19^th of January 2020

Hi there, whoever is reading. I almost hope no one is reading this one. I kinda hope someone is reading this one.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my family and our history. My dad got ill when I was 6 years old and he has struggles with many different health problems since then. Especially his mental health. He also got cancer when I was 16 and getting cancer-free was a year in hell. And my mom has been the rock, the solid ground, the one who took care of everything and made out family function and run smoothly, the one who took care of doctors appointments and knew what had to be done and got it done. My brother is dyslexic and he needed a lot of help with school work.
And then there was me. I was always as problem. And I feel like everyone thought I was difficult on purpose. But it wasn’t on purpose. The world just hurt so much. And I was 30 before I had my autism diagnosis, that would have explained everything to everyone (including me). I didn’t have the language to explain myself. And no one had the energy or clarity or time to understand or help me find the words.
People tell me I am so eloquent. I am so good with words they say. But all forms of communication feel so difficult and hard and unnatural. There are days I think being non verbal would be relaxing. But I know how to speak and use my words so I don’t have an excuse to not communicate the way others ask me to. And even when other people compliment me on my communication skills I so often feel like I am an ocean that have only communicated a pond or a puddle, and everyone talks like they can see me clearly. Sometimes it feels like communicating hurts and I do no understand why. There are times when I am too overwhelmed when I cannot speak. Or if I am able to force words out they are the same few sentences like “Its fine. It’s good. Yes, that’s fine.” Often with smiles that feel so fake that I cannot understand that no one sees the pain and panic in my eyes. But they never do.

I was about 8 or I years old, when the school reacted to my isolation from the other kids. My mom had asked for help for me repeatedly before then. So when the school suggested a psychologist she of cause said yes. And that started this long process of several different psychologists, being taken out of some classes to sit with a special teacher and learn on my own, my mom taking time off from work to take me to see the psychologists (and we needed the money so her being away from work was bad and the bus tickets to go to the psychologists cost money too). And my parents were scared and angry, sometimes at the school, sometimes at me. The message I got in the midst of this confusing time was that everyone (maybe not my parents, but maybe also my parents), was unsatisfied with me. Everyone knew (as I knew) that I was not like the other children, and now that was a problem. I was a problem. I needed to be fixed. And the easy fix was to tell me to change, and have me change, and then the problem would be over.
Except I refused to change. I was me, and I didn’t want to not be me.
A better person would have sacrificed themself. I am not a better person. I am stubborn and arrogant and… I must be a lot of bad things. Because my family needed me to sacrifice. They needed me to give up something for them and they would have been fine if I had. They wouldn’t have had to o through whatever it was they went through. And I don’t remember much from this time (it’s like it’s hidden in an impenetrable fog or like my memories are missing, all I have are feelings and a few clear memories). What I have later learned is that what happened during that time is what caused my dad to start a long series of suicide attempts. And my mom still to this dayis so scared of being a bad mom. None of them can talk about that time. Whenever the subject comes up their voices turn hard and cold and angry and just behind that anger is pain and trauma. And though I do not understand it, it’s somehow clear that it’s my fault. That is also one of the few things they will say to me about it. They tell me I chose to be weird and not like the other children, that I made a choice to not conform and hidden just under that statement is the notion that I did it all on purpose. That I hurt them and I could have chosen not to.

And a part of me believes that they a right. I had a choice. It feels like it was a choice. Maybe just because that is the story I have been told for the last 20 years. Maybe because it was. No. It was. In part it was. I remember looking at the other kids at school and thinking that I wasn’t like them. I didn’t think I was better or worse. Just that I was different. And to be like them would be to not be me. And that would be a betrayal, an act of violence, something horrible and unnatural that I would have to do to myself, and I chose not to conform and try to be or act like everyone else. Something else that confirms that this was a choice I made is how many people I have met later in life whom have all had the same feeling of being different and needing to conform to be accepted. And I have never talked to anyone who made the same choice I made. They all talk about it as a choice, just like I do. And not a single one of them don’t regret conforming. I know in my heart that I made the right choice. I would make the same choice again and again and again. Even now, knowing what it cost my family, knowing how it hurt them, I wouldn’t change my choice. Even if I could go back I wouldn’t change what I chose.

Who am I to do that? Who do I think I am that I believe that that choice was worth the pain I caused my family? How can I not want to go back and take back their pain? Who am I to think I shouldn’t sacrifice for my family? They would sacrifice for me in a heartbeat. They would not hesitate do to anything within their power for me. They love me. They would do anything for me. Why couldn’t I sacrifice for them?
I don’t believe in that kind of sacrifice. And I would never ask that kind of sacrifice of anyone. I am always a bit suicidal, so saying I would die for someone is a bit meaningless. But it’s not that I wouldn’t die for the people I care about. It’s that I would not sacrifice a person’s humanity for anything or anyone. And I would hate to know someone did that, even if they claimed it was for me. I would die, I would fight, I would live, I would suffer if I knew it could save the humanity, the soul, the feeling of value and respect and… I don’t know. All the things that makes life life. If I could save those things in another person I would sacrifice. But I will not sacrifice myself, my core, my value, my independent thoughts and feelings, my soul, my light, my being, just to not cause discomfort or pain in people who cannot tolerate difference. And that is what I was told was happening. I was different and that difference had to be killed or destroyed, and if I died with it no one cared. No one would miss me. No one would think it was a loss. Instead a new person was to be installed in my head, a new person who wasn’t me, who wasn’t different, who comformed, would be given my life. And I would either be dead or a silent passenger watching someone else walk away with my life and be loved for all the things I could never be. And I rebelled against the idea and I fought back with what little I had to fight with.

And so the thought that has stuck with me in the last month and a half while thinking about this is that I get why my family doesn’t like me. I get why they would dislike me, hate me, wish for me to not be the person I am but instead be the person they needed. And a better person would have given them that. I am not a better person. Sometimes I think this is the very reason I always end up in Slytherin when I take a Hogwarts House test. I don’t believe in that kind of sacrifice. I was arrogant enough to believe I deserved better. I refused to kill parts of myself to be accepted and loved. And I stand by that choice. With all my heart. Even when my hearts breaks. Even when I know I am not loved for who I am. Even when I feel unlovable and unloved. I was asked to sacrifice. And when I refused my dad started trying to kill himself, believing his family (my mom, my brother, me) would be better off without him. My mom is still haunted by the things that came as a result of my decision. In a way I sacrificed them. I didn’t understand it at the time. But I do now. That is why I am not a good person, why I am not someone they can like, why I feel unlovable. Because I am an adult now, I know better now, I understand the consequences of my choice and I still choose me over them. I still choose not to conform, not to sacrifice, not to break myself. And I wonder what kind of person I am. I wonder where I got that arrogance. How did I ever come to the belief that that was an acceptable choice to make?

I am not always a good person. I try to be. I work hard to be. I feel like I have spend every moment of my life, trying to compensate and make up for that choice to not conform. I know I have caused more pain that I can ever hope to make up for. I own that choice. I am what I am. I did what I did. But every choice since then has been an attempt at making the lives of my family, a little better, a little easier, a little less painful. And I almost managed to erase myself in doing that. I didn’t learn boundaries and didn’t stand up for myself in any other way. I feel like used up all my being difficult points in one go, on one choice, and had to be a nice agreeable person for the rest of my life. Breaking free of that thinking is so hard. But I must admit that if anyone has the arrogance to believe that that debt can ever be repaid I am probably that person. I don’t feel guilty about what I did, but I do feel like I owe my parents something. Something I am not sure what is. Except that it means I should not be difficult or cause them problems. And that every time my mental health causes me to need help and support, I am somehow adding to the debt.

These are just thought and feelings. I see their cause and effect. I see the path from my 8 year old self to now, and how that has shaped me. But I am not sure I am allowed to undo this. I am not sure I am entitled to erase the debt and tell them I no longer owe anything in payment for that choice.

I needed to write this. I needed the words out, even if no one reads them.

There’ll be a real letter on Friday. This one was just an extra.

As always a thank you for your time. I wish you the best and hope, whoever you are dear reader, that you have lighter, better and kinder thoughts to keep you company.
Jace

17^th of January 2020

Dear no one, someone, or whoever is reading this.

So this week’s book was “The Book of Dust II: The Secret Commonwealth” by Philip Pullman. And I love being back in this world. As I wrote last week I first visited this world when I was 14. And to go back and discover more things, more questions and maybe if I’m lucky more answers after so many years is amazing. Sometimes I forget how amazing reading a new book is. Not knowing what is on the next page, but longing to find out. And Pullmans writing is amazing. I love re-reading because I love to slip back to a familiar world with familiar characters and knowing where I am going just means I know the journey is worth taking again. This book offered something else. It allowed me to go back to a world and characters I know so well, and then join them on a whole new journey. I guess this might be why so many love fan-fiction these days. I was entertained from start to finish and every character was worth reading about, so I was never disappointed when the point of view shifted.

