Dolls

I'm reading a book called Innately Good by Jan Denise at the moment. It struck a chord as soon as I started flicking through it in the bookshop, and it's turned out to be a good choice.

Something I read in it this evening reminded me of a recurring thought I had as a child: that there was something wrong with me because I didn't collect anything. Mum collected owl figurines, my brother collected cats of any type, my cousin collected mice, my grandfather collected elephants. People kept asking me what I collected, and I didn't know what to say, because I didn't collect anything. I felt like a failure for that and tried to launch collections of a few different things, but none of them stuck.

I realised fully, just now, that this was because I was already collecting something. Dolls. With a quick search of my computer for old files I was able to find the first, middle and surnames of 112 dolls. 112. I'm still able to recall the backstory and position in the doll hierarchy that most of them had. And they weren't all my dolls.

If 112+ isn't a collection, I don't know what is!

But for some reason it didn't "count" with the people who mattered. I remember my mother being frustrated because I wanted yet another doll that had caught my fancy. She thought I had enough dolls. Enough?! I might add also that she still actively collects owls 20 years later. Enough my foot.

No wonder I feel inadequate and incomplete when it seems like my entire life has been spent at cross purposes with those around me!