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Pretty Girl Syndrome
- Deidre Annette
- Aug 24, 2022
- 17 min read
I’m not sure if it’s a disease, a crime, or even a real thing. But I know I have it; I don’t know how I got it, and I do not want it.
Like almost everything else, I thought I made the phenomenon up. But after a good ole Google session, I learned that at least one other person feels my pain every time I binge-scroll after midnight. If you’re curious (and you know you are), “Pretty Girl Syndrome” is… well, imposter syndrome.
I thought I coined the phrase after my episode back in January. (And then I started avoiding mirrors again, thinking I was fixing myself….) If we haven’t been properly introduced yet, my name is Deidre Annette, and I’m losing my damn mind. They say humble people don’t say they’re humble. Well, the ‘pretty girl’ in me won’t say she’s humble, hungry, smart, intelligent, manic, or broken. Until I take my turn on somebody’s couch, I’m not here to offer you any answers (Hell, I’m still trying to find them /:)
I know there must be some logical explanation out here on Beyonce’s Internet for the voices in my head screaming over my adoring fans as I try to sleep the day away in peace. Like almost everybody these days, I saw one too many ‘free trainings’ not to take it as a sign. Writing has always been my passion, so I planned everything around my not-so-new niche when I built my Influencer 101 checklist. Then…. I stared at a blank Pinterest board, thinking, “Now, how do I get followers?” A few months (and 100 searches later), I hadn’t stopped dreaming of being an influencer, and I *still haven’t figured out a way around that pesky ‘build your following’ step.
And it’s all because of ‘Her.’
I sometimes feel like the world’s smallest violin plays whenever I talk. I don’t know how your anxiety is set up, but mines won’t let me say a single word unless I fully understand the definition, context, tone, synonyms, and proper usage. The thought of someone asking me to repeat myself or say they don’t understand what I’m saying gives my anxiety anxiety, and when the pandemi started, I kind of just unsubscribed from reality for three years. Cause I don’t mean to judge, but… y’all forgot how to talk to each other too (AND you took all the damn toilet paper.)
Before I continue spilling out my guts (with no real point), I want to tell you a little more about myself. Because again… violins — and it should be noted that before I started writing this sentence…. I Googled it. See, I come from a small town that feels like it’s in the middle of nowhere, sandwiched between two cities full of opportunities for other people because the buses don’t go that far. After Googling my little birthplace to find out the exact population (30,029 bt.dubs), I learned exactly what I feared… nothing at fucking all.
My hometown is North Chicago, Illinois. Not the north side of Chicago! I have no more idea what them people do there than you… and they just an hour away. I’ve lived here for 33 years and was blessed with two working parents who raised me and my five siblings the “sheltered” way. When you Google my little city, they tell you all about the Navy Base, Gurnee Mills, and Six Flags. If you’re a traveler, you’ve probably been and didn’t think twice about it. The lawns are nice, the houses are intact, and the roads you take don’t have that many potholes. But that’s Gurnee — where the rich people live. Come down to the Popeyes, and that’s my city.
When I talk like this, I feel like I’m applying for a black card where poverty, roaches, and syrup sandwiches are the requirements. Because when I was growing up, my family was the Kardashians. A pillar of our community, the McAllisters were a family of creatives who gave back with my grandfather’s church, Ward Memorial, the family business, Mcallister and Sons Sign Company (which my dad — the baby of the bunch — still runs today) My family painted murals around the city, created two self-published magazines to highlight black business and other important ‘regular folk.’ We even started the annual Afro-Fest, which now lives on as Community Days. They even named a street after us! Not McAlister, though. That was already there. (It’s two streets now…. and two Ls.)
When I have a family reunion, I have a reunion with entrepreneurs, corporate executives, models, music producers, doctors, badass spoiled little kids who don’t want their relatively wealthy parents to know what they’re really up to, playwrights, lawyers, actors, actresses, real-estate moguls, Oscar-winning makeup artists, old-school homemakers, and modern-day beauties. Then there’s fucking me —
Just Deidre.
Just here.
In the middle of nowhere, Googling divine intervention, trying to understand why I keep hearing:20180525–1915140726)calling my name in his sleep, and would I be locked up on sight if I answer him?