It’s somehow a rare feeling for me to not know what happens next in a story. I rarely see a movie or TV-show without having figured every twist and turn out in advance. It often bores me. On few lucky occasions I feel clever, when the plot twist took a little effort to work out. I like stories, and all forms of storytelling fascinates me. I am fascinated by the way different mediums tell different stories and uses different tools to tell them. And that is part of why I so often know where stories are going. I don’t watch or read a crime story trying to play detective and figure the clues out. I play the author and try to see where and how the answer is hidden. I am disappointed when the answer wasn’t hidden at all or wasn’t foreshadowed, and bad writing sticks out to me. I marvel not at the answer, but at the cleverness used to hide it in plain sight. If I think there’ll be a plot twist my mind jumps at the chance to solve the puzzle.

Pullman writes stories that doesn’t feel like they are full of plot twists. They are just great journeys and the reader isn’t just reading about it, we are along for the ride and thought we might have a direction (in this one the direction was East) we don’t know much else. And I think I felt all the feelings reading this one. It’s not that I never feel anything reading or following a story. Sometimes I just think I either feel so much in my own life that I don’t know how to have any feelings left for fictional stuff, or my mind gets so caught up in solving the puzzle that I forget to let the feelings dive in to the story and feel what the story feels like.

My favourite Philip Pullman quote is

“There are some themes, some subjects, too large for adult fiction; they can only be dealt with adequately in a children’s book.”

That feels so true to me. That is what he does. These books, in this universe, about Lyra are so dark and painful. Sometimes it is hard to even consider them children’s books at all. I think I have always been drawn to that darkness and the truth that is to be found there. These stories aren’t dark for the sake of being dark. They are dark because they are telling children and adults about the darkness of the world we live in.

And I think that is why I found it hard to look up what other fans of these books write about “The Book of Dust”. Because both books contain scenes of sexual assault and I found those scenes very important. But other readers was very displeased with it. I respect that opinion a lot. I understand why a lot of people are tired of rape and assault scenes. I am to an extent very tired of them myself. But mostly I am tired of a certain kind of scenes. The ones that are sexualised and shown from the perspective of the perpetrator, the ones written, filmed, acted, directed and edited by people who have no idea of what consent is and who doesn’t treat the scenes and especially the victims with the respect they deserve. The kind of scenes that exists to make some male hero character take action and rise to the occasion and that neglects everything the victim feels and goes through. The kinds of scenes that are only included to disturb the audience, to be sensational and dramatic. I find that kind of use of sexual assault to be very problematic, overused and disrespectful. But I don’t want to get to a point where these things cannot be shown or written about. I understand why some people don’t want to see it, hear about it or read about it. I understand why some victims feel the need to stay away from these subjects. But as a victim myself I find great comfort in people who are willing and able to talk about it, to not shy away from these ugly things, who want to shine a light on this and help make the world aware of the fact that these things happen, every day to real people. But is has to be done by people who are capable of doing it with respect and who are standing firmly on the side of the of victims, telling the world that these things are never ever okay. And it has to have a place in the story. And the way I personally see the scenes on these book they have a place, they are not sexualised, they have no sympathy for any of the perpetrators and they show us something real about the world we live in. I read them feeling thankful, that my experiences weren’t too taboo, too dark, too ugly to look at. And that helps me feel like my experiences might not have turned me into something too dark and too ugly to look at.

I think a lot of people will disagree with this. But I felt a need to write it. Because as much as I understand the reasons some people do not want to read another rape scene, I still need them. And I don’t want to force those scenes on anyone. It’s okay to disagree. I just needed to tell someone, that I needed those scenes. And I might not be the only one. I don’t feel like I was eloquent enough to write this, I don’t necessarily have the right arguments at this moment in time. And I know that the internet is unkind to that kind of thing. But maybe someone else need what I need and maybe they need to see that they are not alone in finding comfort in knowing that conversations about assault can be had and that our experiences can be respectfully represented in the media. I don’t think Pullman succeeded 100% in making these scenes unproblematic. But I would respectfully ask to be allowed to disagree with some of the hard criticism of these scenes.

Somehow that was hard to write. I don’t want to hurt anyone. But I had a lot of feelings about the criticism I read. Writing something like this is new and not something I hope to do again in the future.

I wanted to write more. I wanted to write about trying to overcome loneliness by investing in people who actually have something to give back, even if what they have to give back isn’t the things I feel like I need. By trying to spend time with people I like, but do not feel connected to. And by forcing myself out the door to participate in new things. But I am not sure what to say about it. And honestly writing what I just wrote and deciding that it has to go on the internet is surprisingly scary. Even when I post this anonymously on a blog that has no comment section. So I think that’ll be all for this week. I’ll try to write something sensible and less scary next week. I might actually get the hang of this blog thing and of writing every week.

To anyone reading, thank you for being there. Thank you for your time. I hope there is space enough for us to disagree and I believe that there is room enough for all the voices and that many other voices than mine deserve to be heard. Thank you for listening to mine and giving it space. I needed it, and now, knowing I have spoken my mind, I find myself with much more room to listen again.
Whoever you are out there, on the other side of my screen, I wish you all the best and please take good care of yourself whatever that means for you.
Jace

10^th of January 2020

Dear no one, or someone, or whoever is reading this.

I am not sure how I am going to keep writing with no one to write to. But then I think how is that different from before. And I know I have to keep writing.

A and I went to see the musical Hamilton in London last year, and there is a line in the song “Non Stop” that says: “Why do you write like you need it to survive?” And that is the line that made me realise that I have to start writing again. I need writing. I need whatever it is I feel when in am typing out words. And that’s why I asked A to start this blog with me.
I have been very hooked on Hamilton since I first started listening to the album. I relate to Hamilton’s drive and his need to accomplish things and make his mark on the world. Songs like “Non Stop” or “My Shot” have proven very useful in my battle against depression, suicide thoughts and apathy. I listen to all the songs a lot. I have never really listened that much to music. So I am surprised at the effect this has had on me. I am so thankful this exists, that I have found it, that I am able to find strength in the words and the way they are delivered. And I am thankful to have a friend like A who was willing to buy us tickets to a musical she had never heard of and that I had a very hard time explaining to her in an coherent way. And I am thankful she enjoyed the musical as much as I did, since she had paid for the tickets and I was terribly afraid she wouldn’t like it.
I have been thinking about writing something about my thoughts on Hamilton and what it means to me. But I haven really found the words. Maybe I will someday. Maybe I don’t need to and just playing the album on repeat is enough.

So as I wrote last week I need to read too. Books. The love of my life. The only things I refused to compromise on when I moved to a smaller apartment. All my furniture could go, all my things. But not my books. I needed my books. I told my family that my new home needed room for my books and my bed and everything else could be talked about. And if there was any problems after that we would have to figure out what to do with the bed, because the books were not up for negotiation. And now I have them all here. And I haven’t had the mind to read. Not a lot at least. So I am starting this new year desperately trying to do something I have wanted to do for several years now. And that is read a book a week. I only work one day a week, I don’t have that many other obligations except taking care of myself and my mental health. I have plenty of time to read. It’s just that I don’t always have the concentration.
But since I am lonely and desperately miss interesting conversations and new ideas, book seems like a good solution. And I need to invest time and energy in it. Not just wait around for the mood to strike. I have to make it a priority. Just like writing has to be a priority. And maybe I could try to keep myself going by promising to write a few words about last week’s book. Since I have to write my letter for the blog on Fridays and I deadline for finishing a book is Sundays I will likely write about the book I finished last week and maybe mention what book I am reading now or maybe which book I plan to read next week. That way I’ll have a way to express my thought on the book and be a little obligated to actually keep both the writing and the reading going. I do not believe that tactic will be a success. But it is a thing I could try, and if it fails I won’t be disappointed in myself, because it didn’t really seem that realistic in the first place. And if I succeed just a few times this week I’ll be really impressed with myself. And that sound to me like a fine idea, that can’t go to wrong, and that will at least give me something to write about if I can’t think of anything. So maybe 2020 Letters to Here will be a blog about books I read and if reading a lot makes me a little less lonely. It’s an experiment worth trying and documenting.

And of cause I’ll write sad letters about my depression. It isn’t going anywhere and I need an outlet for the thoughts and feeling that would otherwise suffocate me. And I’ll write about my frustrations with my parents and how difficult it is to get help with all my diagnonsens. And maybe, just maybe, there’ll be a lot of hopeful stuff too about good days and progress and stuff like that, if those things happen to show up. You never know, a lot can happen in a year.

