Friday, February 03, 2012

polly

Assignment #3: birthday

I am an only child.  Sure I have a sibling, but in my brain, I'm still an only child.  I can amuse myself for hours, do not like to share my toys and am most happy when it's quiet.  When my mother revealed that she was pregnant and that I was going to be a sister,  I said I did not want to be a sister.  She said I was going to be one anyway.  I was unamused.  When LilBro came home, I asked how long he was going to stay.  Mom said forever and I cried.  It wasn't a great beginning.  The months that followed were not good for me.  I was only five and couldn't quite grapple with the intense envy I felt for the new baby.  I mean, I had gone from being someone to being someone else's older sister.  I began having nightmares and wetting the bed.  I lost so much "baby fat" that my school uniform had to be resized twice.  I would hide under the dining table and blithely turn a deaf ear to being called.  My hair began falling out, darkened noticeably, lost all its curl.  There are no cute pictures of me holding a baby.  As an adult, anyone would say I was sinking into depression; as a child, everyone just waited for me to grow out of it.  Perhaps it was guilt that prompted the most lavish birthday that followed.

I wanted a dress just like Cinderella had in my fairy tale book: it was violet satin, with a triple skirt, and white lace trim.  I wanted her tiara.  I wanted a a cake like her wedding cake.  What I really wanted was to leave my wicked stepbrother and be swept off by a prince.
That year, I got a walkie-talkie doll named Polly.  Oh yes, she walked and talked.  She had blue eyes that blinked and blonde ringlets.  She was like a mini princess.  When she was unwrapped, she was a marvel, with everyone entranced by her abilities.  I hated her.  I walked.  I talked.  It's my birthday party.  Pay attention to me!

The next day, my cousins came over to play.  Not with me, but with Polly.  I was devastated.  Usurped.  Again.  When they left, I took Polly to my room, where I hid her under the bed.  When the cousins next asked after her, I said I had lost her.  It didn't take long for them to rescue her.  It was then that I knew what I needed to do.  I told my younger cousin that Polly should sit with the other dolls for tea.  When she tried to bend Polly's legs into the chair, they snapped clean off.  Polly could walk.  Polly could talk.  Polly could not sit.  Into the garbage, Polly went. 

After that, LilBro and I were just fine.  The nightmares abated, I didn't have any more accidents and my hair began growing back (though no longer a dark red, at least it had a wave to it).  My signature squishy cheeks made a triumphant return.

I learned a valuable lesson about myself: I can be very destructive when I feel threatened.  I have spent years since making sure that I never put myself in a vulnerable place, that I always insulate myself against hurt and anger so that I don't get angry and hurt others in retaliation.  Knowing that my greatest fear is to be discarded, replaced - I often keep people at a distance so I don't feel abandoned when they leave.

Sometimes, though, people creep into my heart and I don't even know they're there until they rip themselves out.  Whenever that happens, I think of Polly and her amputated legs.

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