I was four. I believed Mickey Mouse lived in my aunt’s backyard in California. I thought Mary and Jesus lived on a cloud with God. I had recurring nightmares that my body was floating up into the sky towards heaven. I’d scream for someone to grab my leg, but they would all just be staring up at me, smiling and waving as I floated further and further from the earth. I wanted to be a witch. Or a witch’s cat. I brewed potions with poisons in the basement sump pump.

Kids were mean and taunted in sing-song, “Hairy. Scary. Faery. 1 2 3 Fart Face!”

I was obsessed with a girl in my junior kindergarten class. I would follow her around and act like her, sit beside her in gym. When she’d move away from me in obvious annoyance, I’d follow her and sit beside her again. My teacher took me aside to explain that if I gave her some space, she might come around and want to be my friend. I learned at four that playing games instead of direct communication was the way to make friends.