One of my earliest memories (not the earliest, but one of them) is a night my father was having a party at our house with his Motorcycle Club... I was about three, not quite as the parents divorced by the time I was three, but nearly so... I got up to use the potty and as I was coming out of the bathroom I was met by a nice view of the barrel of a gun. The jackass behind it demanded I get him a beer...
I stared at him for a while... And then he started laughing, rubbed my hair with his hands and told me I was a real "man" to stare down the gun...
I hated it, and I mean I hated it when people rubbed my hair with their hands. I think this started my aversion to being touched. Of course I was too young and stupid to realize how scared I should have been of a drunk and stoned 1 percenter with a gun pointed at my head.