okay so, high school was a mess.
i feel like so much of it came down to being misunderstood. like… completely.
after my mother threw away my newspaper clippings for being a spanish monolingual for 30-years, i started pulling away from my journalism adviser. small at first — rejecting hugs, saying “i really don’t want to talk to you now.” but it turned into this wall. this… solid wall.
she meant well, i guess. but her advice?
sometimes just BAD. telling me to be more vulnerable when all i wanted was justice for myself. i snapped more than once: “mrs. t, do me a FAVOR, and get your hands off of me.” i stopped reciprocating affection. didn’t regret it.
even when i was distraught about *M (my jerk boyfriend), my teenage heart YEARNED for him. but my adult self? firm. cooler. detached.
he exploited my intimacy, and that hurt. even if i had “moved on” or let myself stay passive, i would never have gotten the respect i wanted. i’d rather be feared than loved. headstrong? yes. but i’m learning to own it.
some moments were worse than others.
one assembly triggered my claustrophobia, so bad i felt sick to my stomach. sent to the library afterward like that was supposed to help. i cried silently. went home and screamed into the mirror: “I WANT TO GOUGE MY EYES OUT!!!!!!!!” — sorry to my sweet blue budgie, Whiskey boy.
i couldn’t help it. it wasn’t about the pop music producer who ruined my day — i didn’t even care about him. it was about my autonomy. my space. my time.
then there were interactions that made me realize how little she got me. like, she assumed i liked selena gomez. i mean… i wrote a heavy metal article for the school paper. clearly i was punk rock. but she kept treating me like some lovestruck teenager who couldn’t get over a boy. so i withdrew. weird looks. cold shoulder. constant wall.
even small things counted. ice cream after the publication? i rejected it more than once. too busy, too careful with my energy. even when she asked, “do you want some?” i said, “no, i don’t care for it.” not cruelty. self-protection. lesson learned: my emotional energy is mine.
looking back, i can also see that some of this might be me being autistic. bright lights, loud rooms, crowded spaces — they make me anxious, sick even. changes in schedules throw me off. hyperfixating on tests and routines isn’t just “being a nerd,” it’s how my brain organizes safety and control. realizing that now makes so many past meltdowns make sense. it’s not shame, it’s clarity. it’s knowing my brain works differently, and that’s okay.
the pattern is obvious now. push people away not because i don’t care — i care a lot — but because i’ve been misread, misunderstood, overexposed too many times. affection and attention feel unsafe → cutoff. cold, detached, protective. sometimes i regret it, but regret isn’t a mistake. it’s my system trying to keep me safe.
most importantly, it taught me that i can reflect on my past without letting it define me. i can reclaim my story, my emotions, my boundaries — and that’s enough.
looking back, i also don’t think my journalism adviser ever caught on that i could’ve been slightly autistic, even though not in the classic aspergers stereotype.
she kept treating me like i was neurotypical, even though she claimed to have “ADHD” herself. i never told her how bad my hyperventilation actually was, or how close i was to shutting down during crowded, loud situations. i didn’t have the language for it yet, and i definitely wasn’t advocating for myself the way i can now. so from her perspective, i probably just looked moody, distant, or difficult — not overwhelmed, not struggling with sensory overload, not quietly panicking while trying to keep it together. realizing this doesn’t erase the harm, but it does add context.
she couldn’t fully understand what i never knew how to explain.
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