I am one year old.

People tell my mom I am so alert. They say my eyes scan the room like a hawks. They think I am strange.

I am two years old.
I speak better than some seven year olds.
People are freaked out when I talk.

I am six years old.
My great grandmother is dying. I'm not sad. I feel a little guilty. When she dies I don't feel anything.

I am nine years old.
My parents are whispering in the other room. Something evil is going on, I can feel it.
I shiver under my blankets. I tremble all night, every night for weeks. Will someone kill me?

I am ten years old.
We're moving.
The house must be practically rebuilt. I sit on the swing with Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince in my lap. I read, and feel calm.

I am eleven years old.
I stand over the sink with a blade hovering above my skin. I don't know why. I want to feel something. I want someone to notice. I want them to help me.

I am twelve years old.
I still scratch my skin and pull out my hair. I have no friends, and my grades are plummeting. I spend my time reading and writing. I've completed two novels, but I hate the way both turn out. People call me bright. I call myself a freak.

I am thirteen years old.
I still have no friends. When people talk, I want to block them out.
I can't stand my constant anxiety. Everyone tells me it's hormones. Everyone tells me teenagers are like that.
“Stop being a brat. You have a good life.” They're right. I should just die.

I am fourteen years old.
I have a therapist I hate. My depression comes back and I want to die. My mom tries to talk to me. We sit in therapy for an hour and I scream that I don't need to be fixed.
We see a psychiatrist the next day. He gives me pills that he says are miracles.

I am fourteen years old.
The pills are working. I go to the psychiatrist to get more. He asks me blankly if I was ever really depressed.
I say yes.
He looks at me skeptically, as if my suffering is not worth his time. He gives me more pills reluctantly. He says they cause cancer, but I don't care.

I am fourteen years old.
I see a new psychiatrist and a new therapist. I diagnose myself with autism. They confirm my suspicion. 

I am fourteen years old.
I sit in the hospital in scrubs and try not to think. My pills are all locked away. I sit there for hours only for them to send me home.

I am fourteen years old.
The next day I wake up and play my violin until my fingers are raw. I read books and watch sitcoms. I am okay.

I am fourteen years old.
I understand now what was wrong. I understand I am not a freak, and that I will be okay. It will be okay.
I will make it to fifteen years old.