What is the saddest thing about you?

I wake up to a life I should not have, and a mindset far too mature for my delicate age of 8 years old.

My mother shakes me awake from the top of my bunk bed where I lie. She reminds me it’s Friday, and our last day of school. I have 15 instead of 30 minutes to get ready today, because my mother forgot our alarm again.

I walk in the living room and she tells me to have a good day at school, while my stepfather laughs and sarcastically says, “Yeah, right”.

I get to school, our final day of third grade has begun. Mrs. Ford calls all of our names for the final time, and we get a run-down on our fun activities for the day.

We have a bouncy house, music, board games, and relay races. That would have been excellent, if I had any friends.

However, if you’re autistic like me, no one really wants to be your friend. You get called “____ #2” when someone else has your name, rather than your last name.

People single you out.

“Why isn’t she wearing shoes?”

“Why is she so fat?”

“Why does she walk like that?”

“Why is her hair so short?! She looks like a dude!”

The other children screaming both at me, and near me, cause me to have a meltdown.

It’s overwhelming and I shut the rest of the world out. I crouch down and close my eyes with my hands over my ears, just trying to block out the noise.

Eventually, it passes, and I walk over to Mrs. Ford, asking if I could go to the nurse’s office.

She declines, saying I have no reason.

So I walk into the bouncy house, and try to find one of the nicer girls, Sierra.

We sit in the corner of the bouncy house and talk about The Legend of Zelda: Wind Waker until things pass and we are all called to the center of the field.

She stands by me as we are all handed our “Certificate of Graduation” for passing third grade. One of the other girls in our class asks if she can see mine, and I gave it to her.

She looks me in the eyes as she rips it in half, and the whole class begins cheering. Mrs. Ford shoots me a pitying look, and shrugs her shoulders.

The final bell of our final rings, and I run to my bus. After about 10 minutes of pure hell, I arrive at home.

I walk in the door, and my mother is there with our dog, Bella, and she tells me to sit down.

Not only was it my final day, but it was also my father’s final day in another way. My biological father committed suicide, she says.

My father was a drug addict. He sold marijuana and mushrooms in the South side of Indianapolis. I lived with him until I was three years old, when my mother discovered child pornography on his computer.

It was “just for fun”, he said. Just like me. I was “just for fun”, not his daughter. I still remember him a bit, despite my age.

I didn’t cry when she told me of his death. I asked how he did it. She explained to me, and I found myself content.

I was wrong. She showed me in his note that I was part of the reason he did it. She explained what kind of person my father was, and filled in the gaps my young brain had not yet understood.

I was horrified. Not only was I fat, ugly, stupid, autistic, too smart, and yelled at during school and home because I’m such a fuck up, but I caused someone to die.

How does a kid even fuck up that bad?

How does a parent, a mother, let her child believe she is the scum of the Earth?

How does a teacher let students gang up on another student, and verbally and physically bully her?

---

I’ve learned from my mistakes, and tried to move on. I am now 14 years old, and turning 15 next month.

My mother has left my stepfather, and married a new one. I’ve been diagnosed with Depression, Autism, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, EDS-Hypermobility, and PTSD. Some of those being the result of my childhood.

I am autistic. I am fat. I am depressed. I do get nervous, and panic when people yell.

But I am also a writer. I’m a horse rider. I’m a digital artist. I’m a musician. I'm an adoptive momma of some lovely animals.

And I am not to blame.

~ Anonymous