What if...?

A Broadway star inspires a disabled doll repainter to reach new heights. That sounds like the premise of a sappy rom-com, but that is exactly what happened to me not so long ago. Let me preface by saying this is not one of those pseudo-inspirational stories about how if we embrace our flaws, society will do the same. If you think that’ll happen, frankly you're lying to yourself. But sometimes someone comes along who defies expectations, who sees the good in our authentic self that we cannot. This is that story.

What if this is all I am?

When we're young, we're taught to question, "What if". What if I become a millionaire when I grow up? What if I start a family of my own someday? What if I change the world? For me, those "what ifs" were over before they even began. I was born with a vascular malformation of the brain. The symptoms can vary, depending upon the location of the malformation. Some people never experience any symptoms at all. I wasn’t so lucky. It has caused me to have chronic migraines, loss of peripheral vision, difficulty with balance and coordination, and life-threatening seizures. Those symptoms dashed any hopes I had for a normal life.

I nearly died from a seizure twice before the age of ten. Then the migraines started about the time I started middle school and grew progressively worse over the years, resistant to every medicine the doctors prescribed. I was barely able to graduate high school because my migraines had caused too many absences. I had to drop out of college after less than one semester because I was sick all the time, and the constant migraines meant I had no chance at holding a traditional, 9-to-5 job.

But the worst was the lack of balance and peripheral vision. The one time I tried driving, I nearly crashed the drivers’ ed car because I couldn’t see anything to the sides, and the teacher screamed at me in front of the class for not keeping my eyes on the road. I was always the first one out when we played tag or dodgeball in gym class because I couldn’t see what was coming at me. I couldn’t stand for long periods of time without getting dizzy, and I would often slip and fall at school. This got me relentlessly bullied all through school.

It also didn’t help matters that I was the only child of older, overprotective parents. That meant I was raised with different religious and political beliefs and different interests from my peers. As a kid, I listened to Buddy Holly instead of The Backstreet Boys. I watched The Munsters instead of The OC. I read Harry Potter books instead of fashion magazines, I wore plus-size dresses instead of Abercrombie t-shirts. I didn’t have friends to keep me company growing up. I had animals, dolls, and fictional characters.

All of those things were fodder for bullying, and somehow it was my fault. If I cried, I was reprimanded. If I stood up for myself, I was punished. If I turned to a teacher for help, I was brushed aside. “You need to toughen up,” they said.

“Big girls don’t cry.”

“You’re too smart for your own good.”

“Stop talking about books and movies! Nobody can understand you.”

“You need to dumb yourself down so they’ll like you.”

“If you were more typical, they’d leave you alone.”

They saw me as something different, something inferior, something flawed. In time I saw myself that way too. I viewed my authentic self like a cockroach infestation, something to be hidden away until it could be mercilessly squashed. The only way to survive was to hide what others disliked, so I stopped reading. I stopped showing emotion. I stopped sharing my interests and opinions with everyone but my parents. They were the only people I could trust to accept me, but I lost both of them by the age of twenty-five.

I thought I'd done a good job turning myself into someone likeable until then. Suddenly with them gone, everything about me became grounds for a constant barrage of disapproval: my appearance, my clothes, my thoughts, my interests, my talents, my finances, and most of all, my disability. My special needs were an inconvenience. Of the six people of my generation, I was the only one without a car, a college degree, a “real” job, and a significant other. Through no fault of my own, I couldn’t meet the benchmarks for a successful adult life. Still I vied for approval until 2020. Then the COVID-19 pandemic hit, and all the people I’d tried so hard to win over left me all alone.

What if I die forgotten?

COVID forced me to come to terms with just how dispensable my life was in the grand scheme of things. I wasn’t an essential worker. I wasn’t a mother. I wasn’t a little girl with her whole life ahead of her or a senior citizen who had lived life to the fullest. I was nothing but a burden. It felt like only a matter of time before I’d die in the pandemic, whether from the virus itself or the loneliness of lockdowns. I wasn’t afraid to die. The thing that scared me was knowing that when I did, nobody would care because I hadn’t accomplished anything with my life.

