I was practically an only child. My brother and sisters were so much older than me that I barely remember any of them living at home. Because I was alone so much, I developed a vivid imagination. I had 3 imaginary friends: Bam-Bam, Sootsie and Caca. When I was older, a friend explained to me what the word Caca meant. It figures. I was so naive.
Often, I would ask my mom if I was adopted. I even had dreams that I was. I just didn't fit in. Whenever my imagination would rear it's brightly plumed head, I would be hushed, knocked down, made to feel ashamed. Is it any wonder that I spent so much of my later life in a self-destructive rebellion?
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