So. Last week I read “Book of Dust I: La Belle Sauvage” by Philip Pullman. I first read “His Dark Materials” when I was 14. The book series was a Christmas present from my parents who didn’t know anything about them, I had just wished for them because I liked books and the covers of this specific book series in this edition was so beautiful. And I have never read anything like it. These book made me question. I’ve always questioned almost everything, but these books opened my mind to so many more new questions. And when I later heard that a new book called Book of Dust was being written I was so excited. And then I had to wait. For almost 15 years. I got it as soon as I came out, but then my concentration failed me and I had to wait a few months to actually be able to read it. But when I finally did it was so amazing! And it was wonderful being back in Lyra’s world and think about Dust and dæmons and all that. And I loved re-reading it last week. I have always loved re-reading books. I know that many people wish they could forget a book so they could read it again for the first time an not know what it is about and be surprised by the plot. But I love re-reading. I love going back and meeting the characters again, I love going on this journey that I know and discover it again and discover how much I missed the first time, or how much I have grown as a person. I never think I wish I could forget and experience it again for the first time. I love returning. Like meeting an old friend again or like finding my way home.

I visited Oxford for the first time in May of 2018, during my interrail trip. It was amazing to see the place I have only ever read about. I visited the Bodleian Library and the Botanic Garden. I had a picture taken on The Bench. I walked the streets and imagined this as Lyra’s Oxford. And I went to the Trout in Godstow where the first part of “La Belle Sauvage” takes place. I saw the ruins on the other side of the river. And I remembered that trip re-reading this book. I remembered the streets, I remembered the Trout and the ruin. And the book and the story came alive in a whole new way. And I missed Oxford and want to go back soon. I have never experienced anything like the feeling I had in Oxford. I got of the train, walked through the train station and five steps outside the station building, I felt like this was the best place I have ever visited. I felt at home and at peace. I love London and have done so since my first trip there when I was 16. It was a school trip and I was nervous going because I had no friends going on this trip. But the trip was great. The city amazing. And I have return to London so many times I am losing count. At this point I feel at home when I arrive in London, I know my way around, know where to go and how to get there, I barely even think about the route when I glace at a tube map. Last time I was there I even gave some one directions and felt confident doing that. I love London. And yet Oxford took me by surprise. I won’t say I love it better. I just fell instantly in love in a way I cannot compare to London. And I hope my future brings me many reasons to return to Oxford and lots of time there.

I think I’ll stop writing for now. But for the first time in a long time I fell ok writing a new letter next week. Next week I’ll write about reading “Book of Dust II: The Secret Commonwealth” by Philip Pullman for the first time. Maybe I can contrast reading a new book with re-reading an old one. Maybe I’ll write about dæmons. One thing for sure, I’ll have the book finished on time.

Whoever is reading this, if anyone is. Take good care of yourself, whatever that means to you. I am sending you good thoughts and thank you for being there, for your time and your attention.
Jace.

3^rd of January 2020

Hi A

This will be the last letter for you. I had thought that I had a few more months to give you. But I have come to the conclusion that waiting for you isn’t helping any of us.

I called you right after midnight on New Years Eve, my first phone call of the new decade. And you couldn’t pick up. And that’s ok, I understand, you don’t need to explain or apologise or anything. It’s ok. You couldn’t pick up. You did what was right for you and I will always ask you to do that. But it hurt and I felt so lonely. You wrote to me the next morning, telling me you had felt touched that I had called and that it had meaning for you. And that didn’t erase my hurt. All I could feel was hurt. And you being moved by my reaching out doesn’t make a dent in that pain. So I have to stop hurting myself. I have to stop thinking that if I pour enough love and care and kindness into the world that my own pain and loneliness will lift. I have to stop pouring so much of my attention, worry and care into people who doesn’t have anything to give back. It doesn’t leave me feeling better, it leaves me feeling empty.

A, I really care about you. And that doesn’t stop. I am still here. I won’t not pick up the phone if you call. But I need to be more careful about my attention and where I spend my energy. And if I have to get back to writing I have to stop writing to someone who won’t read it. Because when we talked about this it was with the idea that you’d write back some day. And right now I cannot wait for some day. I need to find something worth writing for that isn’t depended on you. Because it’s not your responsibility to give me something to write for. You have other and far more important things you are working on. Because your life is full of other things. You are fighting battles that need your full attention.

I think there is a good probability you’ll never read this. And that is ok. I just need to write it anyway. I spend so much time not asking for what I need, because none of the people in my life have that to give. And in the spirit of the new year and the new decade I think it’s time I stop being sad about the things the people in my life cannot give me. Instead I am going to try to find new people who might need what I have to give and who might have some of what I need to give. I won’t replace anyone. I’ll just take some of all the empty space in my life and try to find good and meaningful ways to fill it up again. I have to fight my way out of this depression. And no doctor, no medication and no amount of waiting for something outside myself is going to make that fight any easier. I am mostly on my own in this. The doctors and professionals have given up. That is a luxury I do not have.

I have so much to give. So much I want to share. It isn’t just that I feel empty because I don’t get anything back. And a part of my current pain is that I try to give and give and give. But you are not in a place to receive or accept. There isn’t room in your life for all the good I want to give. And that’s ok. That’s life, that’s bad timing. And I have no resentment or bad feelings towards you. I just have a big sadness and loneliness that I am going to take responsibility for.

I don’t know how to do that. The depression is still not better. I am not really the best version of myself yet. And building new friendships takes work. Work I am willing to do, but not sure I am able to.

Most of all I am not sure how to write anything for next week. I am not sure what this blog will be if it isn’t letters. And I am not sure how to write if I am not writing to someone. Someone not me. But I have a week to figure it out.

I have so much work to do. Figuring out how to fix my depression, finding and making friends, finding new ways to write letters, boundaries are also a big thing I absolutely need to work on and I have to read more. A lot more. The new year starts out busy.

I hope this year starts out good for you. I hope this year is a year full of growth and that it gets so much better. I hope it’s a year of not just listening to ourselves but action on what we hear when we do.

A, I have so much love and care for you. I am your friend and consider you my friend. I am here for you. Like I have always been. I am still full of hope for you and know that you have great things ahead of you. I know you deserve good things and a good life. You deserve kindness and care, and I hope to be a source of that in your life. But till you are ready I am going to take a step back and take a little better care of myself, and try not to get so hurt by things that isn’t hurtful. And till I have mastered that I’ll have patience with myself and allow myself to be vulnerable and sensitive and know that there are far worse things to be. I am stronger than this. Or at least strong enough to be vulnerable and sensitive, kind and caring. I just have to be a little more careful how I spend it and where my expectations lie.

Take good care of yourself A
Jace

13^th of December 2019

Hi A

I have wanted to write for a while. A part of why I haven’t is because of you. When I suggested this it was so we could write together. And it’s not that I don’t understand why you can’t write back or even read along. It’s that I’m not sure you ever will. I have barely talked or heard from you in more than six months. Every time I do you are dying from exhaustion and pressure and the circumstances of your life. And I do understand. I really do. I even think you know that.

But in these past six months I have not heard you take good care of yourself or be kind to yourself. I know what is happening in your life is killing you, and I feel a little shut out. And I don’t mind being shut out, except for the fact that I feel like I am the only person looking out for you. If I knew you looked out for you and was kind and encouraging to yourself, I would be just fine being shut out. But with everything I know about you, I don’t think that you are doing that. I know you are taking care of the people you need to take care of, but that the list of people in your mind doesn’t include you.

It’s not like I am sitting on my high horse and judging you. I have the same difficulties setting boundaries as you do. And the last month had been a month of failing that. And I am not exactly listening to the signals I’ve getting lately. But that is also really difficult knowing almost none my friends even know how to do those things. And I sucks watching the people I care about not taking care of themselves. And it somehow makes it really difficult to keep going with taking care of myself. Because I cannot take care of all of us. A friend of mine described it a little like I am getting out of a substance abuse but having all my friends still being addicts, and that makes it really hard for me to keep getting better. It also sometimes makes me lose my temper and patience with the rest of you, because I sometimes feel like I have to go back to a mental space I have fought hard to leave in order to talk to you and understand you and say things in a way that makes sense from where you are. And I want to do those things, in part because I hope that me getting to know the way will make it easier for you to walk it too. I just don’t have enough people on the whole spectrum of self love and self esteem and all those things. And as much as I like being the one who know more than everyone else and who has a lot of answers and being a few steps ahead, I miss having someone who knows the next steps of the way ahead of me.

