I’d Rather Have A Frivolous Passion Than No Passion At All

There are very few moments where I can understand what it feels like to have that pull of survival in the same sense that an animal would have. It’s very archaic, an unintentionally overwhelming sense that something needs to be done to keep yourself safe. But there are no owls coming to swoop me up and tear apart my body for means of sustenance, no tigers creeping around me as if I were a scrumptious deer or a plump boar. I am the only predator in sight, no other means to an end but the threat of my own mind. I have everything I could possibly need – a roof over my head, food on the table, an endless supply of clean drinking water and access to a moderate amount of money for most of my life. It’s hard to understand the desperate call in my body that acts like a siren for safety.

            Every morning I lay in a nest of softness, of comfort that I have carefully crafted in hopes of a good night’s sleep and an unwavering blanket of that safety that I’d been aching for. Some things can only work to a certain extent though. As I lay in my bed some mornings, wrapped up in my extra warm duvet with ditsy flowers on it and surrounded by the manufactured faces of my stuffed animal collection, I wonder if there is anybody on this earth that is not comforted by any sort of plush animal. My collection, branded with the trademarked Jellycat Jack tush tags in particular, has been growing day by day since I was a chubby face infant. I can’t say there’s much of a cause for judgement or complaint over the piles and piles that fill my already small childhood bedroom, especially considering their role of care and love throughout my journey with depression.

            Their fur brushes my own skin, which is haphazardly covered by pajamas meant for another season as my companions’ own bodies provide me with enough warmth to make me wake up with hot flashes. I pick one up gently in my hands, its seemingly conscious gaze locked on my own. This Jellycat in particular somewhat mimics the characteristics of a sheepdog; his fur is fluffy in some ways, wispy in others. His gray and white fur makes my brain zap in a pleasant way, reminding me of the dog that I grew up with and lost to the cruelty of my forgotten father. My mind continues to ride that wave of nostalgia as his one sleepy eye stays on me without any unwanted negativity. I like to imagine that he lost his other eye protecting his previous owner, perhaps a sign that he is dependable enough to care for me as times get rough. The weight of him on my chest is nearly non-existent as I set him down to rest my eyes once again. This will be the closest I’ll get to a companion for a long while.

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            It’s possible that one day my collecting will be the death of me. But it isn’t yet and I’m not sure that I have the energy to even think about that yet. In a world that is cruel to most and more frequently creates a firewall of bad habits and ways of coping, I think stuffed animals are a considerably less concerning addiction than most others. I can’t figure out what it stems from (lost childhood, some sort of attribute of undiagnosed autism, my perpetual loneliness?) but I can admit the benefits of letting yourself have such companions outweigh the fact that I spend too much money on potential storage methods and the countless sacrifices and deep cleaning that I’ve experienced. It can be looked at this way; have you ever wanted a pet without the commitment of walking it or feeding it or praying it won’t destroy the apartment you hope to get the safety deposit back for?

            I’m almost certain that there have been studies done similar to research that has been made on mental health in connection to spending time with animals. I live work in a store that sells stuffed animals and have seen it firsthand. Not only are there more than a few customers who are well over the recommended age for these gorgeous lumps of stuffing, I can conclude that all four of my coworkers have benefited by handling and interacting with our Jellycat plush. I feel like my life has amounted to this in the best way I could possibly imagine. Something as small as recommending a plush toy as a gift or for a customer to purchase for themselves can make my day even slightly better. It is exhilarating to be able to share such joy that has gotten me through the hardest parts of my life with others and possibly impact their lives the same way.

            This is all especially true since the impacts of the pandemic and the rise of certain positivity and community on the internet. I have seen a significant rise in people my age or older carrying stuffed animals in jackets or bags or simply clipped to their belt loops or backpacks. The level of comfort that I have been seeing within these past few years would make younger me sob hot tears of happiness. As our society has begun to adapt to the discomfort and more frequent cases of being alone, I do believe that the pressures of society in terms of what may have been considered “childish” have begun to break little by little. I’m grateful to be alive during a time of such a development.

            It’s such a silly thing to be passionate about, but through all the therapy I have gone through to allow my inner child to heal there is some sense of deserving such a frivolous passion. I know that it’s unlikely that many people would be able to make an impact on the world, but I do hope that the little girl that lives in my heart is proud of me for letting myself continue to love the things I love.