To say I had a traumatic childhood would be a bit of a stretch. I was never abused, never witnessed a disturbing event, never disfigured in an accident--unless you count the barely visible scar on my right thumb from slamming it in my dad’s truck door. As childhoods go, I would say I got pretty lucky.
But I was the youngest of three sisters who, for a brief time which I barely remember, all shared the same bedroom. As anyone who has ever lived with more than one female can attest, the opportunity for disaster was rich.
