I spent a lot of time in the basement watching television in my first 8 years. The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, Tarzan, cartoons, and old fashioned wrestling were mostly what I watched. I wanted to follow my older sister Deb around, but she wasn't having it. She hated me, I now realize.
The only time I remember having anyone over, Steve, I went under the basement stairs where I had a pretend house, and I noticed that the lamp was strangely unplugged. So I wrapped my little hand round the plug and fit it into the socket, and then I couldn't remove my hand. My legs began to spasm under me. I called out for Deb, and she came and stood there watching my ordeal with a big grin on her face. Seconds went by as I watched her watch me, and then Steve came up behind me and grabbed the back of my cotton tshirt and pulled me off the current.
The plug, which I inspected after the dust had settled, had been tampered with. Half the rubber, surrounding the three prongs, had been cut away. That was one of three attempts to kill me that I remember, I suspect. I never told anyone about it. There just wasn't that kind of communication in my life. No one asked me how I really was.