If I am the only voice in your life telling you “you are awesome and amazing and that you deserve good things and that you deserve a hell of a lot better then what you’ve gotten up until that point”, I feel like my voice drowns in all the other voices. And the voice I feel most drowned out by is your own internal voice telling you all the bad lies I know it tell you.

There are days I wonder if anyone in your family knows to contact me and let me know about you funeral if you decide to kill yourself. I don’t know that preparations you have made for that. Is there a list of people they should remember to invite. A list of people they should not invite. Or am I just to hope that I’ll hear about it somehow. I worry about you. And I am a little angry that I am don’t know if you are taking care of yourself or allowing space for people in your life to take care of you.

I’ve spent a long time making a Christmas present for you. Not anything great, just an “I am thinking of you”-present. But I am not allowed to drop it off. Just like I wasn’t allowed to drop off your birthday present. You don’t pick up your phone, you rarely call or text. And when I do hear from you it’s a long list of all the stressors and no signs that you are taking care of yourself. And I don’t know if that’s because there is no progress or if that’s because you aren’t ready to share the progress. A, when you do write you share what is happening around you. And that is nice. But it doesn’t give me any indication of where you are and what is happening inside you. I feel like I am just hearing about the surface and honestly that tells me nothing. Maybe because I don’t hear your thought processes which are the ones that tells me what is going on under the surface.

I know you were raised to think that there were different (and much stricter) rules for you, while I was taught I wasn’t special and told not to think I was better than anyone. I was also taught I was responsible for my own pain and unhappiness. That difference has given us very different starting points when it comes to dealing with a lot of the same problems. We understand each others problems, but not always each others ways of coping. And I think we both know I got the easier path. Also in part to my autism, making me unafraid to question things you never questioned. I know that for most of your life thinking nice thoughts about yourself was impossible and doing kind things for yourself or allowing anything good do happen to you felt forbidden and wrong. And when you this pressured and this in need of better boundaries, taking good care of yourself is so important. And knowing it is next to impossible for you makes me more worried than I might be for someone else.

I care about you. A lot. You are amazing and awesome. And you deserve the best. You are such a warm and generous and kind human being. And it hurts to know you are in so much pain and that there is nothing I can do. I used to feel like I was standing at the sideline cheering you on. Now I just feel like I am too far away and shut out to do anything. And as always I just need to vent my frustrations. I have them because you are important to me and because I like you and want to be your friend. I don’t blame you or anything for doing the best you can in one impossible situation after another. I know you are there and that you a fighting to get through. I just have a really selfish sadness that I cannot do more to help or be involved. I’ll find a way to deal. Thank you for allowing space for my frustrations.

I am going to retry writing once a week beginning in January. Iam not sure it’ll be a success, but I am going to try. And then I’ll give it a few months, and if you are not a least reading my letters I am going to find a new concept for this blog. Because if I am all alone but have to pretend I am not it’s not working for me.

Looking forward to hearing from you
Jace

P.S. A. It’s not that I think or feel that you don’t care about me, or that you don’t think our friendship is important or valuable. It’s that you don’t think you are important and valuable. And that pisses me off. I care about you. But if you don’t care about you my caring won’t really matter. It might matter a little, but it won’t really make a real difference. I worry about you. I know your life has no meaning and that you don’t really want to be alive. And you are unable to accept all my attempts to connect and try to create meaning. And every time I hear from you I hear how much your life and your surroundings are making your life so much more difficult. I know it’s going to kill you if nothing changes. And I don’t see the changes right now. And I know that because as many differences as there is in our situations some things are the same. And I feel what it does to a person to live with the weight of what you live with.

3^rd of November 2019

Hi A.

I feel disconnected. From everything that matters. I barely talk to friends, I am not going to work, I have no creative projects going, I am not contributing or making a difference. I am just stuck. Nothing happens and I am not able to do anything. It feels like I am stuck in a waiting position, but it’s an endless one this time. I am not waiting for anything. Because nothing will come along and stop this. I am just here in this empty lonely place, where nothing makes sense, nothing gives life meaning and I have no purpose. And I feel utterly incapable. I am not able to do anything. Not go to work, not read a book, not care about things.
I want a life that has meaning. I want to have purpose and make a difference. And right now I am cut off from those things. And I feel cut off from friends. That includes you.

I know you are fighting for your very survival. I hope you are winning. I know you don’t have energy to talk or meet up or anything. But I miss talking to you. I miss you input on my situation, I miss hearing about your situation.
So many people around me have a lot right now. And I want to be supportive and a good friend. Something I think I fail at when everything is this hard for me. I need too much. Or at least I need more than anyone can reasonably give.

I feel disconnected. From communities and people. From what matters. The only people who really reach out and are there are my parents. They are so nice right now. And I should be grateful. But mostly I fear the second I turns. The moment they stop being nice and understanding. And I fear that moment is the moment they realise I haven’t changed my mind about medication. I think they are going to be so mad at me. And I a both sad and scared and so so angry at the idea that they get to be mad at me for choosing what is right for me.
As much as I hate it I have realised I need people in my life. Life was so much easier when I believed being alone was the only way I could possibly live. Now there are complications. Being alone is so much easier to plan for and make happen. I think it took me this long to realise because it took me this long to meet people I like being around. I need intelligent and stimulating conversations. I need to feel connected and needed. I need to feel cared about and understood. And for so many years I just couldn’t feel that way with the people I met. My parents often makes me feel the opposite of connected and understood. So spending this much time with them and almost only them is not good for me. It doesn’t fulfil the needs I have in human interactions, it deprives me of them. And it’s not because they don’t try. We are just so different. And if I try to express these needs, they tell me that is why others find a boyfriend. And at the moment I am out of ways to tell them I am aromantic and asexual and that those things aren’t a choice. Sometimes I feel like it would be easier to explain to them if I had been attracted to women. At least then they would have something tangible to try to relate to. Now it’s just me and me telling them I am not incomplete, that I am a whole person and not someone else’s half, and them not knowing what to do with the empty space next to me that in their mind should be occupied by a person.

---

For some reason I am thinking about my grandmother. In a few weeks it’ll be a year since she died. And I am still grieving. I read recently that grief is all the love we want to give but can’t. And I am so full of love for her. So full of love it hurts. And even now a year in I am still not even close to knowing how to live without her. But that might be a longer piece of writing, or maybe that is too private to share online. Some things are just mine. And I think my memories and love for her is one of them. But the grief is still here, and I think it’ll bleed into these letters, and that might be okay.
The lost letter. The one I wrote, but couldn’t edit, was about her and my grandfather. About visiting the empty house and all the things I thought I would feel and all the things I did feel. It was a good letter, but I don’t regret not sharing it with the internet. Pieces of it might find their way to other letters, but that one letter is not going to be shared. And that is a good decision. I am allowed to keep a few things to myself.

---

My mind is stuck on the medication problem. The psychiatrist I had agreed to call wasn’t open for new patients and I am being pressured to find another. But the idea of finding me a psychiatrist is first of all not mine, and second because most people around me right now wants me say yes to medication. And I want to never have the medication conversation again. Ever. Even the thought that I will have to have it again is making me furious. I don’t have the patience to have it again.

I believe the world is big enough to contain many solutions to problems. My problem shouldn’t be any different. And that my parents and every therapist and medical professional I meet only have medication to offer, isn’t the same as this is the only option.

Because you cannot medicate hope back into my life. You heal my soul by medication my brain. You cannot medicate purpose and meaning into me. These are not brain chemistry problems, these are… I keep thinking spiritual problems, but I am not sure I use the word spiritual right. I hope the point stands. Medication is not a solution to anything, it’s trying to fix a symptom and ignoring all the things that are really wrong. And as I wrote previously, I truly believe that the people offering me medication care more about me being quiet and complacent than… than anything meaningful. I don’t think I could write anything at the end of that sentence that wouldn’t hurt too much.

