I Am Not A Monster, And I Refuse To Become The Monster They Made Me

I didn’t know much about neurodivergence — that it was a part of who I am, being autistic.

Until too much had happened, until I realized it wasn’t me after living an entire life of lies. It was in the sense that I wasn’t the monster everyone had made me believe.

Photo by Lidia Nikole on Unsplash

There were so many cues pointing to some kind of neurodiversity, but everyone chose to ignore them and never offered help. No diagnosis, no counseling, nothing.

Guess it was easier for them to label me the difficult child, to allow me to be abused by some religious charlatan at the temple in the name of exorcism and all.

Even easier for my parents to beat the shit out of me and lock me in that dark basement to punish me for, well, being me. Physical violence was much easier for them than having to actually queue and pay for diagnosis or treatment; no consultation required, and easily accessible.

I was always the problematic one, as if everyone else was fine and good except me. I was always the bad one or the idiot, as they called me growing up.

Being the bad idiot made me ashamed of myself and afraid to confide in others, believing it was all my fault.