At that time, everyone bragged about their quarantine routine with a sickeningly false sense of optimism. "I made sourdough bread!" "I'm watching Tiger King!" So on and so forth. My quarantine routine was as follows: wake up in the late afternoon, eat, play games on my phone, watch tv, get drunk, go to bed, and repeat. Sometimes I could go through the motions long enough to complete a craft or writing project. More often than not, my days were an endless loop of misery spent resigned to my eventual death.

One day I was mindlessly scrolling through my YouTube recommendations as I often did, and a particular video caught my eye. The thumbnail image was a man with dark hair, dark clothes, and a dark expression. The title was a song from a Broadway musical of which I'd never heard. Something intrigued me enough to click on the video, and what I saw altered the course of my life. I saw a man mourning his misspent life but not just that. I saw myself. All of my pain, self-loathing, and wasted potential were reflected in that portrayal. I’m not one to cry at plays, movies, and the like, but that got me. I cried for the character’s suffering as much as my own. For the first time since the pandemic began, I wasn’t alone.

In less than five minutes, that man did the impossible. He broke the iron grip I held on my emotions and awakened something in me I thought I’d killed long ago. Something real.

What if it gets better?

That video left me with one thought: Who is he? A quick google search answered that question. I found a rogues’ gallery of other characters just as dark and brooding as the one in that video, just as dark and brooding as myself. And that wasn’t all! I found videos and social media posts full of inspiring words. The more I saw, the more I dared to dream new “what ifs”. What if I wasn’t too far gone? What if my life got better? What if it wasn’t too late to make something of myself?

Those “what ifs” got me through the isolation of COVID restrictions. Fast forward to 2021. Things were opening up again, and a concert was announced. I knew as soon as I read the announcement that I had to be there and thank him for inspiring me. Fortunately I had money saved up from birthdays, Christmases, and economic stimulus payments. So I bought a VIP ticket which included a meet and greet, booked a hotel room, and looked up Greyhound bus schedules. The only bus going from my hometown to the concert city was a nearly twenty-four hour ride. I knew if I took that bus, I’d be too sick from the journey to enjoy the destination.

Air travel was my only option. The only problem was that I had never flown before! I was so scared that something would go wrong along the way, but I pushed those fears aside and booked a nonstop flight. It was the least I could do for the man who inspired me to keep going!

Soon I realized that just showing up wasn’t enough. He was so generous with his art, it seemed only fair to give back with my own. So I used the only real talent I have: doll repainting.

For those who don’t know, doll repainting is exactly what the name implies. The process involves removing the factory paint from a doll, painting on a new face, redoing the hair, sewing an outfit, and depending on the type of doll, making accessories. In this case, the doll’s eyes had to be painted to match its real life counterpart’s as closely as possible. Its hair had to be dyed dark and styled. It needed an outfit (shirt, pants, boots, vest, coat, and tie) like that of the character in the first video I saw. All of which were produced from memory and stitched by hand.

It took the entire two months between the announcement and the concert itself for me to finish that doll. By the time I was done, I had chemical burns on my hands from dyeing the hair. I’d poked my fingers more times than I could count while sewing the outfit, but I knew the injuries would be worth it when he saw the doll.

What if something bad happens?

By the night before my flight, my fears had reached a fever pitch. What if I oversleep? What if the cab is late? What if I miss my flight and can’t get another? My flight left at 7:30 AM the next morning, which meant I needed to be at the airport no later than 5:30 to allow ample time for screening. I scheduled the cab to arrive an hour and a half before that in case of traffic delays, so I had to be ready to go no later than 4. That meant waking up at 1:30 to allow time to shower, eat breakfast, and pack a few last-minute things.

I’d spent the day packing and running errands in preparation, not finishing everything until after 9 PM. That gave me four hours’ sleep at the most, not that it mattered. I was too worried to sleep, and the closer the time came, the worse it got! I was so convinced that something would go wrong that I was ready to just write the trip off as a lost cause. The only thing that stopped me from backing out was listening to a song, but not just any song. His song.

The cab arrived early, and I got to the airport around 4:30, a full hour before I needed to be there. There was not a soul in line for the TSA checkpoint as I walked up. Once again, I thought of backing out as more “what ifs” came to mind. What if they harass me for no reason? What if they take my jewelry? Or worse, what if they take my doll? I’d read that unusual items were more likely to be flagged, and a doll inside a childless woman’s bag would probably qualify. I was already thinking of ways to plead my case that the doll was not contraband, but it wasn’t necessary. To my surprise, the agents who screened me were quite friendly.

