Marianne Eloise, writing in today’s New York Times:

When I was growing up, I was as unkind to myself as other people often were to me: I called myself evil, cold, weird. I internalized the worst things anyone could say because I believed them. Looking back at that child now, and that disruptive teenager, I just want her to know that she is loved. I see her staring so intently at her books or her train set or her Game Boy and I wish I could tell her that she’s autistic — and that it isn’t only OK, but good.