I like automatic doors. When you come towards them, they open, welcoming you in. It’s nice. It feels like somebody wants you to be there.
When I was young, I often felt that nobody did want me to be there. I’d sit for hours on end in a dark corner, holding my knees, rocking. No one would disturb me because if they did I’d lash out, and people could get hurt. After a while, my parents gave up on me.
They sent me to a mental home.
I didn’t like it there. The walls were all a dull grey that reflected the mood of everybody there. The nurses tried to be cheerful but their smiles were as false as their promises. And the rooms were so impersonal, just clinical and hard.
It made me feel like I was ill, or disabled, and I knew I wasn’t. I wasn’t even mentally disabled. I was just different. I thought a lot, and sometimes I disappeared into my own head. When people tried to talk to me, I didn’t hear them, which was probably why my parents never bothered to send me to school. What good would it do?