Okay, so this is going to sound… I don’t even know. *Crazy* probably. Anyone else ever feel like their entire existence is just… a performance? Like you're perpetually on stage, even when you're alone? Last night, it hit me, proper, hard, a real *coup de grâce* to my carefully constructed composure. I got home late, 11:47 PM according to the Mercedes’ dash clock – another useless detail my brain clings to. Changed into sweats, made my instant coffee, the usual wind-down. Walked past the door. The one with the brass knob. The room. And I just… stopped. Stood there, in the dim hallway light filtering from the kitchen. My neighbor, Carol, she was out earlier, walking her poodle-mix, Pepper. Gave me the usual perfunctory wave, the one that says "I see you, CEO lady, with your perfect lawn and your perfect car." And I smiled back, the perfect CEO lady smile. But inside, I just wanted to… I don’t know. Scream? Buy a brighter lawn gnome than hers? It's so exhausting, this constant upkeep. The yard, the car, the facial treatments, the quarterly reports, the whole goddamn suburban ideal. Then I realized. The *real* me. The one who truly breathes, truly feels… where is she? She’s in that room. The one with the dolls. Hundreds of them. From 1959 Ponytails to limited edition Bob Mackies, all meticulously cataloged, climate-controlled, displayed in custom glass cases. Each one perfect. Each one a mirror. I opened the door last night, just a sliver. The faint scent of aged plastic and dust motes dancing in the sliver of moonlight. I saw the original #1 Barbie, still in her zebra swimsuit, propped against a miniature vanity. And for a split second, I didn’t know which one of us was the doll. It’s not just a collection. It's… a refuge. A secret garden, only instead of flowers it's vintage vinyl and tiny outfits. It’s where I can just… *be*. Without the boardroom jargon, without the strategic alignments, without worrying if my laugh lines are too prominent for the quarterly video conference. It's where the woman who just negotiated a multi-million dollar acquisition melts into someone who meticulously brushes a doll's saran hair. And then the absolute gut-punch of it all, the sheer absurdity. The juxtaposition of my daily life, running a Fortune 500 division, and *this*. Am I the only one who has this… this complete schism in their life? This gaping chasm between who the world sees and who I actually am in the darkest, quietest hours of the night? Is it a coping mechanism? Or something else? Something… pathological? I just stared at them last night, all of them. So pristine, so unchanging. And felt this overwhelming, almost suffocating, desire to just… stay in that room. To lock the door and never come out. To be as perfectly preserved, as perfectly *safe* as they are. This morning, I got up, made my protein shake, put on the power suit. And the door to that room is still closed. Just like always.