We all hear voices, right? It’s our internal dialogue or our conscience. I’m telling you now, DON’T GOOGLE IT! Because apparently, it’s four different voices, and that’s why I’m up writing to you desperately trying to drown them out. Some way along my journey, I let the world attack my flesh, which made way for the devil. But the jokes on Him! Because I got a praying grandmother — and a handsome little angel who stole the plotline to Drop Dead Diva. (And until I can afford some one-on-one time with the lady — you can’t tell me any different*)
I’ll never forget the day… because I wrote it down. It was January 18, 2022. It was a Tuesday. We were two years into what had to be the most confusing time to be alive, and I was two years behind on the promise I made to God once my car broke down a stop light away from my momma’s house after I had been fired from Amazon for the fourth time. After working in basically every warehouse from Kenosha, WI, to Palatine, IL, since I was 19, I was done wayyyyyyy before the queens’ order to “release ya job.”
I met Devin in high school. Ready for another layer to this spoiled onion? I didn’t graduate from North Chicago Community High School. I went to school in Maywood, IL (a ‘real’ westside suburb). While my dad held down the family business so close to home, you could stand in the street and see his job. If you turned the other way (and squinted a little), you could see the high school where my mother worked until she began working at Proviso East. Unless you are Sarah McAllister, of course. Who could not only ‘clearly’ see our driveway ten miles away, but apparently, she could also see into our backyard and identify things that shouldn’t be in it because she said so.
My Mom was an administrative assistant before they were called ‘administrative assistants’, and it was acceptable to celebrate Secretary’s Day. She *also retired just in time for the pandemi, and while I was growing up, she always seemed to be one building over until my freshmen year. Now forty-five minutes away (with her behind the wheel), I no longer went to school with the kids I grew up with and couldn’t hang out with the ones I did go to school with because I had to go home!… And, by the time I got home, everyone was already gone! I was the kid who had to be home before the streetlights came on. Most of us were in North Chicago, even if they liked to play like they weren’t. Again, I can’t speak on big Chi-Town city tings. But that one time I did sleep over at Sabrina’s seems to be somehow trapped in my memory bank. Even in high school, I couldn’t sleep over other people’s houses unless our mothers met. And if my momma didn’t like ya, the answer was no, hell no, don’t even ask, and she’d kill us both if she caught us together.
How I survived high school was Devin, my notebooks, and my mom’s playgroup. She started directing the school’s plays for some extra money, so whether I liked it or not — I was in almost every play because I had to be there…. How else was I getting home?
Devin was one of the first people to be nice to me during my first week of school who wasn’t an adult, chosen by the principal — my mom’s boss — Or only spoke to tell me that (in the nine weeks she had been there) “my mom was like their mom.” Devin and I had an English class together, and I knew he liked me the second we locked eyes. He looked like he had seen a ghost. Whenever guys look at me like that, my first thought is always, “Oh my god, he can see my mustache!” Which — if I haven’t completely lost you — is the point of this article.
Devin wanted us to be a thing so bad he even joined the playgroup. Working backstage as a stagehand and keeping me company in between scenes. He was my first love. My second crush. My first boy-friend and the first guy I treated like shit. Going on dates was out of the question. Not because our moms didn’t like each other, but when were we gon’ go? Again, 45 minutes…streetlights…fat girl.
I mean — That’s exactly what I mean. Let’s get to the point. Devin was one of the first people to listen to my big dreams and wild stories. (Well… Besides my younger sister, but that’s a different think piece.) I really hope I’m not misleading you, but I had a psychotic break that weekend. It started simple, like a dream I was fully in control of. Then, while alone in a trailer with my mom, I felt the sunshine on my face. Wind whip through an install that didn’t exist. And I felt….. well, I felt the blood on my hands.
I spent three days in a dark room alone, staring open-mouthed into outer space without a single Tweet from my non-existent friend group. I saw my past, the present, a future, and the end. When I drove home from Amazon that day, it was December 2019. I’m not saying my call out to God caused the pandemic. But I damn sure found it suspicious that the same people I was vicariously playing catchup with were sitting at home… just like me… looking for toilet paper and Googling when the next stimmy was gonna drop. Devin even took it a step further when he sent him to say, “We all got the same 24 hours.”
