It was a blue Christmas with you.

The coffee shop was worn from the years, but had a quaint charm about it. Faded, mismatched seats rife with rips and tears were strewn about the space. Coffee notes wafted through the air, and the clinks of cups and plates reverberated around the wooden walls. A few customers had gathered in various corners, but the shop was mostly empty.

We approached the counter and gave our orders to a barista who relayed them to someone in the back. Then, we made our way to a quiet corner away from any would-be-eavesdroppers: two gaudy chairs and a small wooden table that had seen better days. As we waited for our orders to arrive, we made small talk.

“Can’t believe Trump is gonna be president next month.”

“Yep.”

“Did you hear about that shooting in New York? With the United guy?”

“Mm. Yeah, the police are making a real good show of his arrest.”

After a time, a barista brought our coffees. I held my cappuccino with both hands, feeling its warmth spread from my palms and into my fingers and wrists. I took a deep breath. This was going to be a hard conversation. I wasn’t particularly optimistic toward its outcome, but it was a necessary discussion nonetheless. Today, those words I couldn’t say were going to be voiced, for better or worse.

It wasn’t by chance that I learned I’m Autistic when I did. I was struggling. I mean, I’ve always been struggling, but I was really struggling. Even the most basic day-to-day tasks were posing a formidable challenge and all I could think of was release. Escape. Learning I’m Autistic when I did—well, it likely saved my life.

I was diagnosed in February of last year, but I went into that diagnostic appointment already assuming I’m Autistic. I thought of it not so much as a diagnosis, but more as getting an expert to check my work. And I was right: the doctor didn’t have much trouble declaring me officially Autistic.

Prior to that diagnosis, I was cautious to fully admit I am Autistic for fear of using a label that I didn’t deserve. While I had learned quite a bit about Autism by that point already, I was hesitant to apply that knowledge to myself. What if I was wrong? What if I started using a framework of Autism on myself, only to find out later I was way off base? So, while in many ways I knew better, I intentionally refrained from lending myself grace by viewing myself through the lens of Autism—something that proved to be a bit of a mistake.

Two months before my diagnosis, I was on a plane from Japan to America. I flew from Narita to Dallas, and then from Dallas to Indianapolis. Originally, I was to take a direct flight but the airline had other plans. It was rough. The flights themselves were fine, but the whole travel experience was a challenge. There were the airport security agents barking orders—they really don’t take kindly to those who have questions or need something repeated—the chaos of navigating a busy airport—endless crowds and a constant barrage of loudspeaker announcements—the discomfort of being stuck on a plane for hours on end—no privacy available except in a very unpleasant lavatory—and airplane food that twisted my stomach in knots and made me want to cry.

By the time I finally reached the Indianapolis airport, I was in a sorry state. It felt like I was experiencing reality on a five-second delay, and I could barely form words. My family found me unresponsive, slumped in a corner near baggage claim. I could see them approach and say their greetings, yet I could not rouse myself to give an appropriate reaction.

As we walked to our rental car, my family members tried speaking with me—we hadn’t seen each other in a year—but they quickly gave up after receiving only a grunt or a half-hearted head shake.

It was scary. I didn’t understand what was happening. Mentally, I was perfectly fine: I could think, process, and observe clearly. However, when it came to sending orders to my body—move this way, say this thing—my muscles wouldn’t obey. It was as if I’d been drugged. I felt trapped in my own flesh.

It wouldn’t be until a few months later that I would recognize what I had experienced: a shutdown, specifically one that left me nonverbal. As I was explaining this to my family after the fact, one person told me, “I just thought you were really tired from the flight.” Another said, “I thought you were being rude.”

Count them: one, two, three. With each usage of my deadname, I cringed. It hurt. They knew better, and yet-

Oh, there’s another! Four. It’s difficult to believe in someone’s good intentions when they can’t even get one’s name right.

“We gave you your name. We called you █████ for years, until you decided you didn’t want to be called that anymore.” Five. Obviously, I didn’t expect perfection. But my 80-something grandfather immediately adopted my name without issue…

I took a sip of my coffee. This conversation was going nowhere fast. It was clear we were at a stalemate: my attempts at explaining myself were continuously shot down. Either they argued with the basic events that had occurred, or they accused me of being misleading or untruthful. I had previously explained that my tone of voice, facial expressions, and words shouldn’t be analyzed for hidden meaning, but they obviously hadn’t listened. Or cared?

