As someone who gets attached to everything, I will never be ashamed of my attachment to my countless collection of stuffed animals, a habit of mine since I could perform bodily functions.
When I was little, my collection started and came together aimlessly. It was the irresistible plushies I came across every now and then that I held to sleep for comfort or simply admired in awe. Above all, playing House was the highlight of my childhood, when my mind drifted elsewhere through reenactments of cheesy plots.
When my friends say that every single one of their stuffed animals live on their beds so none of them feel left out, I’d think to my overpopulated collection and my twin-sized bed. I’ve come to the ruthless realization that I never really cared about hurting their feelings, despite full-heartedly believing they had feelings and the intangible attachment I felt toward them. Ever since I was little, the uglier, unpreferred ones would be packed away in my closet, while the dainty pastel dolls sat prettily on shelves throughout my room. The ones truly privileged were found on my bed.
By my pillows sits a giant Totoro that my grandpa shipped me from overseas many years ago. At the foot of my bed is a big marshmallow fluff-like Kiiroitori, which I brilliantly shortened to Tori, and Memo (Nemo with an M), my clown fish.
Whenever I travel, it’s customary to select one of my stuffed animals to take with me, as I depend on the sense of safety that it brings me. Despite being OK with stuffing them away in closets back at home, I insist on holding them in my arms through airport security so they aren’t suffocated in a suitcase. Unfortunately, what’d usually end up happening 95% of the time is that I’d set my eyes on a new stuffed animal at some souvenir shop, and the one I had brought would get neglected … and stuffed in a suitcase for the trip back.
Throughout the past couple of years, the emotional attachment to my stuffed animals has weakened slightly. Although my heart will always melt looking through shelves of squishy plushies, my consciousness kicks in to contemplate whether spending $50 on one is really sensible. Sometimes, another voice chimes in to reason that the possession of it will make my life better (and $50 is a small price to pay for eternal happiness). Over time, though, more for the reason that I’d get yelled at for all the “junk” I hoarded in my room than anything, a good portion of my collection has been donated or sold. Although the sentimental attachment gets in the way, anything beats the inconvenience of having them packed away in my closet.
