• hobo

Entry 01

Updated: Apr 4


Young Ecto

I'm not a good writer, illustrator, or crafter, but I want to pull out all the bad emotions and memories I have stored away and somehow make sense of a nonsensical universe.


I always wanted to be loved, not romantically but in the sense that my existence is appreciated by those around me that if I were to disappear for a few days someone would notice. I have had fake love, I have had love where the other tries to turn me into something I am not and chastise me for the very existence of my own personality and desires.


When I was originally created, I was made to be something I did not want to be. A standard female doll made from the fabrics of my creator, who wanted something to unconditionally love her as well. But there was a mistake made in how I was made, something did not match up. My mind did not match the body I was cast into. As I learned more and more about the difference between male and female as portrayed by the media and others - the stereotypes - I felt as if I was born broken and disconnected from myself.


I wanted to dance, but why wouldn’t the others let me wear the leotard pants and lift the ladies into the air? I wanted to play with trucks and blocks and build, but why were those always given to the other boys? But wait, I wasn’t a boy - I was a girl - I was always forgetting that. However there was so much in life that kept me busy - my mind racing - to keep me from the revelation that perhaps I wasn’t the girl I was always told I was. It always felt like I was in a tornado and I was watching things happen around me, helpless to fix the people around me who were hurting and somehow that translated into being my fault.


A year after I was created, my creator decided to make another doll. He was adorable, my best friend. He had bright blue eyes and blonde hair and was curious and loveable.


One day, it changed. Suddenly everyone was very sad. I recall the whirlwind of people running around me - people taking me from place to place with panic in their voices yet trying to soothe me. I remember being put in the basement with art supplies for hours and hours, being told that the grown ups were upstairs and they would love if I could draw something for them.


“Draw something for us! We want to hang it on the fridge!” They’d say before leaving in a rush while I wondered where my brother was, but I did draw and paint and rip paper and glue it together in a manic attempt to distract my thoughts.


I’d bring them pieces of art to make them happy, but was always told to do more.


“I’d love another!”


“Very nice but can you do one without any white space? Cover ALL the paper!”


“Oh yes that’d be fun!”


Paint. Draw. Think? No. I want to make the adults happy. I want to make my creator happy again. She is very sad. I see her leaving in blankets. Everyone is very sad, but I don’t understand. I wish someone would tell me where my brother is….


Even though…


I go upstairs from the basement. How many years has it been? I don’t know how old I am. I look out at the pool in the backyard and think of how haunted it looks. An adult puts their hand on my shoulder and pulls me away though - they got me roller skates.


“Put them on! Quick! We want to see you skate around the kitchen!”


I try. I fail, but it makes everyone happy. I just want everyone to be happy. I want everyone to be happy with me.


I don’t want to paint alone in the basement anymore.

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