Once I heard that… It was go time. I was 100% sure that with daycares closed, as a single mother who couldn’t work, I was ready to start my writing career. Throughout high school, I walked around with the submission guidelines for Triple Crown Publications. Ready at any moment to skip World History and slip away in the history of a world I created. But working on a fictional universe for almost fifteen years isn’t exactly an award-winning headline for your resume. Caught somewhere between “I can do this” and “How do I do this?” I did what I always do and ignored my heart calling for anything that didn’t fit into my little box’s ‘American Dream’ — while writing…my short stories… on my computer… Over and over again.
On August 9, 2008, Devin was murdered in a drive-by. During his funeral, one of our old friends gave this big speech about how close they were, all the advice he would give her, and how she’d say anything in a room full of people to have all the attention on her. I left. Threw one of my famous pretty girl fits. Walked out of the funeral and sat in the car. I never said goodbye.
Then, that Tuesday, at 10:52, I finally got the chance. He looked a little like you-know-who as we left somebody’s fake-ass award show during my three-day hallucination. Then it was like Harold pulled up on the notorious Tupac at a red light, and I had all of two minutes left with every woman’s favorite thief. Sitting in my bed, I promise I’m not saying it for likes; I felt it. I heard the gunshots; I felt the glass shatter. His weight on mine as he tried to protect my fictional self like any good man would. It was a chaos only I could see as the car sped away, and my brainwaves mimicked frantic shouts of his four-letter name. As I played along with no choice, parts of my body began to feel warm…wet… foreign. Outside my TARDIS bedroom, my family probably thought, “This is it. Call the lady!” as I cried in real life, just as I did in my head. Banging on the bed, trying to give the life back to my fave that I had stolen away for a dream.
When it ended, I felt relieved, focused, and more determined than ever. For two years since my promise, I searched for answers all over Google non-stop: “Can anyone be an influencer,” “How to write an outline,” “How to write a business plan,” “What’s the difference between a brand and a business.” Anything that made me feel like I was checking off that list toward my goals — without actually pressing record. Cause I can write my ass off, but let’s be for f* real, if I want ‘overnight’ success — I need to be pretty.
“I want to show a woman’s beauty. I want to show a woman’s face, eyes, and posture. I want to show a fantasy.” — Lola Monroe. Thee Wonder Woman
Whether I become a social media star, content creator, writer, influencer, I GuEsS model, or famous enough to make everyone forget this cry for help, getting paid to create is the ultimate goal. Yet, I still shy away from what honestly feels like my calling, all because of my inner pretty girl… The bitch won’t stay outside.
I made my promise to explore the universe in December 2019; then, the world shut down in March; I had my first panic attack a year later while working full-time and creating on the side, annnd I ended up spending Valentine’s Day at Lakes Behavioral Hospital before I successfully ‘killed my darlings’ (Asha — Thank you, by the way.) And to bring this paragraph full circle, I cried one more time once I officially filed my taxes as self-employed for 2022. Major depressive disorder without psychotic features was the case that they gave me. Then, pretty much told me a proper diagnosis was all I could afford.
So I turned back to Google, asking, “What is Pretty Girl Syndrome?” Because it ended up in ‘the Blueprints’ Devin and I worked on back in January. Ever since Instagram became available to Android users, 4.9 billion people have been Back-Tagging their Facebook to make space for their pins and interests. By the end of 2012, Americans had sent over 2.1 trillion texts. How many of them do you think were nudes? About half, right? My texts were definitely (and mostly remain) step two verification codes, but as Auntie Tabitha “Tabernacle” Brown says, That’s “my business.” The point of ‘the Blueprints’ was to serve as a model and guide me as I procrastinated and leaped out on faith. ‘Devin’ told me what to write down so I could be prepared when it came back up. As (hopefully only) five of the seven living generations continue to share Vinton Cerf and Bob Kahn’s fever dream, 8.5 billion searches take place on Google every day. Again, it’s mostly me trying to figure it all out by googling symptoms and treating WebMD like an Amazon wishlist. The Dangers Of Social Media is one of those conversations we have every seven business days or every time a party of podcasters gets bored and feels like shaking the table. It's a new study breaking headlines every day about social media's negative effect on our mental health. I used to “blow my cig smoke right at the Truth commercials” until I realized I hadn’t looked directly into a mirror longer than a minute without avoiding my own eyes in shame in almost nine years after the first time I asked the Lord for a little love in my life. From unrealistic beauty standards to comparison and competition, we’ve been up and down this conversation. But we rarely listen to accept the pretty girl’s point of view.