With that obstacle behind me, I bought a coffee from the airport Starbucks and found a seat to pass the nearly two hours left until boarding time. My thoughts turned to more “what ifs”. What if I get dizzy standing in the boarding line? What if they make me check my carry-on? What if they lose my luggage? Those thoughts stayed with me until I was on the plane itself. Then they gave way to other “what ifs”. What if they didn’t assign me the two seats I booked? What if they don’t have a seat belt extender? What if the person next to me bullies me because of my size?

It wasn’t until I was buckled in that my fears finally settled. Compared to all the things I worried about, the takeoff was nothing! I plugged in my earbuds to listen to some music, and before I knew it, the plane had landed. I’d arrived safe and sound against all odds. Now all I had to do was take an Uber to my hotel and wait two days for the concert.

What if he doesn’t like me?

When the day of the concert rolled around, I was running on maybe ten hours’ sleep over the course of four days. I had a sunburn on my scalp from too much time at the pool the day before, and my legs were so swollen, I could barely move. But I did. I had to.

It took me three hours to get ready. Each detail was painstakingly chosen to hide my flaws, just as I’d done all my life. A floor-length dress hid my scarred, swollen legs, and a cardigan hid my flabby arms. My hair was worn down and parted on the side to hide my sunburned head and chubby cheeks. I applied foundation, concealer, and blush - none of which I regularly used - and toned down my usual gothic-style eye makeup. When I looked in the mirror on my way out the door, I thought, That girl looks nothing like me! Good. He probably wouldn’t like the real me anyway.

After dinner and a short Uber ride, I arrived at the venue. Everywhere I looked were women in their fine jewelry and expensive clothing, all talking amongst themselves. Then it hit me. They all knew each other, and I didn't know anyone. To them, I was the random blonde weirdo with the doll. The "what ifs" started again. What if they don't like me? What if I say the wrong thing? What if everyone, including the star of the show, can tell that I don't belong here?

My first instinct was to walk back out that door before I made a fool of myself. That soon gave way to another instinct to beeline for the bar, but I didn’t allow myself to do either. I knew I was going to be awkward as hell around him at my best. Getting drunk then would only make my awkwardness a hundred times worse, and I’d come too far to jeopardize my chance at the last minute.

********

It was so early in the evening that the theatre doors were still closed. With nowhere else to go, I looked around the lobby and spotted a promo kiosk run by who I thought were a venue employee and a teenage girl working a summer job. I thought surely I couldn’t go wrong in buying merchandise and got in line behind one other woman. I noticed as I approached that the woman running the kiosk looked a lot like the performer’s wife, whom I’d only seen in pictures online. But it couldn’t be her, right? If she was here at all, she’d be backstage wishing her husband luck, not selling merchandise.

As the woman ahead of me stepped aside, I asked to buy a cd. “Oh, you want a cd now?” the kiosk manager replied, the disdain in her voice and in her eyes unmistakable.

I was so confused! What did I do wrong? I handed my debit card to the girl, but it wouldn’t scan. “Mom, it’s being weird,” she said.

Then realization dawned on me. That was his wife and his daughter too! And the woman who was standing in front of me moments ago wasn’t a customer. She was a family friend, and I’d just interrupted their conversation like an idiot. No wonder she seemed so annoyed by my presence! Never in my life would I have walked up to that kiosk if I’d known what I was walking into. But it was too late to try to explain or apologize.

The minutes dragged by as mother and daughter took turns trying to scan my card. All I could do was meekly offer to use another card if that one didn’t work. I just wanted that interaction to end before things got worse! Finally my card scanned, and I stalked away in humiliation, cd in hand. More “what ifs” came to mind. What if I make a mistake like that again? What if she warns him about the fat blonde who interrupted her conversation? What if he gets mad at me for being rude to his wife?

What if I say the wrong thing again?

For the second time that night, I wanted to give up and leave. For the second time that night, I didn’t.

As soon as the theatre doors opened, I beelined for my seat at a table in the second row. Three other women joined me, but I didn’t dare speak to any of them for fear of saying the wrong thing. I was busy anyway. While everyone else was milling around, I had a note to write, my failsafe in case I became too tongue-tied to talk to the star. That note was supposed to tell the story of how I found his work at my lowest point and how it changed my life. The problem was that I could barely think of that time in my life, let alone write about it without crying. And I wasn’t about to show my weakness to a room full of strangers!

