I’ve always been different, and not in a good way. Growing up with autism made me stand out in ways I didn’t want to. I didn’t know how to connect with people the way others did. I had trouble understanding social cues, and sometimes I’d say or do things that made people uncomfortable, but I didn’t know why.
At school, it felt like I was a target every day. They’d call me names like “weirdo” or “freak” whenever I did something they thought was strange. If I talked too much or too little, they’d call me “creepy” or “annoying.” But it wasn’t just my behavior they made fun of—it was the way I looked. They’d always comment on how ugly I was, and it felt like they never let me forget it.
My face was one of their favorite things to pick on. They’d laugh about how unattractive I was and how no one would ever want to be with someone like me. Even when I tried to do something about it, like trying to make myself look better or fit in, they just found new things to criticize. They made it feel like I couldn’t win, like no matter what I did, I was always going to be ugly in their eyes.
It wasn’t just the words that stung—it was the isolation. During lunch, I’d sit alone at a table, hoping no one would notice how invisible I felt. But they did. Sometimes, they’d walk by and pretend I wasn’t there, even if I said hello. Other times, they’d throw food at me or make loud jokes about me so everyone in the cafeteria could hear. They’d laugh about how I didn’t fit in, about how no one would ever find me attractive. Even when I did try to join a group, they’d change the subject or ignore me altogether, making sure I knew I wasn’t welcome.
Also, during lunchtime, I used to sit alone. I’d tried sitting with others before, but I always felt the stares, the discomfort of being unwanted, so I stopped trying. This day, though, was different. I was sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, minding my business, when a group of popular kids noticed me. I could see them whispering and laughing, and before I even had a chance to react, they started walking over to me. I knew something was coming, but I didn’t expect it to be this bad.
One of the guys, the loudest of the group, walked up to me with a smile that didn’t feel real, more like a mask for something cruel. Then he said, loud enough for everyone around us to hear, “Hey, does your mom know you look like that? Or did she just give up on you looking like a human?”
I froze. The laughter that followed felt like it was going on forever. I could feel every eye in the cafeteria on me. I didn’t even know how to answer. I just wanted to vanish. But they weren’t done. The others joined in, throwing insults at me—calling me “ugly,” “a freak,” “unnatural.” One even yelled, “Who’d even want to date this?” as they all laughed, like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.
When they finally left, they didn’t stop. They kept laughing and calling me names under their breath as they walked away. I stayed there, paralyzed, for what felt like hours. I couldn’t move. The tears were welling up, but I refused to let them see me cry. I just sat there, feeling like nothing. Like I would always be alone, always be the joke.
I didn’t know how to fight back. I didn’t have the confidence to stand up for myself. Every time I tried to speak, my words would get tangled in my head, and I’d end up looking even more awkward. The more I tried to avoid the bullying, the worse it got. Eventually, I just stopped talking to people altogether. I gave up on trying to make friends, because I figured they’d just end up turning on me like everyone else. I couldn’t stop thinking about my looks, wondering if I was really as ugly as they said. It made me doubt everything about myself.
I don’t know why people think it’s okay to treat someone like that. I didn’t ask to be this way. I didn’t ask for my brain to work differently or for my face to look the way it does. I just wanted to be left alone, but they made sure that wasn’t possible.
At school, it felt like I was a target every day. They’d call me names like “weirdo” or “freak” whenever I did something they thought was strange. If I talked too much or too little, they’d call me “creepy” or “annoying.” But it wasn’t just my behavior they made fun of—it was the way I looked. They’d always comment on how ugly I was, and it felt like they never let me forget it.
My face was one of their favorite things to pick on. They’d laugh about how unattractive I was and how no one would ever want to be with someone like me. Even when I tried to do something about it, like trying to make myself look better or fit in, they just found new things to criticize. They made it feel like I couldn’t win, like no matter what I did, I was always going to be ugly in their eyes.
It wasn’t just the words that stung—it was the isolation. During lunch, I’d sit alone at a table, hoping no one would notice how invisible I felt. But they did. Sometimes, they’d walk by and pretend I wasn’t there, even if I said hello. Other times, they’d throw food at me or make loud jokes about me so everyone in the cafeteria could hear. They’d laugh about how I didn’t fit in, about how no one would ever find me attractive. Even when I did try to join a group, they’d change the subject or ignore me altogether, making sure I knew I wasn’t welcome.
Also, during lunchtime, I used to sit alone. I’d tried sitting with others before, but I always felt the stares, the discomfort of being unwanted, so I stopped trying. This day, though, was different. I was sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, minding my business, when a group of popular kids noticed me. I could see them whispering and laughing, and before I even had a chance to react, they started walking over to me. I knew something was coming, but I didn’t expect it to be this bad.
One of the guys, the loudest of the group, walked up to me with a smile that didn’t feel real, more like a mask for something cruel. Then he said, loud enough for everyone around us to hear, “Hey, does your mom know you look like that? Or did she just give up on you looking like a human?”
I froze. The laughter that followed felt like it was going on forever. I could feel every eye in the cafeteria on me. I didn’t even know how to answer. I just wanted to vanish. But they weren’t done. The others joined in, throwing insults at me—calling me “ugly,” “a freak,” “unnatural.” One even yelled, “Who’d even want to date this?” as they all laughed, like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.
When they finally left, they didn’t stop. They kept laughing and calling me names under their breath as they walked away. I stayed there, paralyzed, for what felt like hours. I couldn’t move. The tears were welling up, but I refused to let them see me cry. I just sat there, feeling like nothing. Like I would always be alone, always be the joke.
I didn’t know how to fight back. I didn’t have the confidence to stand up for myself. Every time I tried to speak, my words would get tangled in my head, and I’d end up looking even more awkward. The more I tried to avoid the bullying, the worse it got. Eventually, I just stopped talking to people altogether. I gave up on trying to make friends, because I figured they’d just end up turning on me like everyone else. I couldn’t stop thinking about my looks, wondering if I was really as ugly as they said. It made me doubt everything about myself.
I don’t know why people think it’s okay to treat someone like that. I didn’t ask to be this way. I didn’t ask for my brain to work differently or for my face to look the way it does. I just wanted to be left alone, but they made sure that wasn’t possible.
