Triplets – http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=irish%20triplets

Sibling Rivalry – http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sibling_rivalry

DG Williams Mannequins http://www.flickr.com/photos/8512804@N02/sets/72157624921904221/

To read more about me and my girls and the story of our separation read Live Raw – http://rawcandor.wordpress.com/2012/01/26/live-raw/