I have been trying to find an analogy to describe what I feel is going on. And this is the best I could do. If I went to the doctor with a broken leg and the doctor wouldn’t look at the leg or the doctor kept asking me for what treatment I needed, that would be wrong. It would be absolutely reasonable for me to expect the doctor to know what treatment is required and to be able to carry it out. But because I have an illness that isn’t like a broken leg no one knows what to do, no one will look at the problem, and everyone is blaming me for not knowing exactly what treatment I need, even the people who took long educations trying to learn about illnesses like mine. And instead of even looking at the bloody broken leg, everyone is telling me to just take some painkillers. And when I as what else they will do to help heal my leg they avoid the question or tell me nothing can be done or that we’ll look at that once I am no longer in pain. And I already know that after this many years of not getting treated I will likely limp and be in pain for the rest of my life. The lack of treatment have left me with a handicap. But I still want to make that handicap as small as possible, I still want treatment, I still want someone to acknowledge that something can be done and that just giving me pain medication isn’t going to fix the leg. The pain medication is only a way to make me shut up about the pain. And I will not shut up. I refuse to be compliant and helpful and quiet. I refuse to cooperate with people who do not see me as a person who has a life to live and things to do and…

I am just so angry. I am angry at everyone who has ever asked me about medication. I am angry at my parents and at the healthcare system that failed me. I am angry that I didn’t get diagnosed with autism till I was 30 years old. I am angry that I am the only one who is willing to even consider alternative solutions. I am angry that I feel so expendable to society and the world. I am angry that I must look so worthless to the world. I am angry that I know I am not alone in being failed by society and its systems. I am just so angry.

And that anger is part of my current problem. I keep staying in bed, doing nothing, trying desperately to find energy to do the smallest things. And the second I feel a tiny spark of energy I burn it up immediately. I have no sense of saving the energy I do find. I jump right to using it and then I collapse again, and have to wait days till my mind and body can find just another spark. And the anger does burn the energy quickly. I tear myself a part in this rage. And I always arrive back here. Because every spark of energy has me looking for solutions, and I am told there are no more solutions, except medication. I want to work on solutions. I want to throw all the energy I have (and all the energy I used to have an hope to get back soon) into getting better. And I don’t want a little better with compromises. I want to dig deep and find the place deep down where the pain is coming from. And then I want to tear it out by the root, leaving nothing of it inside me. I want to do the hard work. I am okay with that hurting. I am (almost) ready to just throw myself into that work. But I cannot do it alone and I cannot do it with my current skill set. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think it can be done. I just need some help with it, so I can find or build the right tools for it. And I need a lot of support and care, so I can get through the pain and remain grounded in the fact that there is good things waiting for me on the other side of this. And I am so tired of being alone in this. So tired of being the only one who believes in a way that allows me to live and be me and not have all this pain inside me. I am tired of looking for it on my own. I am tired of feeling like the people who were supposed to help me keep trying to force me to do something that isn’t right for me.

And that is all the writing I can do today. I would love to write something nice for you today A. But honestly… I am too tired and angry to find the words right now. And I hope that’s okay. I am sending you good thoughts.

Looking forward to hearing from you
Jace

30^th of October 2019

Hi A

So there was a thing i wanted to write about in mu last letter, but couldn’t. It’s very personal, very difficult, very emotional and requires a lot of explanation in case anyone who doesn’t know my history reads this. And since this is the internet I both want to make sure what I write makes sense, but I also feel strange sharing the best proof that I am crazy publicly like this. But when I suggested writing like this to you, I was very sure I wanted to write even all the painful stuff and I even if writing and posting this gives me a vulnerability hangover I think writing this is important. So I am going to try, knowing full well I might sound very crazy and since crazy is how this feels that might not be the worst thing, even if I like to keep up appearances that I am not this kind of crazy.

I have had problems since I was a kid. Autism will do that to you, especially when undiagnosed. And despite my mother’s attempts to get me help no one listened. Until I was about 8 or 9. That’s when the school suggested sending me to the school psychologist. And of course my parents agreed to this. But somewhere in all this all the grown-ups forgot to talk to me and explain what was happening. And that left me to try and figure it out from the bits and pieces of information that I could gather up on my own.
The school psychologist was the first to suggest autism. So she send me to the childrens psychiatric hospital in the next town. Here I was asked to talk to two psychologists. And I remember my mom having to take time off work to take me there. I had to leave school for some hours every other week. And I knew my mom needed to work so we could get money, because my dad was ill and couldn’t work. He had had an accident when I was 6 and even thought he had physically recovered he still suffered from with some memory problems and other things related to the brain damage and some mental problems. So mom taking off work was bad and expensive. And I knew it was because of me, but I didn’t understand why.
And over all the meetings with these strangers were very scary. No one explained the purpose or who they were or why this was happening. At least not in words I could understand.

I remember my parents talking. They were angry and afraid. These psychologists seemed dangerous. My parents told me it was because I wasn’t like the other children and that psychologists were people who had read a lot of books about who people were supposed to be and that they were unsatisfied with me being different. And they wanted to fix me and make me like the other children.
I remember feeling confused and scared. In recess I would look at all the other children and even though I didn’t dislike them or hate them or think there were something wrong with being like them, I just knew that being like that wasn’t for me. I wasn’t like them.
And I don’t know how I could be so arrogant, but I honestly believed that being different was a good thing. Not better or worse. Just different. I thought the world needed different things and if I was different it must be because the world needed the thing I could do and give that all the other children couldn’t. I also knew the other kids could do things I couldn’t. I believed I had value and that I had something amazing to give the world. I just wanted to be allowed to.
But here my parents were, telling me about psychologists. People who apparently didn’t believe in difference and who wanted to stomp it out. And I knew the school had asked me to talk to these people. So my teachers and the school must believe the same thing, right? And my parents were angry and scared and they went to meetings and they wrote letters and they shouted at other people. And it seemed like they were protecting me from the dangerous people who wanted to change me. And they would say nice things about being proud of me being myself and being different, only sometimes they would be mad at me for the exact same things. They told me I was being weird on purpose, that I had to stop. And I knew my parents were having a lot of worries, and mom took time off work and that cost money and all these things were somehow my fault, but I didn’t understand how or why or what I had done.

I honestly doesn’t remember much from this time. I remember the mood and atmosphere and a few small details. But overall the whole thing is a fog in my mind. Like I have repressed it all. But I have this one memory that have stuck with me. One evening in the middle off all this my mom comes to my room to say goodnight. And she hugs me close and says: “I won’t let them take you. I’m ready to take you and your brother and go. We’ll run away if we have to.”

And wow this is hard to write. I haven’t even begun to write about me being crazy yet.

Somehow my parents got all this stopped. No more psychologists and I tried to act as nice as I could and not cause troubles and not be difficult. I was still me, still weird, still not like the other children. And that was a choice I made. But I compensated for that choice with every fibre of my being. Today I know that a lot of what I learned was something a lot of autistic girls do. It’s call masking. And it’s very bad for your mental health.

But at least I got away from the scary psychologists. They didn’t get to change me and they didn’t take me away from my parents. They did a lot of harm to my family. The psychologists at the childrens psychiatric hospital didn’t think I had autism but accused my parents of not being good for me. My parents were left with the fear that they were bad parents, and that my problems were somehow their fault. They still have big emotional trauma from that time and we cannot talk about it at all. It hurts them too much. And that is one reason I cannot untangle all this mess that I mostly can’t remember and still do not understand. My mom says that the psychologists thought my dad was the main problem and wanted my mom to leave him. This started my dad on a long series of suicide attempts. And to this day I am furious at the system for failing my family. My dad had had an accident, my mom did everything to help him and me and take care of my little brother. I don’t need to wonder why things were difficult or why my parents had a hard time giving me the structure I needed. All of us were barely hanging on, and the systems that was supposed to help us hurt us instead.

I walked away from that experience convinced that psychologists were people whose job it was to change people. Whether people wanted to be changed or not. And I didn’t want to be changed. The idea of changing who I am felt evil. And the people who would want to do that to me seemed evil too. Like they were monsters coming to hurt me or maybe even take me from my parents. And back then my parents seemed like the good guys protecting me.

And that is the back story. Told as best I can with as much of an explanation as I can give.
Because a few years later my mental health acted up again. I needed help. And I was at a different school at this time and the school offered that I could talk to their psychologist. And I refused. Of cause. I didn’t want to put myself back in a room with a monster who wanted to hurt me. I thought my parents would agree, but to my surprise they didn’t. they wanted me to say yes. And after pressure from them I did. But I didn’t understand what talking to a psychologist was or what to do with it. So it feel meaningless and still like walking into a trap. And from then on I have had more psychologists than I can count. My parents have so many letters from them saying “we can’t help your daughter, we are getting nowhere”. And my parents we always the first to push me back into therapy.

I was 19 by the time I understood why none of the psychologists could help me. Something happened and my fear of them stopped being a small thing in the back of my head. The fear was back at full force and I suddenly remembered the way my parents used to talk about these people. won’t tell the story of what happened to bring that fear back to a conscious plane. Maybe some other time, but not today. But from then on I tried to bring up my fear of psychologists with the psychologists. But they never took me seriously.

