Any non-doctors in the house?

We had skeletons in our closets, literally. Sometimes, they were on the dining room table (not for eating :-). I grew up in a medical household where human bones were for studying. The only non-doctors in the house were the cats and me. Talking about body parts, illnesses and bodily fluids were normal dinner conversations. I remember having to recite which vitamins are in which foods before being allowed to serve myself. We had what you may call “pill infestation”: open any cabinet, closet or drawer, and watch bottles and boxes of medicine pour out. Pharmaceutical companies are generous with their free samples; many of which end up being used on us, the kids. Everytime I sneezed, my dad would run to me with a handful of pills and a glass of water. Getting shots for anything and everything was the MO of my childhood. I often felt like a lab rat and envisioned my butt looking like a colander. Science was fun! When my Dad slaughtered the sheep for the big feast every year, he would hang the dead carcass by the neck, open the belly, and give us, kids, a biology lesson; showing the digestive system, the respiratory system, the reproductive system, the different organs and tissues. I really enjoyed that part, even though I was never able to watch the neck severing. One huge advantage of having doctors as parents, is that masturbation is accepted as normal. I started pleasuring myself at a very young age, maybe 4 or 5. I didn’t know what it was. I just knew when I rubbed between my legs, it felt good. I remember doing it under the covers while my Mom and brother are having a conversation in the same room. Or stepping out from the busy kitchen where everyone is labouring over something, going to my room and playing with myself. Even though I was as discreet as a 4-year old can be, I’m sure it wasn’t a secret, yet never once was I ‘caught’ (my first introduction to “don’t ask, don’t tell” ;-). My Dad was an OB/GYN, we talked about pussies and butts just like any other body part, nothing special. Yet I still absorbed all the body shame, guilt and oppression from the surrounding culture nonetheless. I grew up hating my hair (too frizzy and thick), skin (too hairy and oily) and body (too skinny). I was repeatedly told by relatives that I’m unmarriageable because I’m too bony معضمه. My Dad, worrying about his daughter’s future, used to give me shots to increase my appetite so that I would put some meat on my bones. I did eat more, but never gained weight and never looked ‘marriageable’ (whatever that was). The irony is, I got the skinny genes from him. When I moved to the USA to study, for the first time in my life I felt that my body is not only normal, but also beautiful and desirable. What a relief that was! There was no going back.