It was different when I could turn the material gworls on the TV off. But nowadays, it seems like those girls are everywhere I’m not, checking a bag, drinking thy water, catching flights, and charging extra for feelings. Or at least social media makes it seem that way. Even girls I went to school with have seemed to master the coveted no-make bathroom selfie and may make you take a double take at their following count.
When you heard Pretty Girl Syndrome, the Urban Dictionary definition might have come to mind — before it turns personal. “Pretty Girl Syndrome” is society's one-millionth way of saying “pretty girls are spoiled” and all, and any other known synonyms. But I’m more interested in the related search about it; “How to deal with a ‘pretty girl.’”
When I came across the blank page in my notebook, I knew exactly what Devin wanted me to talk about. Except — Well,… just hear me out. “Pretty Girl Syndrome” sounds a lot like imposter syndrome to me. Pretty girls can’t even admit to feeling this way because then they’re basically problematic narcissists fishing for compliments or canoodling for symphonies. Other people get to decide when a pretty girl is taking advantage of her beauty, and by turn, they can also choose when an ‘ugly’ girl is living in a delusion.
The first time I heard the phrase ‘imposter syndrome’ was on the Internet — of course. Not an exact medical diagnosis, I tried to scroll past the phenomenon as quickly as I could before it stuck around my memory bank to be clicked through by the basic emotions in charge of my core memories: Misery and company. Described as that uncomfortable feeling you experience when you think you’re unqualified and incompetent. I feel myself meme-ing Arthur with a balled-up fist as I wonder, “Why her?” every time I pass an ‘Insta Star’ chilling with fave on the couch of a club I’ve been trying to get into since 2011. Am I a pretty girl, or am I an imposter?
Like a typical Gemini, I hear yes when you say no. I also thought that influencer toy y’all lost y’all damn minds over was actually pretty cute and convinced me to Google what the adult version would look like, and thanks to all the podcast mics that Amazon seemed to drop off in the ‘hood one time — it was pretty cheap. After my no-ayahuasca-needed day trip, I knew my confidence would come into question if I took that leap and quit my job to edit the life of influencer videos after midnight. I would also need my ends clipped, a silk press, some edge grease, makeup, ring light, a tiny microphone, and an aesthetically pleasing backdrop to film my clothing hauls as I got ready to debut my no-no squares on my OnlyFans and hope someone saw something special in me enough to buy me a coffee on Patreon once a month as well.
I am a freelance twerking-blogging-podcasting-streaming-amateur writer. Since saying content creator seems to be the new pretty curse these days. Devin and I wanted to create this Blueprint because, without it, I might end up sounding like a crying girl on the Internet because the IG models won’t be nice to me. Since Googling shit for ‘research purposes’ ruined photographic memories for me, I tossed a tacky blue pin in my train of thought as I sought out how I could ‘get rid of my imposter.’ Reducing my social media use seemed to work for a while until I got back to that blank board, and it was time to fill it with my face. In my pursuit of happiness, I found myself staring down the barrel of a double-edged conundrum one vowel away from asking Google something Mrs. McAllister should’ve taught me that all the other pretty girls must’ve known already. How can you be confident, sexy, and conservative without being vain, nasty, and narcissistic? How do you say, “Hey, look at me!” without saying, “Hey! Look at, me!”? How to convince everyone you’re a pretty gworl without upsetting the natural selection of the ‘pretty’ girls? And most importantly, how to avoid “Pretty Girl Syndrome.”
I wanted this piece to be my cornerstone. You can Google these questions and search for the answer if you wish. But we’ve all seen a too-cool-for-school cat hanging in there somewhere, providing the simplest answer for every anxiety-inducing clusterfuck of moral dilemmas; “Be you.” When I decided to go full speed ahead chasing my influencer dreams, ‘being me’ was not only my only option but also step one on my annotated checklist. I curved the urge to rush to the nearest Targét and sat with myself just a day longer. Ignoring one or the other’s taunts about how basic I was being right now and agreeing that “Art imitates life” would be my first affirmation to explain the bickering baritones I can't seem to leave outthink since that Tuesday night in January. I know the Internet is filled with others who could better explain the fourth wave of feminism, dealing with depression as a black woman, and what society says women want. I’m just the messenger's messenger at this point. And I’ll say sorry to my ancestors now before Iyanla finds me, but I prefer my news, like my coffee — passed around Black Twitter with a perfect ratio. As long as I have to keep an open Google tab idling on ‘What’s the difference between vanity and narcissism.’ The church girl in me feels guilty as sin, asking people to follow me — I mean, listen. Well,… read.
