I wrote about the abuse and neglect that I suffered at the hands of my parents. It is interesting; I never really considered my experiences to be eventful or harmful and, in many ways, I still do not. I guess I knew no other way, but I also suspect that my wiring leaves me relatively unconcerned with the damage that was dealt. It seemed mundane to be beaten for misadventures in toilet training or for any number of other minor transgressions against my father. Likewise, being left utterly to myself for extended periods of time was not necessarily unwelcome, but I have been told that such is not considered prime parenting skills. I have a disconnect between my feeling state toward my childhood and the objective view that others have toward it.
As I look back at my childhood twenty years later, I cannot think that it was anything remarkable. Some of you may think so, but to me it was a mere rite of passage and a required period of any human life. There were characters in that chapter of life that many would find repugnant, myself one of them. But, to me, it was nothing. If anything, it merely built character.