I don't remember much of my childhood. Is this an 'autism' thing, or an 'everyone else experiences this but I can't read or replicate their bullshit' thing?
I wish I could tell him how he took an angry, lonely, confused little queer autistic girl, and gave her the tools she needed to survive.
I'm scared that, on Friday morning, I will have to talk people down from killing themselves. And I'm scared that I will fail to talk people down from killing themselves.
If I die, take me home to my bed and hold my hand; cuddle me like you've always done, as if bringing me down from a meltdown.