What the Teddy Bear Saw

I remember the day I arrived at her house. She was excited, more excited than most people her age are to receive a bear that they bought themselves. Apparently I was a member of a certain brand she collected, and I felt lucky to have found such a happy, loving home.

I didn’t understand her much at first. She did all of the natural things you would expect a nineteen-year-old to do. She liked to wear makeup. She decorated her room with pictures of good memories. She would leave when she woke up at noon and not return until one a.m. She did odd things, too, though. She mumbled to herself a lot. She would complain that she needed a shower yet not take one for days. She left a lot of her coffee cups in her room.

My view on things soon changed. Though it was a loving home, and a very loving girl, she was not very happy at all.

She gave her heart to people who stomped on it after playing with it for a while. I didn’t understand that. Why were these people so cruel? And why did she keep running into them?

Not many people came to visit. I had never even met any of the people in the pictures.

There were many nights where she would hug me to her chest and cry her makeup off until she fell asleep with the sound of Will & Grace playing from her iPad in the background. Sometimes she holds me really close and places her chin on top of my head, and I think she’s picturing someone else there for her. She would also sit on the floor and look up at the sky and angrily say, “Why are you doing this? When will enough be enough? Please make the pain go away.”

I don’t think she’s gotten her wish yet.

I’ve watched her grow. I’ve watched her bite her lip as she flips another page of her calendar. I’ve been by her side when she lays in bed, awake, knowing she should be up and doing other things. But I’ve watched her learn how to cope, too. Sometimes, instead of crying on my back, she goes into her mother’s room to talk instead. Or sometimes she’ll play a funny movie to lift her spirits. She doesn’t just let herself crumple anymore. She fights back.

There are still days when the piles of trash bags gather in the corner of her room. But there are days where she’s able to collect herself, too. She organizes her socks and hangs up her clothes. She vacuums and she dusts. Sure, she might lay down after that and hide away from what’s beyond the closed bedroom door, but she’s taking baby steps.

I know I will witness a lot more ups and downs from my spot on the bed. I also know that there will come a day where I am tucked away into a closet. But for now, I stay, and since I have to witness all of the sadness she sees through her own eyes, it’s nice to be able to provide help and do something (even though I’m inanimate) when she holds me.

Actually, I kinda hope that one day she doesn’t need me so much at all.