The Doll

Several years ago, not long after I discovered all about Narcissistic Mothers, I came across  an on line forum dedicated to the topic. I joined it and began to write many of my stories, if in a somewhat simplistic way, along with reading many similar ones posted by other ACON`s. That forum is long gone, and, it emerged later had dubious reasons for existing, being a thinly disguised marketing tool for so called `tapping therapy`, that is by the by though. At the time I was vexed all my writing had disappeared though I was early in my processing and naively assumed just the discovery of what my Mother was was enough. I had much more re-remembering to do and there was my Fathers role to yet be deciphered. Whilst wondering if I had at last come to the end of my recording my story on this Blog, I remembered the other day, this particular tale, one which I had struggled to explain when writing about first on the the forum. It is uncomfortable to recall and quite difficult to describe but I know I must try.  

This memory happens in our terraced house so I was at the very least 6 years old, I think this habit lasted for 2 or 3 years, maybe until I was about 8 or 9. I often had trouble sleeping at that age. As my work load of chores got more strenuous as I grew, there were times I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, that was great as it meant I was spared lying awake listening to and trying to judge the tone of her droning voice if it could be heard. But as a lot of the days were spent being forever on my guard I was often alert and wide awake when I got into bed. I generally took myself up to bed. On the few occasions she was play acting being Mother she would tuck me in with hospital like precision, sometimes commenting this was how they did it in the hospital. I was practically pinned to the bed as if in a straight jacket and would listen until I heard the living room door click shut and then yank the covers free with all my might. I cannot remember ever having a teddy bear. There was a toy monkey I hated with a passion. She thought it so jolly to tell how terrified I had been to wake up to find the monkey in my cot and how she told me it would not hurt me and made sure to leave it there so I got used to it. I did have 2 or 3 dolls though and it was with one of these dolls I would play or perhaps I should say act out a rather odd game. I wanted to cuddle the doll and snuggle down with it and yet I often went through this ritual first.

As a young child my imagination set the scene on the the covers of my bed, counterpane land as the rhyme says. I imagined it was a wild and windy night or blowing a blizzard of snow. I would then get my doll and give her quite a beating, I would use phrases said to me by my Mother, I would whack her and slap her and twist her legs and arms into all sorts of angles. I got no pleasure or fun from this, in fact it would make me shed tears of anger but still I continued. I would then send my doll off down the bed, moving my legs about so she fell this way and that as I imagined her out in the wild weather, battling to survive. I would tell her to go away, she was not wanted and evil and nobody cared about her. All the time feeling upset I was doing this. And then would come a reversal of my role. I than changed into rescuer and would battle through the elements to reach poor dolly who was now laying still and injured in the wilderness. I would scoop her up tenderly and race back to my warm safe haven of a home where I would tend to her wounds with the gentlest of touch and whisper my love and reassurance to her. She would be fed and cared for until we at last settled down together, with her wrapped up warmly in some scrunched up bed covers. And so I would fall to sleep. Softly sobbing.