Dear Ten-Year-Old Me,

You made it to nineteen today. I'm so proud of you for sticking it through.

You wonder why you're different. You wonder why you're singled out. You're autistic. I know you don't like that word now, but you'll love it soon enough.

No, I don't have a boyfriend, but I've gained enough self-worth to know that I don't need one.

You have many friends, many of whom you've never gotten to hug or see in-person. They're like pen-pals, except we can text and talk instantly and even video chat and make voice calls.
You will still feel lonely, but the feeling comes and goes like wind. Sometimes it blows so hard, and other times there's not even a breeze.

You know those terrible thoughts you have sometimes about Mom and Dad dying? You know how you feel horrible for having them, as though you're wishing for their deaths? That passes, but more trouble will come. You are not a terrible person for having these thoughts.

You pursue your dreams. You become a writer and write real, full books. You learn to knit. You quit drawing and painting for the most part, but maybe we'll pick them back up one day.

We still love creepy things that most people can't stand. We still love reading and stories— I've got tons of books that you're craving for. We still love Disney and Barbie movies, too, even though we're "too old" for them.

Mom and Dad aren't together anymore, but it's better this way, I promise. Almost every terrible thing that you face so far turns out for the better.

I promise.

Love, and think about,

Nineteen-Year-Old Jasmine