I am a girl who was diagnosed late. 

There are many of us, 

An army of the aching, 

The bruised, the confused. 

At school, I was a fish 

Built for freshwater, 

Plunged into stinging salt. 

I spent thirty-five hours per week with my skin seething in that tank, 

Bright lights sizzling on my retinas, 

Hard, hot. 

Every voice upon voice, scrape of a chair, click of a pen, 

Over and over again, 

Brutal and blistering. 

I was a square peg in a round hole, 

A phrase that rolls off the tongue, 

But turn me over and you’ll see 

The chips and knicks in the wood 

Where I’ve been jammed 

Five days a week for fourteen years 

Into a hole that, 

For all my trying 

(And I swear I tried) 

Did not fit. 

When I blew out the candles as another year passed 

Not knowing, 

As another year passed 

with no one noticing, 

I wished to finally understand 

Why other children could bask in the saltwater 

Unscathed. 

Why other children’s monsters had 

Sharp teeth and 

Jagged claws, 

While mine seemed to lurk in sound waves and fluorescent lights and sideways glances that spat 

‘You don’t fit in here.’