Younger of two, second, and last. I was not a neglected child, but there were constant reminders, sometimes subtle, sometimes not, that I was the "number two son" (in more ways than one). I was the afterthought, the disappointment, always the last to be heard, always the last to be considered. I believe this may be one of the primary roots of my lingering depression, anxiety, and anger. Once the stain is set, it doesn't wash out.
Thank you for starting this thread, Joule, and thank you, Emerald, for reviving it. I wish I had seen it sooner.