They claimed to support me and my diagnosis, and yet…

It was now or never. It was time to read the letter.

I had hoped this most recent holiday would be better than the last. While 2023’s holiday felt like I was in a perpetual state of shutdown, I thought with my newfound understanding of myself and my limits, paired with my family’s awareness of my diagnosis, that my visit in 2024 would be different.

On Christmas Day, I sat among my family members, immersed in a sea of noise, lights, and movement. It’s okay, I’ve got this.

Before long, the noises grew louder, the lights bloomed brighter, and things moved ever more incomprehensibly. Maybe I don’t “got this.”

It was too late. It all happened too fast—one moment I felt in control, and the next I was completely overwhelmed. For a time, I sat among everyone silent and frozen, unable to act. Eventually, I was able to force myself to retreat to another room.

I closed the door behind me and collapsed into a corner. A crumpled mess, I pulled at my hair, rocked back and forth, and sobbed. Why am I like this?

It’s humiliating being like this. I’m the person no one worries about. I’m the one who said they would move to the opposite side of the globe and actually did it. I’m the person people tell me they can rely on. I have my shit together. I’m strong. I’m independent. I make things happen for myself.

But there I was, in a puddle of my own snot and tears because I couldn’t handle the holiday festivities.

It doesn’t matter that there are good reasons for why I am the way that I am. It doesn’t matter that I can use terms like Autism and shutdowns and meltdowns and sensory sensitivities and Alexithymia and executive dysfunction and bottom-up thinking and whatever else to explain myself. At the end of the day, I still look weak and pathetic to those around me.

Sure, they might say they understand, but they don’t. Not really. The “not understanding” isn’t what eats at me, though—it’s the subtle, unspoken disbelief in my disability. They’d never admit it—not directly—but I can tell. You don’t really believe that this hurts me.

The strong, independent, reliable, has-their-shit-together Sage? They aren’t real. They never were. They were only ever a figment of everyone’s collective imaginations; a front put up for everyone else’s benefit. But when I try to tear down that false version of myself; when I try to peel back the curtain and reveal—surprise!—it was all a sham? It’s like it doesn’t compute.

I finished reading the letter and sipped on my coffee. Silence. “So, what do you think about that?” I asked.

They thought for a moment, then spoke, “I understand a lot more now. That puts things into perspective. Thank you for reading that.” I waited for something more—I had told myself that I was going to read the letter purely for my own sake, and that I wasn’t going to expect anything more. But of course, I had secretly been hoping it would magically fix things.

It didn’t. Instead, it seemed to only tear us further apart. I had been as open, honest, and vulnerable as I could be. I had explained how they had abused and hurt me for years and years. Now here they were, saying they understood things. Yet, no apology or accepting of responsibility followed. Instead…

“You know, Autism didn’t exist in the 80s.”

At first, I didn’t say anything. I was stunned. Surely, they had misspoke.

“I… what? That’s absolutely not true,” I said in as even-toned a manner as I could manage.

“No one knew about Autism or understood it then,” they continued. “Now, everyone these days has something. I don’t know what happened to everyone with peanut allergies back then—I guess they just died. But everyone’s got something now. Autism, ADHD…”

“Autism absolutely existed in the 80s,” I pushed back. “That’s easily verifiable.”

“No, Autism didn’t exist in the 80s,” they reiterated.

They were doubling down. They hadn’t misspoken.

“█████, the world doesn’t care that you’re Autistic. It isn’t ever going to understand,” they said.

“You’re right. It isn’t ever going to understand,” I paused. “I just want to be understood by you.”

They sneered. “Well, you never understood me.”

I’m hyper-independent out of necessity. It’s not something that I enjoy. Ask any hyper-independent adult if they like being as such and they’ll almost certainly explain how it’s cripplingly lonely. Small things—such as getting a new piece of furniture—become herculean in nature when one can only rely on oneself. I didn’t want to be this way, but this is the only way that I’ve been able to survive.