And the more I dig, the more I try to cooperate and be open and accept help, the more I feel that fear. The more I cannot think of therapists as people who want to help me. They just seem like evil monsters. Every meeting with them feels like a trap or a war or an attack. And of cause I am not open and vulnerable when I feel under attack.
And it’s not just an attack. It’s an attack on the core of who I am. An attack on the most sacred, valuable, essential part of me. It is an attack that meant I could not defend myself at any level that wasn’t just the absolute core of me. My boundaries were left undefended, my body was abandoned, I didn’t have enough resourced to claim any of these things. All my resources have been spend protecting myself from being changed and turned into a “normal” person. If you had watched Doctor Who I would describe it by comparing it to the Cybermen. Maybe one day we’ll watch some episodes together so you’ll get that reference.

A part of me is logical and rational. A part of me thinks it’s crazy to think that psychologists and psychiatrists and anyone else working in this field is a dangerous monster who wants to hurt me. A part of me knows they are people who chose that job to help people. But inside I am still a child, afraid of the monsters coming to take me or break me. And when I imagine that child I am blown away by her bravery. But her belief in herself. Belief in me: In the value I have and my right to live and die as me. That child is so scared. I have never felt fear like that anywhere else. And I still managed to spend so many hours talking to so many psychologists. I am trying so hard to find a balance between needing help, or this kills me, and feverishly trying to defend myself against an enemy everyone tells me to treat like an ally. I am willing to die defending myself, I know I cannot lose this fight. And I think this might be the core of why I don’t feel safe. Because not only am I not safe in the world or in my body. I do not feel safe in my mind. I feel like my mind is under attack. Not from depression but from the very people I need to help me get better. And that is why medication isn’t an option. Not until I feel safe. Because right not people say medication and mean help, but I hear medication and think the ultimate weapon to destroy me. And I would rather die than lose the battle like that.

The key isn’t to force me to take medication. And trust cannot be forced. The key is to make peace. To help me understand that I am not under attack. I am not in danger. I am not at war. At least not with the people who can help. I have to find a way to stop seeing them as a threat. And until I find a way to do that I cannot be helped by psychologists or medication.

I don’t know if I am making sense. I feel like I might just make sense. But this whole thing is so difficult to articulate.

The thought I had a few days ago. The thought that sent me back to writing is one that has been on its way for a while.
You see for a few years now I have know that my parents isn’t the good guys. They might have great intentions. But often I cannot trust them. Often they are on their own side instead of my side. And that hurt a lot to realise. The loss of trust in them didn’t inspire trust in the therapists. It was just a loss of trust. And that was necessary but painful. And I feel even more unsafe and more alone than before. I don’t think of my parents as evil. But I understand that they have so many issues that they cannot do more than just take care of themselves. And I have to find ways to protect myself from them as well. And that is why I am working so hard on boundaries.

And so a few days ago, when I wrote the other letter, I finally had the thought. My parents told me the psychologists wanted to change me, to fix me, to make me normal. And then they kept sending me to psychologist after psychologist. I think they wanted me changed. And that thought just broke me. It’s not totally a new thought. But the way I phrased it in my head was new. I am afraid of the monsters. My parents told me the monsters would take me or hurt me or break me. And then they kept giving me to the monsters. Maybe they wanted to monsters to break me.

I have known for years now that thought my parents love their daughter. They do not love the person I am. They would not like me if I was not their child. They do not know me, they take no interest in who I am, they often express a wish for me to be different, and they dismiss any attempt I make to tell them about the things that are important to me. They love their child. But I am not sure they live me. I am loved by them only because of family ties, not because of who I am. And I truly believe they would be happier if I was different.

I don’t know if I sound as crazy I feared I would. I feel like I must be crazy because the fear is so real, the threat feels so real, I feel under attack, I feel like the therapists are monsters. I think I know that that isn’t real. But it feels real. And I cannot just convince myself that I am safe. The child in me is so scared and it’s my job to protect her and keep her safe. The adult me is too busy protecting and keeping safe to truly listen to anyone telling me that the threat is imagined. And the child is never invited to be part of the conversation.

I think that was all my writhing for now. I don’t know when I’ll write again. I hope I made sense. I hope I explained why I think these crazy things and that even if they are crazy they come from a real place. I hope my bravery and strength and willingness to fight for and believe in myself shine through this. I think I do want to live. But I will not hesitate to die for what is important to me. And I will fight. And I am always surprised to realise just how much I have been fighting for myself all this time, in ways I wasn’t aware of.

A, you are important to me too. And don’t ever doubt that I will use all this strength and stubbornness to fight for you too. I know you feel like you are out of fight and out of strength. But I am right here to lend you mine. I know you never had the feeling that you a valuable and amazing and worth fighting for. So I am right here to tell you that you are all those things. You are so valuable. So amazing. And you deserve so much better than what you have gotten so far. You deserve to be fought for. And I will tell you, when no one else fight for you, when everyone around you act like you are the problem, it’s okay to fight for yourself. It’s okay to be your own hero. It’s okay to fight back. Even against the people who want to help you. And I will do everything I can to remember that you need me to say this over and over and over. This isn’t something you can ask for. But it’s still something you need. And I am sorry for the days I forget that I need to say it. Please know that just because I get lost in my own head and forget to say it out loud it isn’t less true or any less how I feel. You deserve better. You deserve to be happy and have a good life. You deserve to be respected and feel safe. You are so worthy of all the good things this world has to offer. And if I can fight to help give you that I will. I know you never had the feeling it’s okay to fight. I sometimes feel like I am made of nothing but fight and stubbornness. I have enough to spare. And even in the middle of this depression, even when I feel like I am drowning, I think of you and am so ready to help you fight you fight. Take good care of yourself. Fight the fight by being kind to yourself. You are doing the best you can. And no one can ask more of you. No one. Not even you.

I hope to write again soon. And I hope that I will soon have enough energy to edit and read these letters through, but I don’t think anyone should count on that just yet.

Looking forward to hearing from you.
Jace

28^th of October 2019

Hi A

I have wanted to write. But this time around depression hit me harder than ever before. For the first time I have experienced days of not being able to get out of bed. I haven’t been to work in weeks and I haven’t even been able to call in sick.

Things are bad here. And I know they are possibly even worse with you. And even though we often find comfort in not being alone, the fact that both of us are at an all time low at the same time, and that none of us have energy to reach out and really be there for each other makes me feel more alone and sad. I miss talking to you. And I wish I could do more to help you through right now. Please stay here with me A. Stay here with me, okay?

Right not I feels like my surroundings finally woke up and realised this is serious, that I am actually really ill and that I am not going to get better without outside help. My mom haven’t told me to just get together for several weeks. I’m impressed. But at the same time, I don’t trust it. How many times have I believed that the message finally got through, only to discover a few days or weeks later that no one thinks it’s serious.

Just last Christmas my mom told me I didn’t need help, I just needed to get a job. And it was so out of nowhere that I didn’t even know how to respond. We weren’t even having a conversation about that. And we had spend the last couple of month going to meetings and talking about my problems. And I thought she had understood my autism and depression diagnosis from the psychiatrist. But suddenly she didn’t.

And as I write this I am not for the first time struck by the thought that the way my parents react to things often becomes how I feel “everyone” reacts. Even it is just them. I am trying to reframe that in my head. But it’s not an easy task. I try to do this by reminding myself of all the amazing people who doesn’t react like this, and by actively asking myself to name someone else who shares their opinion. And then I try to rephrase what I just thought of as coming from everyone as a weird thing my parents’ do. But it’s a lot of work and it doesn’t always make me feel like it’s just them. But I do try to do it.

What is an everyone around me thing at the moment is the conversation about medication. And I hate that conversation. Because it’s not really a conversation. It’s other people “suggesting” it, me saying no and then the other people doing everything in their power to make it into a negotiation that they can win. And it’s not a negotiation. It’s a no. And I always walk away feeling terrible. I feel misunderstood, overwhelmed, disregarded and disrespected. How difficult is it to take no for an answer? Especially my mom have a hard time with this. Her an I have had this conversation for about 12 years now. And nothing about it changes.

It has been every doctor, and several psychiatrists and most of my friends and almost every person who I have talked to about my problems in the past 12 years has at some point wanted to have the medication conversation. But I can’t have that conversation. Because trauma. And trauma isn’t welcome in that conversation. And no matter how much trauma should be a valid argument it somehow just isn’t. And even if people seem open to listening to the trauma argument, I always end up discovering that they aren’t. It was a lie. It was a clever plot to give them reasons they can start to shoot at, so they can reason their way into changing my mind. And I walk away feeling disgusted, both at the tactic and that I feel for it again.

And I have more reasons to say no to medication. But at this point I am no longer willing to discuss a single one of them. Because it’s not me being listen to and understood. It’s me pouring out my pain and other people saying it’s not a valid reason and then stepping on my pain as if to see if it’s actually real.

