As a toddler, I found a lot of ordinary things odd, as if I had been plunked down into someone else's life. What was up with what people were wearing? Miniskirts? Polyester? Bouffant hair? Really? Was light blue the right color for cars? Shouldn't they be a dark color? Why did my bedroom window not look out over railroad tracks? I was convinced that it should have. Shouldn't I be living in an apartment in a noisy city? Seriously, this house in a suburb was quaint and all, but where was my home? I took a long time to settle into the acceptance that this was my life, this was how things were "supposed" to look, and even that the face I saw in the mirror was mine. Even now, if I see my reflection unexpectedly, it's startling. It's hard to give a name to these childhood feelings. It felt like being in the wrong place and time. It felt like my mind was stuck in someone else's body. Believe it or not, I thought of myself in the third person, not as "me" but as "she." When I was about seven or eight, I worried that people would find out about this and think I was crazy, so I made myself stop doing it. The strangest part is not that everything seemed wrong, but that I had definite ideas of how it should be. I could picture myself as a girl with blond hair, wearing a black wool dress and thick stockings. When I discovered the Little Rascals on tv, I finally found a place that looked more or less right. It was quite a relief, but also sad, as I then understood that the world that seemed "right" was the vanished world of the past. I never wanted to go back to that time, but it has always held a strange comfort for me. Did anyone else come into this life with definite ideas or expectations? Do you remember what they were, or how you reacted to the reality?