Excerpt of A Different Me by Deborah Blumenthal

I have a life, only sometimes it doesn't feel like I'm the
right size for my own skin. Am I the only one not secure in
the role of being myself? It's not something you can just
bring up, like asking what you're wearing to the party on
Saturday. I could just imagine asking Jen.

"Uh, nooo," she'd say, like I'd completely lost it. Why
should she feel that way? She's not crazed about how she looks.

So I don't sit on my bed and take magazines quizzes like the
one I stare at now: "Do You Make the Grade? Find Out How
Much You Love Yourself." I know how it will come out.

You're not happy with the way you are...

You're overly concerned with how other people see you...

What's worse is that I'm haunted by stupid remarks that
people make. "Hey nose," Kirk called out to me one day on
the way to the cafeteria.

And that was kind—for him.

My mom opens the door and I slam the magazine.

Sometimes I think my mom should have stayed with acting
because she has these dramatic expressions that tell you
exactly what she's thinking. Her blue eyes narrow slightly
now so I see creases between her eye brows. She pushes her
dark, shoulder length hair away from her face and studies me.

"It's a stupid self-assessment quiz, okay?" I hold it out to
her briefly.

Her face relaxes. "I wouldn't read too much into a
psychological test in a teen magazine." She sits on the edge
of the bed and I stare at the antique gold locket around her
neck. My dad bought it for her on their tenth anniversary.

"Then again if you're unhappy, maybe it would help to talk
to someone."

"Someone?"

"A shrink." She shrugs. "Just an idea."

Or a surgeon.

My parents aren't the kind you can just start talking to
about important things. You have to pave the way slowly
because everything they do takes forever.

New job for my dad: two years and a bajillion phone calls,
emails, letters, and lunches later.

Search for new couch: one year and about eighty gallons of
gas to visit every furniture showroom.

New laptop for me: three months, but only because there was
a sale.

"I'll think about it."

She nods and stands, picking up a single shoe from the floor
and hanging it on the shoe rack in my closet. She closes the
door behind her on her way out.

The truth is that the way I see myself would change
completely if I had my nose done. Then if I was taking a
quiz about myself, everything would be yes, instead of no.

"Do you see yourself as beautiful?"

Or, more importantly, "do you see yourself as worthy of
someone's love?"

It's nothing a shrink could fix. They're always asking how
you feel, at least according to Jen and a show I watched on
TV about a therapist and his patients. They expect you to
talk and think about everything, even if you don't want to,
and all they do is sit there and wait and make you feel dumb
and self-conscious. My problem is obvious. A nose. It's
there. You can't deny it, so what is there to discuss?

Jen went to a shrink after her favorite aunt died
unexpectedly, and she ended up unhappier.

"You spend almost an hour unloading and then they give you
this blank stare and say, ‘So how do you really feel?'" she
said. "Or worse, ‘I'm sorry, our time is up. Let's continue
next time.' That makes you doubly depressed because the last
thing you want when you're talking about your loser life is
to stop in the middle and wait a whole week to start talking
about it again."

Surgery is faster. Therapy with a knife.

I hit Google and type the ugliest word in the English
language into the search box: rhinoplasty.

Translation: nose job.

Somewhere in the middle of the listings I come upon a
website called The Swan. It includes bulletin boards about
beauty and plastic surgery. People leave comments, but they
also post pre- and post-op pictures and ask for feedback.
They bitch about procedures and doctors, ask for
recommendations of surgeons in their area, or just vent
about things they need to get off their chests.

Click. I'm anonymous. I call myself A.

So I begin.