It’s easy to blame myself. It’s easy to say things like, “Well, you can’t expect anyone to help you if you never open yourself up to them,” or “If you keep everyone at an arm’s length, what do you expect?” The thing is, I don’t think I have an issue with being vulnerable—I’m more vulnerable on this very public blog than most people are vulnerable with themselves. On the contrary, perhaps my willingness to be vulnerable is what keeps people away—maybe it’s too scary, too much. Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

Whatever the case, I’ve learned from a plethora of personal experiences that the only person I can truly rely on is myself. Many have meant well, and I fully believe they really meant it when they said things like, “I’m here for you,” or “I want to support you however I can.” Inevitably, it always becomes clear that I’m beyond their understanding, though.

I can’t blame them. I was beyond my own understanding for many years, but now that I’m starting to understand why I am, I’m met with the unpleasant realization that I truly am beyond many people’s understandings. Most will never know me. Maybe no one ever will.

The yearning to be understood is one that never rests. There’s an emptiness within me; a deep longing to know and be known. I hold to the hope that one day that empty space will be filled, but the more time that passes, the more difficult it is to seriously believe it will ever happen—or that it ever could happen.

And being the hyper-independent person that I am, it is endlessly frustrating to have something so core to one’s being be dependent on someone else. Try as I have, I can’t make anyone understand me. Maybe one day.

“Well, you never understood me.”

Those words hung in the air like a sick miasma. It was a baffling response. Perhaps it would’ve been appropriate had the power dynamics of our relationship been remotely even, or if they hadn’t chronically verbally abused me since I was a child. But as things were, it was difficult to take such a statement seriously.

I defused, not wishing to start an argument. It was clear to me that this person wasn’t capable of owning up to their actions or engaging in serious discussion. It’s a strange feeling realizing one is more mature than someone twice their age. I started to pity them. They must live a miserable existence, believing everyone is against them.

I tried one last appeal: “I’m still scared of you,” I confessed. “You scare me.”

“I can’t do anything about that,” they stated matter-of-factly.

That was it. The final nail in the coffin. There was nothing more I could do. I had no more petitions left, no more words to speak, no more strategies to employ. I had laid myself bare before them and the response I received was one of callousness. I couldn’t force them to listen.

Still, I knew they weren’t an evil person. They had good intentions at heart, but as the saying goes, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. They knew not of the pain they continually inflict, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

---

I’m losing you. Or maybe I’ve already lost you. Perhaps I lost you years ago and neither of us realized; now we’re like spirits carrying out our Earthly routines, blissfully unaware that we’re already dead. I suppose it doesn’t really matter now. What’s done is done.

Our love language seems to be one of hurting one another. Each interaction we share is characterized by the pain it inflicts. I’m not sure what the point is of continuing our interactions. I think we feel obligated to do so because of our relation to one another, but that’s silly.

Of this, I am 100% certain: this isn’t healthy. This is wrong. There is not, nor has ever been, a single person on this planet that makes me feel as negatively as you do.

You’re bad for me, or I’m bad for you, or we’re bad for each other—it hardly matters anymore. I had hoped for a positive resolution, but in hindsight, that was naïve of me. You’ve never listened—to me or anyone else—so why would you start now?

I’m not angry with you. Not anymore. I was for a very long time because I couldn’t comprehend how you could continue to do and say these things to the ones you claim to love more than anything else. But I understand you now.

You really believe you’re in the right. That the world and everyone in it is against you. That all those people over the years that rejected you—they didn’t do so because they didn’t like how you acted or spoke around them. No, they were just bullies. You really believe you’re the victim.

Maybe you’re right. Maybe myself and all those other people are wrong. We’re just bad people, out to get you. It’s unlikely. It’s almost certainly a very simplistic perspective. But maybe you’re right.

It doesn’t matter anymore. What’s done is done.

I will be just another villain in your story. You’ll tell other people about what a mean person I am. How I can’t handle conflict. How I have a lot of growing up to do. How I see the worst in everything. How I’m wrong and you’re right. How I hate you, and that’s that.

It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over now.

I don’t like seeing you this way, for so many reasons. I can feel the pain you hold within you. It’s no way to live. I hope that one day you can wake up and face reality. That you can be rid of all the anger inside you. That you can start to heal. That you can be happy for once.

But don’t expect me to welcome you back with open arms. I’m letting you go.