I was six — maybe seven — when a guidance counselor looked at me and said words that wrapped themselves around my life like invisible threads.
“Special.”
“Different.”
“Gifted.”
“Emotional.”
“Unstable.”
I didn’t know it then, but those words weren’t just observations. They were codes. Warnings. Permissions. Labels that gave adults an excuse to study me without ever trying to understand me.
But the truth?
I already knew.
I had felt different for as long as I could remember.
And being told —...