I don't remember this but my mother told me a story about me as a little girl. Apparently, as a toddler, I would lug around the same doll from place to place. I would carry it all the time. I would sleep with it.
 
One night, she'd put me to bed and then went off to do the things adults do when they no longer have small children underfoot. She was just starting to relax when piercing screams started coming from my bedroom.
 
Apparently, the head of my doll just popped off and I did not take it well.
 
From the kind of artwork I create, it may be safe to assume that I never truly emotionally recovered from the trauma.