A Letter To my 13 Year Old Self

A Letter To My 13 Year Old Self

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13444485_1742804909331952_2136429771_nDear 13 year old me,

You’ve been bullied to the point of a suicide attempt, three straight days of having your front door kicked and being called a female dog. Your crime? To go out it with the best looking boy on the estate.


Your suicide attempt doesn’t work as I was there, watching and begging you to wake up, to tell your unsupportive mother to get you to the hospital.

Even though as soon as psych help is suggested your mother hustles you out of there you adapt ( there’s reasons for her not wanting you to speak to anyone, and you will know why later on).

You rebel.

You decide that if they bullied you as yourself, quiet and distant then you would change. A full masking of emotions that lasts for years to come ensues.

You become the ‘naughtiest girl in school’ just like the Enid Blyton books you used to read.

Gone is Daryl Rivers…..

You set off fire alarms and attack teachers, throwing tables and being asked to leave classes the minute you enter.

You leave school never to return.

You think little of yourself, you’ve modeled yourself on the ‘popular’ girls and quickly realized that although you can change your clothes to the classic uniform trend they all seem to follow IE: Kickers, Wallabies and Chipie trousers, you still don’t make the grade.

On the outside to all intents and purposes your there in the crowd, hanging back slightly …..the last one to giggle at a shared joke.

You find out that you can be extremely popular with boys…. they laugh with you and say they love you. They use you and tell you your beautiful, and with each giggle then abandonment you lose a little of your sparkle.

My sweet realize this, you are an undiagnosed autistic.

The colors and vibrancy you see in a swaying tree branch cannot be quelled, the crying fits where you run off to the nearest green area to calm yourself in the peace of the trees are meltdowns.

You my darling are not poison, you are not wrong, at fault or broken.

You like the heavy throb of the bass in hardcore hip hop, the auditory stimulation comforts you and the priopreceptive feedback from leaning on a large speaker feeling the vibration soothes you.

You will do great things, you will have six children and at age 37 you will be diagnosed with Aspergers. The distance you felt, still feel is explained.

The feeling of moving through an unscripted film role now makes sense.

If I could hug you just once, to tell you it will all make sense.

To persuade you that the cause and effect of punching through glass windows will at that moment help the anger you feel, it will also scar your knuckles for years to come.

Remember when you were younger you felt you were a fairy, dropped in the wrong world?

That you felt your wings were lost, and you would search, always search for your fairy folk? Collecting snails and painting their shells, the flowers and quiet corners of gardens were your haven.

You were right.

And when your older, you find your fairy folk.

They are called Autistics.

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