I need more time but time can't be borrowed...

Maybe from as early as when I was five or six, there's been a whisper going at the back of my head, saying: “One day, maybe not so long from now, you'll get to know how it feels.” So there I was. Waiting.  Waiting for the moment when it would become clearly evident that I really am different to them; that there are people out there, who don't hate me or wish me any harm, but who nevertheless shudder at the very thought of me, and who dread the idea of my hand brushing against theirs. The first time I glimpsed myself through the eyes of a person like that, it was a very cold moment indeed. It was like walking past a mirror I've walked past every day of my life, and suddenly it showed me something else, something troubling and strange.