growinghumans


Worry Dolls
March 4, 2015, 4:12 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

I remember being younger and starting to struggle with my feelings.

I was a preteen. I was on the brink of puberty and my hormones were at war inside of my body.

I would creep into my local “holistic healing” store with my mother and buy all sorts of things that she thought would help with my attitude, because that’s what it was at the time. I had a severe attittude problem. I would lash out, scream, cry, say terrible things to my parents. When I got overly frustrated with myself, I would hit myself on the head, or hit my head against a wall. Over and over and over again.

My mother, as a mother will, saw this as normal teenage angst and bought me worry dolls, crystals, dream catchers. We placed all of these artifacts around my room, hoping to change the energy in the space and eventually the energy inside of my troubled soul.

I remember the worry dolls the most.

I never slept. worry dolls

I would lie awake and think of how mean people were at school, how I didn’t belong anywhere, how I didn’t feel the same as anyone around me. I felt too vast. I felt too much. Everyone else seemed to be in such control of their facilities and even at 11 or 12 I could feel myself spinning out in a different orbit that them.

I would take out two or three of the worry dolls, late at night. I would whisper my deepest thoughts to them; that I wanted to run away, that I wanted to hurt myself, that I wanted to die or sleep forever, that I wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere. I would burden these miniscule pieces of fabric and thread with problems that I could never say to anyone else. I would place them on my window sill and watch how the moonlight washed over them. I would lay my head on my pillow and eventually fall asleep, imagining the two dolls carrying my problems far far away. To the moon, maybe beyond that.

I would imagine my terrible nightmares being tangled up in the dream catchers; their intricate patterns and beads holding my demons at bay.

The thought of it all was lovely, it is still lovely.

Sometimes I go into one of those same sorts of stores and run my fingers over the dream catchers and remember a time when I thought that would be enough; when I hoped it would be enough. I always think about buying one and maybe I will. Maybe I need a relic or two to help remind me of my childhood. I wonder if I could even find worry dolls; maybe my Tiny Human needs to learn the fine art of passing on your worries to something outside of your body. She’s only four, but I wish someone had trained me earlier. I wish even at 30 that I was better at passing on my issue to other people. When I whispered my dark secrets to those tiny dolls, there was no sense of judgement or impatience. They simply existed to hear my sorrow. With humans, with flesh and blood, it is always different. Sitting there, across from me, as I heave a sob and try to grasp at words to describe how I feel, I can’t help but feel I am wasting their time, everyone’s time. Even your time.

But that’s silly, isn’t it?

It’s the flesh and blood that matters the most; that is real.

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