Stuffed

I eat cotton balls. Not swabs or rounds or cloth, just balls. I eat regular food too. I’ve never turned away a cheesecake or pizza in my life, but there is something about the fluffy simplicity of a cotton ball that makes me want to feel it inside my mouth and ingest it.  This started not long after I was in a car accident as a young child.  Dr. Williams, my shrink, thinks it’s a coping mechanism, but I know lots of screwed up people and none of them eat random objects. Although who’s to say their coping mechanisms are any worse? What Dr. Williams has yet to figure out is how to stop it. Many attempts have been made, but it’s like staying away from a best friend. At first, it’s not too hard, but after a while, I just give in because the need is too great. They say it takes twenty-one days to make or break a habit, but I know it’s going to take a lot more to get past my odd quirk that started over twenty years ago.

When I was five or six years old my grandmother, Gram, took me to visit her Aunt Bea who lived on a cotton farm in the middle of nowhere. Driving up was like stepping through a time machine. As we approached, a charming little home with a huge front porch came into view. Once painted mint green, the sun and time had worn it down to a beautifully patchy sage. The railing on the front porch was white, worn with age, but clearly kept scrubbed clean. Two rocking chairs sat on the porch and just like in the movies, there was a bowl of half-shucked peas sitting on one of them. As we drove up tufts of cotton were swirling through the breeze like snow.  We parked where a front yard would normally be, but dirt patches from years of work trucks and visitors made the road and yard indistinguishable. Instead of flower beds, there were wild strawberry bushes surrounding the house with plump berries just waiting for my little hands to pick. I unbuckled my seatbelt and shot out of the front seat before the car was even in park darting towards the biggest strawberry I had ever seen. Instead of the chastising I would have received had my mother been there, Gram’s infectious and melodious laugh filled the air and doubled the volume when Aunt Bea gasped “Well I do declare!” from her place on the porch.

While I was focusing on shoving as much of the sweet juicy berry in my mouth as I could, Gram came up behind me, placed a hand on my shoulder, and said, “Aunt Bea, this is Annie.” I stood at attention and gave her a smile full of seeds, guilt, and pure joy. “Hi,” I greeted her. “How do you have your very own strawberry bushes? You’re so lucky! We have to buy ours at the store.”  Aunt Bea laughed as she came down the stairs and gathered me into a hug. She smelled like fresh bread and earth, her faded blue dress speckled with daisies and worn white apron warmed my skin still cool from the airconditioned car. 

“Well now, let me get a good look at you,” Aunt Bea instructed as she looked down at me. She didn’t have to far to look being a slight woman of 4’11’”, but she made a proper showing of it. “Dottie,” she said, looking toward Gram, “she’s the spitting image of her mama,” Gram answered with a knowing smile. “I know,” she said looking at me, “sometimes looking at Annie is just like looking at my Lila thirty years ago.” 

I started to reach for another strawberry as Aunt Bea asked, “Who’s hungry? I’ve got biscuits, fried chicken, and black-eyed peas for lunch and strawberry pie for dessert.” At the mention of strawberry pie my eyes widened, and my hand shot up. “I am!” I squealed as I rushed up the porch steps. “Please wash your hands, Annie,” Gram hollered after me.

Stopping abruptly once inside, I realized I had never been in this house before and had no idea where to wash my hands, so I followed the smells to the kitchen hoping Gram would forget her instruction. “Ann Marie,” Gram said sternly coming up behind me, “please go to the washbasin and scrub those hands of yours.” I turned and looked up at her quizzically. “What’s a washbasin, Gram?” She chuckled and shook her head. “I mean sink, honey. A washbasin is what we called them when I was a girl. Being in this house makes me feel young again.”

I skipped over to the sink and tried to reach the faucet, but after an unsuccessful attempt, I noticed a stool in the corner, so I scooted it over to the sink. The two older women were admiring my independence and gathering the glasses to fill with sweet tea for them and lemonade for me. As we all sat down, we joined hands and Gram said the blessing. “Dear Lord, we thank you for keeping me and my precious Annie safe on our trip here today and for Aunt Bea who has been a pillar of strength and example of your love and goodness my whole life. I am truly blessed by my family and am so thankful to you, Lord. Please watch over my Annie and help guide her through this life. Forgive us of our sins and help us to be more like you each day. We love you. Amen.” “Amen,” we chorused. 

