Dolls

Growing up I had so many dolls. It was as if everyone I knew was trying to make something up to me. I was dying and the realization had hit me that I would never lead a normal life. I would never get married and have children; if I was even lucky enough to live to be an adult; such things were not in the cards. Marriage was actually a possibility, but children with being weak weren’t. At first with my parents, I think it was just something to give their little girl. It was a toy to pass the time and all little girl love dolls. There are so many you can find them just about everywhere in every conceivable shape and size. It was like an obsession with them. Plastic dolls with fake bodies to perfect to every be real, cloth dolls with eyes so big they appeared to stare at you, dolls made of delicate china that would break if dropped, and many many more.

At first, I was delighted like any child would be with a new toy. It was something to play with. It was something to pass the long hours of confinement. I named each one of them and placed them upon a shelf in my room. If I was too weak to get one of them, all I had to do was call and someone would bring them to my bed. I would sit there, change their clothes, and pretend they were really my babies. I would brush their hair and talk to them. It was something to do in the lonely hours that I was alone.
It wasn’t that my parent neglected me. They spent as much time with me as possible. However, they both worked. My mother worked as a freelance writer and spent much time on her computer. She was always there if I needed her. I just hated to but her if it wasn’t important. My father was a dentist with a thriving practice. It was during those hours of long solitude that I wondered what it must be like for those who truly had no one. Did they stare at the walls and wish they could talk? Did they talk to themselves just to hear the sound of a voice in the dark?

The dolls slowly became a sort of bane for me. This constant reminder of the things I could never have. The dolls could never answer back. They just stared at me with their blank eyes. They don’t talk they don’t move. They just look at you as if mocking you with their silence. A constant reminder that they are not real and can never be.

Michael the man who became my husband seeing the dolls also bought them for me. Dolls from all over the world. Dolls from all over the country. I had Spanish girls in fancy dresses, French girls with berets, Dutch girls with white hats, Chinese girls with dragons on their dresses. So many dolls and always on my birthday a special doll another reminder that I was one year closer to…I don’t know. ..I had survived another year. Another miracle…It was always like waiting for the other shoe to drop. I didn’t have the heart to tell them how I really felt. I felt all alone in the room full of dolls. Empty soulless things staring at me. Mocking me. Taunting me with all the things, I could never be. I could never create something real. No all I could do was name another doll, put it on the shelf, and keep it.

Keep it in my empty room with dark walls. The same walls that I had memorized every inch of. The same walls that I had counted all the cracks in. I wanted to rip the paint off of them and beat my hands against them until they bled.

However, I did no such thing. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. I had to be strong. I didn’t want anyone to feel bad. I did appreciate the thought if nothing else. It was the fact that they cared about me to try. I didn’t want to seem like a bad person. I didn’t want to show my frustration at the whole thing. The loneliness that crept into my soul from time to time. The fear, the uncertainty, and the undeniable question of why me? What had I done to be in such turmoil. So, I smiled put on a happy face. So, that when those I cared for were around they could think I was happy. All the while wishing I could throw all the dolls to the ground and stomp on them. Secretly, hating myself for the very thought.

When I think back to these secret thoughts I think back to all those dolls. They very well might still be there for all I know. Michael did keep my things when I died. I have no idea though. I don’t think I want to see them. But, some part of me almost thinks I have to. I can never understand why people like dolls. Even, the so-called realistic dolls are nothing of real. They have fake faces painted or sewn. Arms that hold nothing, eyes that see nothing. Noses that smell nothing. They never change expressions. Their hair doesn’t grow when you cut it. They don’t cry out if you find a knot and brush it. They don’t care about what they wear or where you throw them. They are blank expressionless things even the so-called ones with expressions. Look isn’t this doll so expressive. How does one figure that? It’s face never moves. It doesn’t get a twinkle in its eye when amused. It doesn’t smile a boyish grin. The twinkle if there is white paint. It doesn’t smirk at something you said. It doesn’t laugh, cry, sing, dance…it doesn’t do anything. It just sits there day after day, with whatever fake expression we put on them. Doing nothing, saying nothing, being nothing. Because it is nothing. It isn’t real. So, why do we pretend it is.


It is nothing. A soulless lump of something that can never be. A fake ideal that we give ourselves to pretend until we put away those ideas of make believe. What happens though if you can’t put the ideas away? What if you can never make it real? Does that mean the fake dream is all you get? The soulless reminder of that which you can never have.