Raised by Monster, Saved by Fiction

“Do you really view yourself as an author?” This is the question that has been on my mind for days.

Yes.

I just haven’t fully expressed it yet.

But writing—real writing—is the only place I’ve ever been able to say what I actually mean.

I’m autistic.

That isn’t some poetic strength.

It meant I felt everything.

Everyone’s emotions–especially the bad ones.

Hatred sticks.

Girls would form a circle around me.

Push me back and forth until one stepped out—and I hit the concrete.

They threw my backpack in the trash.

Mocked my speech impediment.

Turned me into something to pass around.

And somehow… that was better than home.

At home, silence wasn’t peace.

Silence meant something was wrong.

My dad would get drunk.

Punch holes in the walls.

Throw things.

Knives.

That’s not a metaphor.

So what does a highly intelligent, emotionally wrecked seven-year-old do?

I started reading Pet Sematary by Stephen King.

And suddenly—my problems weren’t the center anymore.

Now I was watching a man bring his family back wrong.

Twisted.

Unnatural.

Honestly?

That was easier.

I escaped.

I rode dragons with Anne McCaffrey.

Fought beside beasts with Andre Norton.

Learned magic in Harry Potter.

Became Acorna, the unicorn, scorned by society.

They battled monsters, demons, and evil sorcerers.

My own monsters were already real.

Fiction gave me a way to fight my monsters.

As a teenager, reality caught up to me.

I still wanted to escape—just not through books anymore.

Different methods.

Same goal.

Didn’t work.

You still wake up in the same life.

The shift came when someone told me the truth about a situation I walked into willingly—because I wanted to see the best in people.

Seeing the best in others makes you blind to the worst in them.

I’m still working on that.

Even now, I catch myself trying to distract instead of confront.

Because fiction is easier.

Fiction makes sense.

Reality doesn’t always.

Some people are satisfied with their lives.

I’m not.

There has to be more than raising children I never planned to have.

I actively tried not to.

Their father made different choices.

Now he’s gone.

Not present.

Not contributing.

It’s just me.

Trying to become the person I was always meant to be.

A novelist.

Not a traditional one.

Not polished.

Not clean.

But real.

I’m here.

Putting everything I have into my writing.

Because I want more.

I need more.

And even if my work is rough—

even if people doubt it—

I still believe my words matter.