I Used to Talk to My Dolls

Now I talk to trees.

I was tagged in this writing challenge and immediately thought about my dolls.

https://medium.com/promptly-written/the-disappearing-033f6987306e

Actually, first I thought about Jenny.

Reading Sheri’s story about her Cabbage Patch Kid brought me right back. My saint of a mother spent an entire night standing outside in the cold sometime in the 1980s so her daughters could adopt one of the hottest toys in America. If you’re a certain age, you understand what a big deal that was. Parents weren’t casually clicking “add to cart.” They were camping outside stores and preparing for battle. Christmas morning, I signed the paperwork and officially adopted Jenny. Brown curls, perfect pigtails, and a face I loved with the intensity only a child can love a doll.

Thinking about Jenny made me think about my Peanut Butter and Jelly dolls. Thinking about Peanut Butter and Jelly made me think about all my dolls. And thinking about all my dolls made me realize I haven’t thought about the conversations in years.

I had a lot of dolls growing up. Entire families of them. Communities. Ongoing stories. Every doll had a personality and a role to play. My dolls were nice. Helpful. Loyal. They were the kind of people you wanted in your corner. My sister’s porcelain dolls, on the other hand, were cold and cruel. I had absolutely no proof of this, but I knew it to be true. My dolls would have welcomed you into the group and helped you solve a problem. Her dolls looked like they would judge your outfit, steal your snack, and murder you. Looking back, I may have been a dramatic child.

I also had Barbies. My Barbies lived in elaborate houses built out of books, blankets, and whatever else I could stack together. Before I left the room, I would carefully position every doll exactly where she belonged. Then I would leave and when I came back, I would check. I don’t know exactly what I expected to find. Maybe nothing. Maybe proof. Some part of me was completely convinced they were doing things while I was gone. Honestly, I wonder if I ever came home and found one slightly out of place and immediately treated it as evidence. Maybe I am personally responsible for putting the idea for Toy Story into the collective consciousness. Who knows?

The dolls in my bedroom were the same way. We talked constantly. Not out loud. At least I don’t think it was out loud. The conversations happened in my head, but they were real conversations. I remember feeling understood. I remember feeling less alone. I remember believing they knew me. What I don’t remember are the actual conversations, and that bothers me more than I would have expected.

The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve wondered about those conversations. Not because I think the dolls were alive, but because I can’t remember what we talked about. I remember the feeling. I remember feeling understood. I remember having an entire world in my head. What I don’t remember are the details.

And lately, that’s made me curious.

I spend a lot of time writing about hypomania and dysphoria. I spend a lot of time trying to understand how my brain works and, more importantly, how often it lies to me. 

One day it can convince me that everything is connected, everything is meaningful, and everything is possible. Another day it can take one tiny thread and unravel an entire sweater. Suddenly, every worry feels important, every feeling feels true, and every story my brain is telling me feels like a fact instead of a story. That’s what makes them so convincing.

So sometimes I find myself wondering about that little girl and her dolls.

Did she already have a brain that worked this way? Did she spend hours talking to dolls because she was imaginative, or because she was trying to make sense of a world that felt loud and confusing? 

Did those dolls help? Were they companions? Characters? Friends? An audience?

Or were they something closer to what the woods are for me now?

Maybe all children build worlds like that and I’m assigning meaning where none exists. Maybe I’m looking backward and trying to connect dots that were never connected. But sometimes I wonder if those dolls were giving shape to thoughts and feelings I didn’t yet have words for.

Maybe those dolls served a purpose for those voices that did come into my head after puberty to have a home. I wish I knew.

These days, I talk to trees. I know exactly how that sounds, but I do. The forest has personalities. Certain trails feel welcoming. Others feel serious. The creek has moods. The mushrooms are always up to something. 

The woods settle me in a way that is difficult to explain to people who don’t have a place like that. They give my thoughts somewhere to go. They slow the noise. They remind me that every story isn’t true simply because my brain tells it convincingly. I walk into the forest carrying anxiety, grief, excitement, ideas, questions, and sometimes complete chaos. Most days I walk out a little lighter. Sometimes I wonder if the dolls were doing for little Amy what the forest does for me now.

I still have two of those dolls.

Peanut Butter and Jelly were my traveling dolls. If we went somewhere, they came too. They’re family legends at this point. Part of the reason is because of my uncle. God rest his soul. My dad is the oldest of ten kids, and I’m the oldest grandchild, which means I’m closer in age to some of my aunts and uncles than my dad is. Growing up, they felt more like cool older siblings than adults. Most of them were exactly that. My uncle, however, enjoyed getting a rise out of people.

One night we were visiting my grandma, and my uncle was on the old corded telephone. Back then, you had to stay within cord length to talk on the phone. There was no texting, no scrolling, and no games. People doodled while they talked. Whatever happened to be nearby became the victim. That night, it was Jelly against a black permanent marker.

I still remember being devastated. Why would anyone do that? Family lore says I completely lost my mind and everyone treated my uncle like he had killed my puppy. Looking back, I understand why. To him it was a doll. To me it was Jelly. My amazing mother eventually managed to remove most of the damage, but if you look closely today, you can still see faint traces of the cartoon villain beard he drew on her face complete with curly ends. Jelly still carries the scar.

Years later, my best friend and I graduated from high school and exchanged meaningful gifts. We had spent years secretly playing Barbies long after society had decided we were too old. When her older brother and his friends caught us, we didn’t stop. We simply moved her Barbie Dream House to my house under the guise of gifting it to my little sisters. As it turns out, little sisters require an astonishing amount of Barbie-related supervision.

She gave me her favorite giant Precious Moments doll. I gave her Peanut Butter and Jelly.

That same friend would later become my daughter’s godmother. The dolls stayed with her for decades, and unlike most childhood toys, they didn’t spend those years in a box. Her three daughters played with them too.

Sometimes I wonder what stories they told.

Did Peanut Butter and Jelly keep the same personalities they had when they lived with me? Did they have entirely different adventures? Were they still kind and helpful? Or did they finally get a chance to be the villains for once?

I’ll never know.

Then, after my uncle passed away, my sister decided the family needed the full Peanut Butter and Jelly appearance at the wake. She went to my friend’s house, picked them up, and took them on a plane with her. For the record, I thought this was a terrible idea.

At almost the exact same time, my husband had heard the story for the thirtieth time and quietly bought another Peanut Butter and Jelly on eBay, which is how I ended up with both the originals and the replacements. Two Peanut Butters. Two Jellies.

The dolls came back. The conversations didn’t.

I wish they had.

I’d like to know what we were talking about.

Maybe the dolls disappeared, and the trees took over. Maybe I’m still wandering around, having conversations with the world around me and assigning personalities to things that don’t technically have them.

Maybe the conversations never disappeared at all.