The Life of a Russian Nesting Doll

I like myself. Honest to god, I really do like myself and thanks to Prozac, I usually wake up in the morning with a smile on my face. However, there are in-between moments where reality comes creeping in and I cannot deny the fact that my life feels like a dizzying carousel, looping between feeling like the Madonna and feeling like the whore. In these in-between moments, I become acutely aware that my value lies in two places: between my legs and in my ability to take care of other people’s children. 

I spend my nights having sex with various men, and sometimes women, who know the way my hair smells and how my mouth feels but still call me “Maddie”. They kiss me on the forehead and call me “Princess” but once they are done, they make sure to discard me in a way that says, “I wouldn’t notice if you died”. I go home and spend the night with the woman inside me, the one who’s mostly mute but sometimes cries. She does not judge me but I can feel through her gaze that she wishes I would do better. 

I spend my days asking babies questions like “What sound does the cow make?” and “Where’s your nose?” and I find deep fulfillment in this because I believe these children may be the only people in the world who will ever love me purely. They don’t always like me, which they make clear by protesting “No!” when I say “Come here!” or “Put your shoes on!”. But they need me. And that feels good. They would notice if I died. Maybe not for long, but they’d notice.

So I spend my life on this carousel– long nights with men who only want me for my warmth and days with babies who need me to survive. My days with the babies fill the void left by these long nights, but I am home to another void. I don’t just want to be loved or needed. What I want, what I am hungry for only the way a person who has been starved can be, is to be known. 

It feels like no one has ever truly known me; it feels like I am a Russian nesting doll. I sit in dust on the shelf, waiting for someone to open me and open me and open me until there is nothing left but my core. But this never happens. Sometimes people will come and crack open a layer, maybe even two, but no one is ever determined enough to get to the core. Most of the time, they don’t even bother to put me back together. I am a collection of fragmented layers, waiting to be both put together and opened up. This is my life as a Russian nesting doll.

Sometimes I wonder if the fact that no one has ever reached my core is due to a lack of effort or if the task is simply impossible. Sometimes I wonder if I even have a core. Perhaps I am just endless layers that have taken the shape of a person. Is it possible to be truly known? Is it possible to be loved without being known? Is this why I feel like a fraud? Have I been hiding underneath all these layers or have I been trapped? 

So many questions and no answers. Is this what it means to be human?