I’m not sure I am making sense. I just have a lot of feelings about this. And that is part of why I needed to write today. And I already know I won’t be editing. I so feel like I should be doing better at this whole blogging thing.

But I had a plan for a few points I wanted to get to in this letter to you. And I am just going to try to get back to my points. Hopefully without breaking down crying. But then again… I believe the pain of writing is one of the most beautiful things and that I get in touch with parts of myself that way that I am unable to reach in any other way. And that might just be the closest to a definition of Here that I have in my current depression brain. It’s just that feeling that much seems a little inconvenient right now. Not that that has ever stopped me from writing and crying and feeling in the past.

So everyone wants me to say yes to medication. I don’t want to do that. In part because it feels like the opposite of what I need. Not that I am very sure I know what I need right now. But I want empathy, and kindness, I want care and understanding. I desperately need hope and help and a way forward. And that seems like a lot to ask from the world and people around me. I also happen to believe that they are necessities to survive and that no amount of medicating me will fix my depression and my hopelessness if I am not also provided with hope and help and care and understanding. I miss feeling connections to other people. I feel so disconnected. Especially from my family. And even though I have some great friends I don’t necessarily feel the deep connection that I need. I part because I am so depressed and in part because that is not how those friendships are (and that’s okay).

And instead of giving me hope and help, care and understanding I am met with medication. Take some pills and stop being depressed. And please please please stop being so stubborn. And I happen to believe my stubbornness is one of my greatest qualities and so far I see nothing wrong with how I use it. So why should I stop?

But more than anything I need to feel safe. And I don’t. I don’t feel safe. And that feeling permeates everything. Every moment, everywhere I am, even when I sleep. I don’tbfeel safe. And medication doesn’t feel like someone is offering me help. It feels like a violation, like violence. And I can’t do that to myself. I cannot say yes to taking a pill every day when I feel like taking that pill is committing an act of violence against myself. I cannot and I will not.
But maybe, someday, if I feel safe and have a very good doctor whom I trust, I will say yes to medication. But without that trust and feeling safe I cannot say yes to medication. No matter how many good arguments people throw in my face.

And that is the thing. I am desperately trying to keep myself safe. And alive. But mostly safe. And if I am safe, then I need help to realise that. If I am not safe then I need help to make myself more safe. Because I cannot take risk or change or do any of the amazing things that life has to offer, if I do not have a place of safety to start from and return to. I don’t believe in living my whole life inside my comfort zone. But living without a comfort zone makes it really hard to live at all. We all need a safe space in our lives. A safe physical space and a safe mental space. And I have neither. I have never had a safe space. The closest I got to feeling safe was being hugged by a man who raped and abused me. That felt safe compared to everything else in my life. And that is so messed up. I would like to get unmessed up. Or at least a little. I don’t expect or want my life to be too tidy, just more liveable. I want to have a safe space, in the world, in my body, in my mind. And that is not an unreasonable ask. And until I have that I am not letting any doctors treat me like a guinea pig, testing how I respond to medication till they find the right one.

I’ll fight my depression off. I’ll take whatever hard decisions I have to. I’ll die if I have to. Because this is the right decision for me. Taking medication isn’t. Not under these circumstances.

I am not depressed because my brain chemistry failed me. I am depressed because I have no hope and because I have been living in a constant state of overstimulation and stress for most of my life, because of undiagnosed autism and lack of resources and consideration. Those things cause a very natural reaction, and that reaction became a depression. And if we don’t fix those things fixingmy brain chemistry isn’t going to work. And when people tell me to take medication they are not willing to offer any other kind of help. They do not offer solutions, just chemicals. And honestly I am so afraid that even if I said yes and the medication worked it’s magic and everything turned out as best as we could hope for, the only result would be that everyone who pushed for the medication would go right back to ignoring my very real, very debilitating issues that won’t be fixed by giving me medication. And it feels like just a way to shut me up, more than it feels like away to actually help me with my actual problems. And depression might be destroying everything in my life right now, but even as it threatens to kill me, I don’t feel like it’s the most important problem. It’s just a symptom of the real problems. And if I am not given the tools and help to dig down an tear all the real problems out by the root, why even bother doing anything about the depression? I want real help. Real solutions. The kind that sticks. That kind that hurts and are hard won. Not quick fixes that makes everything look nice on the surface and makes me less of at problem for other people. Being a problem for other people is the only way to have my pain taken seriously. And I can’t live with this pain. So right not it needs to be visible, loud and take up space. Not because it helps me, but because hiding it and biting it in made me more ill. And gave everyone an excuse to not look at it and not help me. And I am done accepting that.

Which makes me sound like an awful person. But it’s that or die. The pain is killing me whether I am quiet or loud. People in my life tell me they want me to live. I choose to believe them. I can’t survive this on my own. So either I make sure my pain is seen or die. If I make it through I’ll have the rest of my life to make up for it and be a better person. Right now is all about survival.

I hope you fight too A. Fight for your life. Be everything you need to be. Loud and difficult and annoying. A, I need you here with me. Fighting the good fight. You are not alone. And neither am I. Even when we feel alone. I support you 1000% no matter what you choose. But I hope and hope and hope that you choose life. I believe in a future for us. Being friends. Remembering the hells we went through and maybe making the way out a little easier for someone else. Or maybe just being thankful we got out. I don’t know why, but writing to you always leaves me full of hope. Because I see your struggle. And as much as it hurts to know your pain, I know you can make it. And when I know you can make it I believe I can make it too. I hope someday you’ll write back. I want to write letters with you. Not just at you. And please don’t take this as anything other than I like you, and miss you and being your friend is so rewarding. Even when you are down and walking through you own hell next to mine. I hope you find your way to Here. I hope you find your way out of surviving and into living. And I hope to meet you there when you do.

A there was so much more I wanted to write. But some of it was to painful for today. Maybe I’ll try again tomorrow. Maybe it’ll be a while. I am not putting myself back on a writing schedule. I am just writing when I can and hopefully that is often. It might not be. This depression is making me very unreliable. That’s new and weird. But I am trying to not apologise for being me and instead just say here I am. And here is a surprise letter I didn’t think I would write. Isn’t that awesome? I feel so accomplished.
And now I need to get to bed and get some sleep.
I’ll try to write soon. Thinking of you A.

Looking forward to hearing from you.
Jace

Hi A (and anyone else reading along)

So I missed two letters. The first I actually wrote. But it was very personal and about grief, home and the death of my grandparents. And I just couldn’t edit it. And I didn’t feel comfortable uploading that particular letter without editing it.

And the week after than depression struck again. It was never really gone. It never is. But it had taken a backseat for a while and suddenly it was just back, as powerful as ever. And even though I wanted to write about the depression, about people around me suggesting medication and how I feel about the conversations I had about that, I just couldn’t write anything. I couldn’t do anything for days (except cry). I even thought about going to the hospital to get admitted, but couldn’t find anyone who could go with me, and going on my own was too much.

Things are a bit calmer this week. But due to the severity of last week’s depressive episode I decided to take a few weeks off from writing letters to you. I’ll get back in two or three weeks. Not entirely sure yet. But I need to write and I need to be obligated to write. And that is what these letters are all about. In the mean time I’m going to spend some energy fighting to find some help to avoid getting this depressed again and a lot of energy taking care of myself. And as soon as those things leave me with energy to spare, I’ll prioritise writing these letters again.

I am thinking of you and hope that you are okay or at least as okay as you can be.

Looking forward to hearing from you
Jace

13^th of September 2019

Hi A

So I have wanted to write this exact letter for a while. Because it’s something I have been thinking about for a long time now. But also because I hope to get away from just writing about how I am doing and writing about other things too. So this might be a bit different, but I think it’ll be a good different.

I am from the generation that grew up with the Harry Potter books. And for a lot of people a part of that is caring a lot about your Hogwarts House. And in a way I find it fun. I like that so many people know exactly what it means when someone says I am a Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw. It’s a little fun to care deeply about something like that and you learn something about people when they tell you what Hogwarts House they belong in. Both in the house they tell you, but also the way they tell you and whether they picked that house for themself or because they took the quiz on Pottermore or because someone made them take an online test and they don’ really care that much.

Most of my friends know their Hogwarts House and have some sort of feeling about it. I know a reluctant Gryffindor, a proud Slytherin, an indifferent Hufflepuff and a lot of shy Ravenclaws. And for a while recently I have been hanging out with a friend who cares a lot about her Hogwarts House. She is a very proud Slytherin and this has brought on a lot of conversations about Hogwarts Houses and especially my Hogwarts House.

