In the last couple of months my earliest memory of life has been flooding back to the forefront of my mind. The first thing I remember is my baptism when I was a baby. My parents decided to baptize me in the Greek Orthodox Church. All I remember is the priest clutching my body with his big hands. I’m cold, naked and wet just crying my eyes out, while being watched by all those people sitting in the pews. Some old friends and relatives who passed away in the last couple of years. All I wanted was to go home and be in my warm cozy crib. That’s all I wanted. Nothing more. My mom had told me years later that I had a cold. She didn’t have time to cancel the occasion at the last minute so she decided to make due with the situation. It scars me in some respects, and I’ve often wondered if perhaps talking to a psychotherapist of some sort might help me learn to cope So that I’ll never have to think or cry about my first living nightmare ever again.