Early years

My mother told me that I was jabbering away by the time I was eight months old - quite noisy, really. I remember that I used to be ignored for what I said because I used to say too much, and eventually I learned to speak to myself or suppose my listener was listening... in junior high I stopped saying everything out loud and instead starting writing everything I thought down. Recently I've discovered a few things I've written in the past and it surprises me... that I felt so vividly at the time. I guess I really cannot comprehend how feelingly I expressed myself until later on, when I look back from a different stage in life and relive the seconds. Rarely do I feel regret about what I had written - I may have seemed immature from a 'now' perspective, but it is a way to store memories - like a key that reopens sensations that would be difficult to relive otherwise. Sometimes I feel surprised that I could have thought those thoughts - and it seems that as I grow older, creativity comes less to me, because I'm weaning out fantastic thoughts that seem too absurd to be applied.
At four my mother was showing me picture books and before I started elementary school I could read the chinese alphabet. This skill became detrimental to my later learning, in fact, because I hadn't learnt patience with reviewing things, and since the teacher was teaching the chinese alphabet anew to the whole class, I took up the habit of zoning out. It has cost me many precious lessons that I did not know I hadn't learnt yet.
I distinctly remember owning robots that could turn into trucks or tanks or planes if you twisted them the right way. I remember losing them one by one because I would take them out to play and lose them... but I cannot remember how or where. It was excessively confusing to me that I had lost them and I had my first anxiety fit over losing something I owned. These fits have occured on and off since then because I am extremely careless. But I'm learning from this - that I should not care so much about the things I own. It becomes a time wasting burden to mourn objects lost. Perhaps that is partially why I am unwilling to love people intimately - love, whether willing or no, eventually becomes something that one owns, an anchor to earth and self. If a person were to part willingly, it would become a pain that in my state of maturity I am not able to cope with. I have many years yet, I guess, to learn mature relationships, both with objects of possession and objects of obsession.
My affair with dolls was tenacious at best. It seemed, though a girl could own many dolls, and I indeed had half a dozen, I could only love one at a time, and felt extremely discomfited if a grownup were to give me a new doll because I would have to keep it/love it and then I could not love my other dolls, though I reassured them I cared for them I knew it was no longer the same. I also tried to play with them as if they were real and treat them as real people since my own playmates were few and far between. Also because that was the way kids in story books and cartoons played with their dolls, right? It was a deeply unsatisfying relationship, especially since I started to imagine one of my dolls would suck my blood from my neck each night as I slept . Which must be due to accidentally viewing one of my parent's rented horror movies. Seeing movies like that is extremely harmful to a child.
At that time I started to notice the way I lulled myself to sleep - by letting my mind wander. For a while I combined wild meditation with before sleep mind wandering by pretending, for example, that the room was rocking like the hull of a ship, or that I had wandered out of my body and was soaring over the surrounding landscape. It felt so real - the soaring over edifaces, at peace with self.. and yet feeling so indescribably guilty over the freedom that I experienced in such excursions.