Some years ago as a little girl, adults would share with me that there remained something wrong with my brain. They, were those who awakened in me the notion such as my thinking was not of other children. Strangely, their words would then varnish over to praise my physical appearance. Upon hearing to which, I knew they were right. I had pain in my brain. Peculiar to most things, I was impulsive, compulsive, and likewise developed psychomotor tics. Tics such as hand flapping, along with sensory integration issues. Last of all, my pathological fire setting further complicated matters.


In light of this disclosure, I lay bare my fascination with the brain and its inner mechanisms. I desired desperately to salvage my brain.  Perhaps, if I orchestrated it to begin functioning properly; my ” biological  Jewish parents” would return. Consequently, I would impress upon them of how pretty and smart I was.

My foster parents filched cable from among the trailer next door. They remained empty of concern as of what films I took up or upon the books I read. When I was in third grade I managed to aptly consume the whole of the books within the children’s library section. As a result, Stephen King, Anne Rice, and psychology books befriended me.  Although some of which resulted in leaving me with vivid night terrors. On numerous occasions my favorite films amid this period remained, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey and likewise the Stanley Kubrick film: A Clockwork Orange.  They summoned up images of transcendence, but left me wanting more…..







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