I feel that I have lived a long life although I am not old. I have experienced so much in such a short life and became an adult very young. I think it is just the way I am, sensitive. I remember at the age of six, thinking, Why am I here? Weird. What child thinks about that. From there my little being was surrounded by others dysfunction: physical, emotional abuse, arguing, and three major deaths. One death was my grandmother. I remember leaning over and saying to her, I love you. She whispered back, I love you too. Then I never saw her again. I could not even go to her grave for over 15 years and finally I did, laying a yellow rose on top. I grew up thinking if I did things perfectly, everything would be fine. My big plan as a kid would just be perfect. How hard could that be? I would not date at all through school, no partying, or deviant behavior, get great grades, and push myself into honors classes. OK, one honors class that I was not even good enough to get into, but did. I have no clue how I did it, but the teacher finally caught on. I did pass though. I think I even developed some self-imposed OCD in Junior High. We had to hand-write our papers in the 80’s. Crazy, right. I remember if I made one error in spelling, such as, oh let’s say, a letter in a word was not same height and neatness as all the others on a page, my brain stamped it ruined, and I ripped it up. I would start the page all over again. Totally nuts. But I was going to make it, by god! This was my road to success. Neat hand-written papers, perfect, non-crumpled up papers. This is what the world was all about in my head…perfection…neatness, everything in its place…not true, I know.