Lunch passed in a blur of delicious food and stories of Gram’s childhood. Growing up on a farm sounded like a magical adventure that only happened in fairytales, but Gram lived it. I was enthralled by the tales her of playing in fields and creeks and fishing in her neighbor’s pond. After dessert, I couldn’t keep still any longer and asked if I could go explore the farm. Gram said okay as long as I could see the house and the barn, so I didn’t go too far.

I raced down the stairs, around the house, and ran straight into the cotton field. The cotton stood as tall as I was, and I felt like I was entering into another world. I picked up a few balls of cotton off the ground, a few sticks, and plopped down on the ground. Swirling the cotton around the tips of the sticks, I created a family and quickly became lost in my imagination. 

Before long, I heard Gram’s voice calling for me, so I popped up and waved my arms.  “Here I am!” She smiled and made her way to me. As she worked her way through the field, I realized her hair looked exactly like the cotton that surrounded her, fluffy and white. I wanted to make a stick figure for her as a present, so I quickly reached down to grab a boll of cotton and cut my finger. I yelped and started to cry as I looked down and saw a small line of blood forming on the tip of my finger. Gram broke into a jog and knelt down, tossing two wooden paddles aside as she cupped my face with her soft loving hands.

“What happened, sweetheart?”

Shoving my finger in her face, I croaked out, “The cotton cut me!” She gingerly took my hand and inspected the wound. 

“I’m so sorry, Annie,” Gram consoled as she reached into her pocket. “Unfortunately, I knew this could happen, so I came prepared.” She pulled out a Band-Aid and with a swift deftness from years of practice, she had my finger wrapped. Gram sat down in the soil and pulled me into her lap, she wrapped her arms around me and started swaying gently with the breeze. We sat in silence as the calm returned, cotton dancing around us in a private ballet. 

After a while, Gram reached over and picked up the wooden paddles she had been carrying before I was hurt. “Do you think you feel well enough to learn something new?” I nodded and sat up straighter. She picked a boll of cotton and placed it in the middle of one of the paddles. 

“Now very gently feel the metal part of the paddles,” she instructed. I hesitantly reached a non-injured finger out and gingerly touched what looked like bristles made of metal on one of the paddles. It pricked but didn’t hurt. “These are called carders,” Gram said as she started brushing them together in a back and forth motion. “These were used to clean the cotton before it was spun into thread.” Gram pulled them apart to reveal soft smooth cotton on one side and burrs and small twigs on the other. She tugged the cotton out of the metal teeth and handed it to me. “Wow,” I breathed, massaging the silky cotton between my fingers. Gram and I stayed in the cotton field, cleaning cotton, telling stories, and playing with my stick family for what felt like hours until we heard Aunt Bea’s voice, “What are ya’ll doing out there?” Gram looked like a kid with her hand caught in the cookie jar, grinned at me, and we burst out laughing. “We’re playing, Aunt Bea,” she answered. “We’ll be right there.” 

We gathered up my new toys, the cleaned cotton, and the carders and headed towards the house. Aunt Bea led us into the house where she had fresh tea and lemonade waiting for us. We sipped our drinks, while Gram and Aunt Bea chatted a bit more, then we said our goodbyes and walked down the porch. “Just a minute there, Annie,” Aunt Bea called out as I reached the bottom step. I turned around. “Yes ma’am?” She held out a big jar of fresh strawberries to me. “Here’s a little something to take home.” I took the jar from her with a huge grin. “Thank you, Aunt Bea.” I added, “it was really nice to meet you. Maybe I can come to visit you again sometime?” I ducked behind Gram when I said it, having suddenly felt embarrassed, but really hoped she would say yes. “Well Annie, I would love it if you came to visit again.” I flashed her a smile and ran to the front seat of Gram’s white Lincoln Continental. Gram gave her aunt another hug and came to my side of the car to let me in. I buckled my seatbelt like my mom taught me as Gram rounded the car and opened her door. We waved to Aunt Bea as we drove down the dirt path to the road.

