It was raining and I was sitting in the backseat of my mother’s grey Buick, watching the water cascade down the window like someone else’s sorrow splayed for me to notice. Already, I understood isolation and the pain that comes with not belonging, and the understanding that comes when others see you as a monster, a thing, a weirdness in the world. I was five-years-old, waiting for my sister to rush into our car excitedly from school. I begrudgingly went to nursery school, crying every morning. If you asked me why I feared other children so much, I could not tell you. I still cannot.
Read MoreAela Labbe
