Barbie and the Id.

I never had Barbies as a kid or frankly, any interest in playing with them. I did have a friend who had the whole kit kat and caboodle. Barbie’s dream house, Barbie’s car, Barbie’s gay looking husband Ken.

When I would go over to her house, she always wanted to play Barbies.

I had this strange fascination of making Barbie pregnant (oddly enough never acting out the sex part with gay Ken) and having her fall down the stairs and have a miscarriage.

I would do this every single time.

Barbie would always slip (And can you blame her? Her feet are tiny and on a slant) down the stairs, tumbling to the bottom of her dream house foyer.

Then it was a race against the clock. Shove Barbie into the back of her red convertible and head to the hospital where the news was always the same. I’m afraid you’ve lost the baby, Barbie.

I’m not sure if my friend appreciated this dark and twisty element to Barbie, but it was all that interested me. That, and looking up her skirt.

Someone once said to me that you can learn a lot about a person by how they played with their Barbies. I didn’t volunteer my miscarriage Barbie scenarios to be dissected. I’m not sure exactly what it says about me, or if I want to know.

If there are essential elements that are with us from birth making up our personalities, and ones we pick up and learn along the way, how do we know where our true self starts and the false self ends?

What parts of me have been built up because of things that have happened? What are my learned defenses? And how can I get back to my ‘truest’ self?

My sense of humor. Is that learned? Did I learn to be funny because my dad is funny? Or because it was a great defense mechanism? (Actually it still is a great defense mechanism)

I’ve been thinking a lot about the Id lately. I hear my Id a lot, I mean, really a lot. It’s the little voice that tells me I should slap someone in the back of the head – just because. Or say the most inappropriate thing, at the most inappropriate moment.

It’s the reason I have to sit on my hands when I go to the theatre. I have this overwhelming desire to jump out of my seat, onto the stage and just go balalalala and then sit down. It’s not even constructive. There have been times, especially when its one of those theatres where you can practically touch the stage, that I have genuine concern.

One hopes that my deep-rooted respect for the law would override that pesky Id and keep me from wrecking the evening’s performance, but sometimes…it’s a close call.

If my Id is the true Victoria coming through, I’m concerned I may be headed the way of my schizophrenic Uncle.

Id’s aside, over the years I’ve become aware of some of the false me’s. The opinions that aren’t mine that I’ve spouted. The likes and dislikes of friends I’ve adopted. Personality traits, taken on because they are perceived to be more desirable or acceptable. Falsities that I have encouraged.

I always considered myself a messy person. When I moved in with my partner, a obsessive compulsive neat freak, I had no choice but to be neat. And I rather enjoyed it. I discovered this love and satisfaction for the clean, tidy neatness and everything having it’s place.

I felt happier, was far more productive, not to mention I could suddenly find things.

Have I been masquerading as a messy person for years, perhaps to lazy to really be my true tidy self?

As I get older, confident and basically care less about what people think of me, I become more and more like the young me. The little girl who was bossy, talkative, didn’t care if she looked silly and really enjoyed making Barbie have a miscarriage.

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