“Did you have a nice day, Annie?” Gram asked once we were on our way. “I sure did, Gram,” I answered. “Thank you so much for taking me! When can we go back?” Gram laughed. “Why don’t we get home first, then we will figure that out.” She turned on the radio and we sat listening to the music and counting the cows in the pastures as we drove home. 

After a few songs, I heard Gram whisper, “What in the world?” to herself and followed her gaze to a semi-truck coming towards us. It seemed to be going zigzag and I wondered if the driver was playing a game because mom had told me that you had to stay on your side of the line when you drove so everyone could stay safe. “He’s not obeying the rules so everyone can stay safe,” I said, feeling smart for knowing such a grown-up thing. “No, he isn’t,” Gram agreed, her voice tinged with anxiety. I felt the car slow and Gram was trying to get as far away as possible but was having a hard time because the road was so narrow. “This is bumpy, Gram,” I complained. “I know, sweetheart, but it’s just for a few minutes,” she consoled. “Is your seatbelt buckled tight like you were taught?” I looked down. “Yes ma’am.” The semi was getting closer and his game was starting to get a little scary. “I wish he would stop zigzagging, it’s scaring me,” I said, reaching out for Gram. Just then the semi-truck changed direction and was heading straight for our car, Gram swerved and twisted her body to cover me as I heard a loud scraping crash and felt a swirling in my tummy.

I woke up confused and saw Gram sleeping in my lap. She looked so peaceful except parts of her fluffy white hair were stained red. I wished I had Aunt Bea’s carders so I could clean her hair.

________________________

After the funeral, I was playing in the backyard while all the adults ate and chatted inside. I fell and scraped my knee, so my mother scooped me up and carried me into the bathroom. She set me on the counter and took out the hydrogen peroxide, a Band-aid, and a cotton ball. All my attention went to the white fluffy ball as she used it to apply the peroxide and clean my knee. When she pulled it away, there were specks of blood on it, just like Gram’s hair, and I started to cry. My mother thought it was because of the stinging wound, but through my sobs I squeaked out, “Cotton ball.” Hoping to distract me, she handed me a clean cotton ball and as I looked down at the pure white fluff, all was right in the world again. 

From then on, cotton balls became my playmates and quickly the inside of our house started to look like the outside of Aunt Bea’s with cotton balls scattered about and gathered in corners. Even as young as I was, I could tell my mother was getting tired of living in a cotton field and was about to put an end to my supply, so I started gathering them up and filling my shoeboxes with them. My mother seemed happy that her house was cleaner, and I was happy because I had my own supply of fluffy friends. 

One night I was lying in bed massaging cotton balls between my fingers and missing Gram terribly, so I brought the cotton ball to my lips pretending it was her hair. It felt fuzzy and foreign, but also soft and comforting. I pulled it away, but a little was stuck to my lips, so I tried to flick it away with my tongue, but instead brought it into my mouth. I swirled it around for a while and then I swallowed. I knew it was wrong, but I liked making the choice without any adult telling me what to do or looking over my shoulder. I liked the control. Of course, I didn’t understand this at the time, all I knew was that I felt better afterward. I waited to see if I would get sick, but the next night after feeling fine all day, I tried again. It turned into a nightly ritual and before I knew it, I was through one shoebox. After my shoebox supply ran out, I started sneaking them from my mother’s vanity, then plucking tufts from my stuffed animals. 

My mother caught me one day, scolded me after I gave a lame excuse about being curious, and then explained the dangers to me. That did make me stop for a few days, but it didn’t last long. My strange quirk, as I deemed it, became part of my normal routine like taking a daily multi-vitamin. Finally, in my twenties, I started seeing a therapist and my secret came out. I didn’t feel judged or humiliated, just relieved as the reasons behind it became clearer. 

Knowledge is supposed to be power, but in my case, knowledge was just knowledge and had no bearing on my desire or willpower. So, I will continue to work with Dr. Williams and hopefully one day the happiness of my memories in the cotton field will be enough.