Dear Future Historian,
I was about six or seven, I think. It was Christmas. I was backstage, in the amphitheatre of the church I was ‘going to’ (or was dragged to) back then. I was wearing a costume, but I’m not sure if I was an angel or a sheep. I guess I was a sheep because I remember that it was making me very itchy.
Dear Future Historian,
Today I was informed indirectly, by her psychologist, that I don't exist cause she's not crazy enough! I believe the way it was phrased was: It’s time you admit the fact that even you know that she does not exist… because you aren’t schizophrenic; you're just autistic with big imagination.
Before my late diagnosis in the autism spectrum, I had no idea about my sensory issues. And no amount of observational skills could help me realise my sensory sensitivity with only myself as a reference.