If I have any more time left on the imaginary clock I hear ticking away in my head, I want to tell you one more story about something I think happened in-between then and now. But I don’t want to get too far away from the topic my company keeps accessing from the restricted part of my brain’s memory bank that makes me take the long naps, so I’ll say ‘In conclusion’ first. I first began shying away from labels after my Fab Five slipped right through my fingertips the week you-know-who blew into his hometown. Short story even shorter, “Labels keep people in Florida from drinking Windex.” Pretty girl, superstar, gangsta boo, — basket case are all labels we can shed once we embrace our true selves, no matter how ugly they are. 872 miles away from home, anticipating the questions coming, I wasn't always myself during my first stab at college. Eight years later, I found myself mourning our friendship in a crowded theater. Already forgetting Tiffany Haddish jerking off a banana—ugh — Never mind.
When I was in college, I knew I was the duff, but I was finally pretty girl adjacent. I also daydreamed through most of 2nd and 3rd grade because I knew the teachers before they actually tried to teach me — big mistake. Because now, I don’t understand fractions or percentages, but I’m like 90% sure 4 out of 5 in 2009 was a pretty crew of professional baddies. Even Orlando Jones would’ve been concerned for us had he seen how unbothered we stormed through campus, taking down numbers to score us some free drinks at the Sweatbox better than we did notes in the classes we missed, taking turns sleeping over our Queen Bee’s whenever her roommate didn’t come back to the dorms that night. Whenever we did go anywhere, it wasn’t before we prearranged the meet-up to find out where we could hang out to privately arrange our social calendars like four Manhattan socialites we just missed growing up watching by a hair. Even though the campus was dry, the five of us were wet and wild, constantly out at parties — both on and off campus. All five of us budding adults hadn’t quite kicked the teenage habit of falling for the bad boy just yet and couldn’t get enough of the local boys. Positioned on top of a hill, Virginia State University looked like Hillman in real life to 18-year-old me. By the time I left, it looked more like 50 Cent’s Candy Shop when our molding minds learned you could walk on and off the campus like crossing over the line between adulthood and womanhood. One disagreement ruined what took eleven months to build. We came back to VSU our sophomore year as strangers, and I was somewhat glad I got kicked out. Until the Flossy Posse reminded me how fun it is to be a part of something.
‘Pretty girl’ or not, I’m here to tell you that it’s okay to be imperfect, to have doubts, and to strive for your dreams. “Nobody thinks they’re ugly anymore,” because we’re not. I don’t know the statistics or protocol, and Google says I can still call it a theory, but 2012 Amber Rose won when women began calling out rape culture, sexual harassment, and pushing back on body shaming and misogyny. Businesses owned by Black women grew 67% from 2007 to 2012 and by another 50% from 2014 to 2019. And that’s all because we click on each other's affiliate links like screaming out, “Yass! Whatever item you are wearing so aesthetically pleasing” to each other in public. Since I hope everyone wants to look a little like their Instagram pictures in real life, women everywhere are deep conditioning their hair, price-checking their hydrating face masks, avoiding pop/soda, and saving up for whatever the fuck they feel like and never forgetting to tag the nail tech. Life is a journey filled with ups and downs and is worth every step. (They must be charging for them now, too.) As social media continues to evolve and find new ways to keep us hooked on our own supply, I hope we all have a “Pretty Girl” phase and “Treat Yo’ Self” to a cheat day; call up your girlfriends, head out to somebody’s beach and plot against somebody’s son like the spoiled, little pretty girl you are.
Remember,
If he can afford it — he won’t complain about it on the Internet.
DON’T Mind the gap°. +his is something more. — _— :-Deidre Annette Presents The Slumber Party EPx0001 .*Click
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