When I’ve spoken to my mother about my early years she often remarks that I seemed to be such a happy and content child, so different from the troubled adult I seem to have grown into. I might begin to agree with her, to console her, but as I scrutinize my own memories closely I realize that I have always been of a rather nervous disposition. Even as a little girl I worried about what others thought about me and I was hit with bouts of hypochondria on a regular basis. I remember how every tummy ache sent of waves of fear that I had appendicitis and as I browsed my mother’s medical books I found new diseases to feel fearful about. With an introvert’s solemn character I studied the surrounding world closely and tried to figure out the most appropriate behavior to tackle it. When my classmates turned on me and I became a victim of bullying I never quite understood why. Any explanation is always reconstructed from adult knowledge based on vague memories.