Raggedy Anne & Doctor Robin

What I remember is a Doll House.
I never had one, always wanted one.
My cousin had a grand Doll's House. No clutter or Barbies surrounding the fortress.
It deserved a moat.
My psychiatrist had one too. But the people were too small.
Way too small to be realistic to relay what was going on in my household.
She had me play with the little people. There were girls, and boys.
Or should I say men and women, always up for family role-playing.

It was a sick game, playing with these fake people who obviously looked nothing like my parents. I tried and almost enjoyed ignoring that fact. Maybe it was better that the father of the Doll's House looked like Ken rather than Peter Pan. He for sure lacked green legging, and no weights or records were laid astray in the house with equal rooms and a wrap-around porch.
Even as a child I was picky with my circumstances. Judging every single object which was suggestively and strategically placed in front of me, and decided what I was going to include and what I was not. Man those doctors know how to multi task.

I can't tell you what came first the role-playing or the questions. I have unconsciously blocked out chunks of my life, and cannot recall a single thing. Excluding Robin's seventy styled office, orange ugly shag rug included. The files cabinets smelled of old people, and no one was ever friendly enough. Lollipops sparked my interest during my first visit, but I soon became bored. I was too young to carry a purse, even with polka dots, so there went my personal book options. No headphones, no cell phones, nothing. I was seven.

At points in a day it's more likely that a scent, piece of furniture, sound, or notebook will bring back more than what's occupying my skull. Pictures are stuffed into memory box after memory box, and I have no idea why I keep them there. When will I decide to go back too far and contemplate what was long forgotten? Do I even care? Still tough, I can't unleash this damn Doll House. The only genuine childish part of this is what processed my playtime: Carvel. On the ride with my grandmother I would order a soft-serve ice cream with rainbow sprinkles in a cup. Always in a cup. I was going to get my hands dirty later; I didn't feel like jumping the gun. Tapes of bunny rabbits and narrators my mother knew played in the car over and over. Patterns and routines ruled my life. Nowadays, I prefer on orderly day followed by chaotic night; but back then I had no idea the structure of my afternoons were to stick with me for life. Every Wednesday: bunnies, ice cream, and plastic lies. I find it rather odd later on in my life I would read the play, A Doll's House, by Henrik Isben. I analyzed it with surmounting curiosity, indulging a lifestyle from a girlish perspective, rather than a child's. One, which for better or worse, I would never experience. I would never have the destructing immobilness of furniture and a man who didn't bother to look twice at the dust creeping after week two. Instead I would have the constant shock between entrances and exits. Without warning. Always given a ten-minute notice that a red truck was parked down the block.

The disturbing instances with charlatan toys combined with the sour taste of a stranger asking me to repeat, repeat, REPEAT, could make me gag. These Dolls weren't like my American Girl Dolls, prim and proper, nor did they resemble the iconic yet devastating Barbie. Instead, they looked raggedy. Tired and confused. They were dirty, and other children played with them too. Maybe that's why I thought people in the television were real when I would get ready for school, and move away from the screen when I had to change. Though, I never had a television in my room (thankfully), so I needn't crane my neck too often. Or maybe dance phrases make more sense when I have to repeat them back to the choreographer. Silently begging myself not to fuck up, because I needed to respond with the right answer, the right moves. I'm not slick. Never have been. Maybe that's why I now demand the reality of every circumstance being brought to my attention. I can't stand living in ignorance. Give it to me. Fuck the bullshit; I want real people, in my face, telling me I need to drop ten pounds in order to land my next gig. I'm digressing.

I had to reinvent private events to this woman, like a puppet strategically placing the figurines. Children in one room, adults in the other. Black lab in the garden, waiting to be fed or for someone to pick up its shit. I took the liberty and increased my pitch, when someone else was speaking. Pitch as in volume, but looking back I was pitching to my doctor. Feeding her money and advertising weakness, sans slogan. Clearly not me. I know who I am, right doctor?

The fucked up part is, I don't know what the results were. They were locked in that damn filing cabinet, like my photos in the memory box. Do they even look back or just keep prescribing? Keep on swimming. I was given an extremely cool key at some point in my childhood. To this day I have it, and couldn't tell you what it opens, or closes. But I day-dreamed, while she encouraged talking, taking my key and opening her drawers of secrets. The papers spoke, like an owl gram from Harry Potter, and then evaporated once they were done screaming. I think it would've been kinda cool if I were to open the draw and find what you would under the sinks. Cleaners, liquefying experience to a void. Poisonous statements too rotten for your eyes. A black hole representing couch discussions and phone calls. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is genius, really. The key also worked for secret attics, something straight out of A Little Princess. Forbidden to play with the real people, she played with cleaning supplies and rats. Danger; but always mature for her age.

The rat, my doctor categorized me, and the intense reality, which I had to relive though toys with serious bone issues and a lack of class, suddenly stopped. One day I stopped, and refused to continue the Wednesday pattern of dismal memories, which I would soon close off anyway.

"To be able to be free from care, quite free from care; to be able to play and romp with the children; to be able to keep the house beautifully and have everything just as Torvald likes it!" (Act One)

"Your squirrel would run about and do all her tricks if you would be nice, and do as she wants." (Act Two)

"At the next fancy-dress ball I shall be invisible. There is a big black hat - have you never heard of hats that make you invisible? If you put one on, no one can see you." (Act Three)

And in the end, there was a black hat, just so you know.