*note: this story has been told for nearly twenty years, so the medical facts may be a little off.

I don't remember much about my early childhood, except that it was unusual.

Unusual in the sense that your family has always been cohesive? Well, yes, but that's not the point.

Unusual because you spent more time literally lost in the woods than most people ever metaphorically do? Again, a valid point. But irrelevant.

Unusual because, at the fragile age of three, my body decided to self-destruct. Organ failure, sepsis, the whole nine yards. My heart was the first thing to exhibit problems, but the doctors managed to keep me alive with a defibrillator and some well-spoken prayers.

The intermittent shocking wasn't particularly good for me. The burn marks left by the shock paddles were just an unfortunate consequence of the main problem- it just isn't healthy to be electrocuted so many times.

So the doctors decided to try something different. They hooked me up to a bunch of wires (Uncle Wes always says I looked like an android baby). They figured out a way to hook me up to some kind of plug thing. It went into my arm and was stuck into an outlet. It looked a lot like a generic wall plug.

It gave me a little jolt every hour or so. Not enough to restart a heart, just enough to remind it to beat. It made my hair stand on end, or so the story goes.

These little shocks gave the doctors enough time to fix the rest of me. Now that I wasn't constantly on the verge of arrhythmia, I could be healed.

And I was.

Recovery wasn't particularly easy. I was pretty sick for a few years afterwards. But around the age of eight, things leveled off and I became slightly more average.

However, the plug-scar in my arm still tingles when lightening strikes near my house.