All through my long, painful, frustrating childhood, I never realized that my Mother was frightened, terrified of me, of what I might become. Instead, I saw her as the somewhat remote director of my upbringing. Looking back, I can see that the terrible time I caused for her during late pregnancy contributed to her border-line mental illness, her obsession regarding me and her fears that she had birthed a monster, her pathological drive to keep me on the path of good.
If she could have turned me into a priest or monk, she would have been overjoyed with that outcome for me, her first and only child, her Son.
My Father was a weak willed man, who loved my Mother to a fault, and gave her full control over my upbringing, blinding himself to her near madness on the subject of me, insane in his own little way about one little item- his baby boy's treatment at the hands of his beloved wife.
I mean, an infant, even one six times stronger than others, is still an infant. I can see the need for wrestler nannies and sumo bodyguards as I grew (I forgot to mention my parents were quite well off?) But was there really a need for weighted braces and the constant injections to debilitate me? I was told since I could remember that I was weak, and the braces helped me to stand, and the injections helped me with my weakness. It was harped constantly that I needed to focus on my intellect and my spiritual development, to offset my physical defects.
I suppose I was grateful later in my life that the constant injections of venoms and plant poisons gave me a resistance immunity to almost all natural forms of poison, but as a growing child, it was torture to be half paralyzed with curare, or rattlesnake venom, forbidden to play with other children, and made to study things like physics, chemistry, mathematics, music, languages, philosophy, poetry and religion.
In a way I was lucky, my Mother gradually distanced herself from my regime, only checking on the over-view, and my Head Trainer and Medico, Al, slyly worked with me to refine and tailor my studies to suit my own interests while giving the appearance of toeing the emasculating line set forth by my Mother.
An infant might just still be an infant, even six times stronger than any other but I was an active fetus, and I left my Mother constantly bruised and hurting inside for the final trimester. I suppose I could be glad she didn't have post-partum depression, and at least in her mind, had my best interests (and the interests of humanity?) in mind. She didn't just drown me in the bath water, she tried to correct what she saw as my faults, or potential faults.
.... There is more of this story ...