I scrambled to finish writing the note, stuffing it into the doll’s inside coat pocket just as the lights went down. I turned in my chair, the only way I could see the stage thanks to my nonexistent peripheral vision. And there he was, the man I’d traveled so far to see standing just a few feet away from me. My eyes stayed locked on him throughout the whole show. My ears hung on to his every word, yet my brain barely registered any of it. All my thoughts were focused on rehearsing what I’d say when I met him.

Soon the show ended, and the meet and greet began. The crowd dispersed, but I stayed at my table, waiting, watching. As the minutes ticked by, panic set in. The other two performers who had shared the stage with him left, and it was only a matter of time until he did too. If I didn’t pluck up the courage to approach him soon, I’d miss my chance. Then the trip would be all for nothing!

I spotted him at a table behind mine, surrounded by an entourage. It was now or never! I took a small step away from my table, then another. Slowly inching my way closer, I waited for a break in the conversation to approach. I wasn’t going to repeat the mistake I made by interrupting his wife! As I waited, more “what ifs” came. What if I forget what I’m supposed to say? What if I creep him out? What if he hates me at first sight because of my size or my accent or something like that?

********

Suddenly he turned, and those eyes that I’d only seen in photographs were on me. That voice that I’d know anywhere was asking about my doll. I froze, mentally running through the rules one last time. Stand up straight, don’t address him by his first name, don’t look him in the eye for too long, don’t show emotion, don’t talk about your life or your interests…

Heart pounding, throat dry, I managed to tell him I made it. That answer was less awkward than trying to explain what a doll repaint was, and it wasn’t untrue. Although I didn't mold the doll out of plastic, I did everything up to that point. I wanted to explain my creative process and the slight artistic license I took with the outfit, but no words would come. He asked to hold the doll, and of course, I let him.

I was prepared for the eyerolls and snide comments that my doll repaints usually got, but neither happened. Instead I heard him compliment my work. I watched him hold that doll like a priceless work of art, not a useless trinket. I saw the look on his face as he inspected the stitching on the doll’s coat, and I could hardly believe my eyes. Did I do that? Me, the orphan, the weirdo, the burden?

When I saw his reaction, I knew that doll’s rightful place was with him. I told him if he liked it, it was his. Having no idea what the rules for fan gifts were, I didn’t expect him to accept it. But he did.

Seeing that my fears of rejection hadn’t yet come to pass, I finally worked up the nerve to tell him why I made that doll. I told him how I thought I’d die forgotten in the pandemic until I found his work, and it inspired me to turn my life around. I only dared to look at him for a split second as I spoke. In that second, I saw the saddest look in his eyes. Once again, I thought, Did I do that?

I showed him the note inside the doll’s coat pocket and said it was there in case he forgot why I made that doll for him. That was as far as I got before my nerve failed. The longer I talked, the greater the odds that I’d say the wrong thing or lose control of my emotions in front of him. With the doll no longer in my arms, I couldn’t hide my shaking hands anymore. All I could do was apologize profusely for my nervousness, half-expecting him to lose patience with me at any moment. But he never did.

Eventually the conversation ended, and he walked away. I was left to watch him go and wondered, What the hell just happened? My every gaffe was met with patience, every flaw with acceptance, every apology with reassurance. The person in the room with the most cause to look down upon me was the person who treated me with the most kindness.

What if I’m better than everyone thinks?

Although I failed miserably at acting likeable that night, I still walked away feeling like a success. My intellect, my creativity, my emotions - all the things I’d been taught to see as flaws were the things to which he responded. I will never have society’s approval, but for that one shining moment, I had his. And that was enough. More importantly, I had it without hiding who I am to earn it.

That night made me realize I’m tired of hiding. It made me want to honor the kindness I was shown by becoming a better, more authentic version of myself. I’m still figuring out who that is, but when I’m unsure, I remember that night. I think of that girl who gave her all to give back, and I’d like to think my authentic self is one of generosity and courage. Most of all, that night made me think “what if”. What if there’s more to me than meets the eye? What if I show the world what I can do? What if there are others out there willing to accept the real me, just like he did?