When I was ten years old, I told my parents that I was being watched. They gave each other that look that all adults do when they are keeping a secret. My mother smiled and said:
"It's just your imagination sweetie."
I could tell my mother had just lied to me, but I brushed it off. I wanted to believe that she was right, that it was just my imagination. I wanted to push the feeling of being watched to the back of my mind and bury it. However, no matter how much I tried to ignore it, the feeling never disappeared. It only got worse.
The summer I turned twelve, I sat on the back porch of my grandparents' beach house listening to the adult's hushed conversation. Even today, I can hear my grandfather's rusty voice: "That child is cursed..." I didn't need to ask to know they were referring to me. For the first time in my life, from that day on, I knew I was going to live a difficult life, and there was no place to hide from it all.