I find myself unwilling to settle on one. I know I can cheat a little and combine two and be a Slytherclaw if I want, but that’s not my problem. My problem is that I want to be more than just one or two things. And I am. I am a lot of things. I find pieces of myself in every Hogwarts House and I don’t want to have to make any of those parts of myself more or less than the others.

Every time (and I mean every time) I take an online quiz I get Slytherin. And I am okay with that. I believe I have a lot of amazing Slytherin qualities that I am happy about. I am ambitious and driven. I’m reasonably self-assured and prioritise self-preservation. I am very resourceful and determined. I am not sure I am cunning, but I do consider myself loyal.

But everyone around me asks me why I am not a Ravenclaw. And that always makes me pause and wonder. Why am I not in Ravenclaw? I am intelligent, I value knowledge and creativity. I often care more about good questions than answers. I love books and learning. I have an open mind. I am a lot like a Ravenclaw. But still. I have not chosen to disregard what the online quizzes say and declared myself a Ravenclaw.

And yet there are two more houses. I am often surprised at my own courage. I have some kind of bravery. Even if it probably looks more like Neville Longbottom’s than most other Gryffindor characters’. And that’s okay for me. But it is a part of me. An important part. And even though I know Gryffindor probably wouldn’t be my primary house, I feel weird being ask to say I could never be a Gryffindor and especially to think of myself as someone who would participate in the rivalry between Slythrin and Gryffindor. To me the traits these two houses represent are not at odds with each other. I also thing stubbornness might be a Gryffindor trait, and I have so much of that and find stubbornness a good and beautiful trait, where most others talk about it as a negative thing. I am a little surprised by how few Gryffindor traits there are or that I identify with.

Finally Hufflepuff. A house I for the longest time didn’t have any idea what stood for. But the more I learn about Hufflepuff the more it feels like the house of empathy and kindness. Things I value a lot. It’s the house of hard work, dedication, fairness, patience, honesty and doing what is right for no other reason than because it is right. And these are things I strive for. The strong moral code and sense of right and wrong are a part of me I am very grateful for. The patience and dedication are things I know other recognise in me too. I sometimes feel as though the things that define Hufflepuff are the things that are the least inherent to me, but at the same time are the things I have come to value the most in life. And yet when I read about the traits of Hufflepuffs I find that they are things I relate to a lot.

So I find it difficult to pick a Hogwarts House. And I am less interested in picking a house to be proud of and buy merchandise from, than I am in paying attention to when I use the different parts of me. Where do my Gryffindor bravery kick in, when do my Ravenclaw mind get to shine, where do I actively choose Hufflepuff kindness and when do I feel my Slytherin ambition? I once told my proud Slytherin friend that I liked that I had so many different qualities and that I liked being able to pick and choose from them, I can be different things and don’t have to fit in one box and can adapt to what I need. And her answer was to tell me that was the most Slytherin thing she had ever heard. So maybe I am a Slytherin or a Slytherclaw. Or maybe it’s okay that I don’t feel the need to choose.

The thing is that Hogwarts Houses is very fun and great when it’s just getting to know yourself and others a little better. I actually hate the idea in the books. I hate that they take eleven year olds and tell them “You are this.” and then let them spend the next seven years close to people who are just like them and that it feels like these kids don’t get encouraged to grow and become what they want to and that they are not asked to empathise with people from other houses, but to compete with them. And bravery, cleverness, ambition and kindness are in my opinion not the best indicator of very much in a person’s life or a good system for separating children into groups.

This is very much a fictional system, from a fictional school, in a book written by a woman who no longer holds the respect she used to. (and I’m not the only one who is tired of JKRs attempts to get representation point for representation she is refusing to actually give minorities and the casting of Johnny Depp as Gellert Grindelwalt in the Fantastic Beasts franchise is not okay).

The books are good, but there are way better books out there. And I understand the nostalgia and love that Harry Potter fans have for the books that made them fall in love with reading. I know they grew up at Hogwarts and that that is a very special thing. I myself just didn’t grow up at Hogwarts the way they did. I came to visit, but was always very aware that I was a visitor in someone else’s favourite book series. I grew up in Narnia. A fictional world I still love, but recognise have serious flaws and learning that it was a Christian allegory broke my heart. It took years to go back and not feel the story was ruined. My favourite book series is His Dark Materials, a book series I will always hold in much higher regard.

So sometimes when people ask me to pick a Hogwarts House and it feels a little too serious, a little too much like my desire to not be put in a box is being overridden, I get angry and frustrated. It stops being fun and a way to understand each other. Suddenly it feels like I am being forced to like Harry Potter more than I do or to choose who I am based on the wrong criteria.

And even more frustrating is that sometimes the people who want to put me in a single Hogwarts House are the same people who tells me labels don’t matter. People who will actively tell me that they don’t care about my sexual and romantic orientation or that my autism diagnosis is irrelevant. And that makes me even more frustrated and annoyed.

My identity as aromantic, asexual and autistic is important to me. They inform my everyday and my entire life. These parts of me are important to me and they are parts of me that I spent too long not even having words to describe. I felt like I was broken and wrong and a mistake because I didn’t have those words. I know not having those words were a big part of why I spent most of my life suicidal, thinking I would never have a place in this world. Not having these words cause me so much pain and trauma. Things I still live with the effects of today.
This year I went to Pride with an asexual group. I walked under so many asexual pride flags and felt seen and welcome and belonging. And people saw the flags and the banner and made us feel welcome. And that was so important. I missed seeing aromantic flags, but I am hopeful that I will in the future. I finally got diagnosed with autism last autumn and I cried all the way home from the psychiatrist, because I finally felt seen and like my challenges had been recognised.

I never feel like these parts of me are seen or notices by others in my everyday life. I never feel like others think it’s important that I am these things. And it makes me a little sad. And I get it. There isn’t a lot of conversations to have about me being asexual or aromantic and my autism might not be the most happy subject. But it feels weird that these very important parts of me are never acknowledged or seen. Even though I feel them every day. They feel invisible or ignored. And they are so ingrained in who I am that I sometimes feel like I am in some way invisible.

So when people tell me labels don’t matter or that it shouldn’t matter what my sexuality is or that a diagnosis isn’t something I should focus on, I feel like they do not understand me or even see me. And that in itself is okay. I don’t need everyone to. I also feel sad, and that’s okay too. But when the same people care a lot about what Hogwarts House I belong in and pressure me to pick one, it stops being okay. A fictional label is okay for them but a real one is too painful for them to look at?

Labels can be tool. It’s great to pick one up and use it if you need it and if it makes sense for you, and it is okay to put it back down an pick another one at a later time. It’s also okay to choose not to use them. But it’s never okay to force labels on or off someone else. When people around me don’t feel like their sexuality is important that’s great, when their neurotype isn’t important to talk about that’s cool too. When someone loves their Hogwarts House and feel proud of it I am happy for them. I am all for people choosing what labels are important or what boxes they want to live in. All I’m asking is that other people allow me the same and that we can respect that the boxes that are important to us can be vastly different.
It can be beautiful to consider boxes. I love the feeling of finding out you have a home in a box you never knew existed (like I feel about the word aromantic). Therefore talking about these things feels important to me. I also love that I get to glimpse a lot of different boxes by talking to people who have different needs for labels than I do. Sometimes those conversations lead me to find new boxes that I like to inhabit. I can also decide that in this case I feel better off not choosing any of them (like with Hogwarts Houses) or choosing to live outside the boxes (the way I feel about gender).

Finding boxes that feels like home, made me realise that I have a place in this world. I am allowed to occupy space and be my own person. I am allowed to define myself and choose who I am and who I am not. I know that this had been one of the biggest steps to finding a way to live my life and those words still help to guide me on a path away from suicide every single day. I belong. I am allowed to exist on my terms. I get to decide what defines me.

And when I think of the part of me that fights for the right to exist as I am, to have the words I use to understand myself recognised and acknowledged, the part of me that is just a little arrogant and confident, I think of that as my inner Slytherin. And then I think that it’s really nice that I have friends who will talk about Hogwarts Houses. And that those conversations lets me understand and explore other parts of myself. Sometimes it makes me think about what qualities I am not utilising as much or if there are any of the house traits that I would like to focus more on for a while. I often really like the conversations that comes from talking about Hogwarts Houses. I just prefer when the door is left open for me to explore them all, instead of feeling like I get boxed in to one. And I also think it’s great when I meet people who are confident and proud of their house and I am a little envious of the fact that they know what merchandise to buy. I never know if I should buy a Slytherin or Ravenclaw scarf.

I hope this letter was okay. I liked writing something different and hope that I will have more things like this to write about in the future.

Looking forward to hear from you
Jace