That’s rarely a good thing. I am very low contact with my siblings. They are all younger than me, and in my opinion, are not that good for me mentally. We were all raised by the person I generally refer to as “the crazy lady,” our mother. She ultimately was diagnosed as “schizophrenic with delusions of grandeur.”

That didn’t really help me, who is probably just as nuts, but in a different way. I spent my time in the womb, nutritionally deprived because the crazy lady didn’t want to be “fat.” Her words, not mine. When she would get angry with me, even after seven other kids, she would pull up her shirt to show me her stretch marks and blame them on me.

I spent the first month of my life in a 1940’s style incubator, practically untouched except for necessary care. (Question: have you read this before? I lose track.) I was rarely held during feeding. The bottle was propped next to my head on a pillow. I know this because all of us were fed that way. It’s a wonder none of us choked.

I still have problems with being touched. I can do a handshake, but I really don’r want to be hugged. Sometimes I do accept hugs but unless it’s a hug from a small child, I tend to stiffen up. It’s not that noticeable to people I have some sort of relationship with, but I get really tense when strangers or acquaintances want a hug.

Don’t try to analyze me. I already know the sources of my quirks. I fight most of them every day. I’m just weird that way.