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Statement for Ruah Staff

RE: Isolation, Autism, Neglect, and Systemic Failure

I am autistic. My autism is not a personality trait—it’s a neurological condition that impacts how I communicate, relate to others, and manage daily life. I function at a higher intellectual level—an IQ of 140—but my ability to express and communicate that intelligence is severely limited. Emotionally and socially, I struggle, and under stress, I often go non-verbal, overwhelmed by frustration, confusion, or fear. My communication might become limited to noises or single words, and forming full sentences becomes impossible.

I’ve spent a lifetime masking, surviving, and being ignored. What people fail to see is that there’s a world of intelligence in my mind, but I can’t get it to come out the way I want or in a way others can understand. This inability to articulate myself is not because I lack the capacity, but because my brain works differently—leading to a constant struggle to convey what’s in my head.

I do not like repeating myself. I don’t respond well to compliments or sympathy. These things can be deeply frustrating for me, as they often make me feel misunderstood or ignored in ways I can’t always communicate.

My history includes significant trauma:

As a result, I find it very difficult to trust people—both men and women—for different reasons. I am emotionally exhausted from decades of abuse, neglect, and abandonment by the very people and systems meant to support me.

Timeline of Events

At approximately 32 years old, I found myself homeless.

I voluntarily admitted myself to Alma Street Psychiatric Ward, seeking help.

I was discharged as an outpatient with an incorrect diagnosis and prescribed inappropriate medication.

This led me to a homeless shelter, where the medication caused a severe psychotic breakdown.

After being kicked out, I was found by police with a noose, leading to my involuntary re-admission to Alma Street.

It was during this period that misdiagnoses and medication issues were identified. I was transferred to an open ward, where I finally received the correct diagnoses:

A social worker at Alma St helped me into the Independent Living Program (ILP) due to my mental health needs and homelessness. Access Housing (now Housing Choices) provided me with a rental property, and Ruah assigned Mary as my support worker, all apart of the ILP.

Mary was the first point in years where I had stability. She helped manage the parts of life I couldn’t—setting up NDIS supports, checking in regularly, helping me access essentials. Part of the ILP also involved documented indicators (monitored by both Ruah and Access Housing) to flag when I was spiralling. These were supposed to be updated regularly.

For two years, things were improving. I was making progress in therapy, managing with Mary’s help, and even got discharged as an outpatient. During this time, I had also regained access to my children—through court-ordered mediation and supervised visits. This eventually progressed to overnight visits every fortnight. Life was finally beginning to feel stable and safe. But then, Mary told me she was leaving. I was terrified—autism makes change extremely difficult. She said someone new would take over, but I don’t recall ever being contacted again.

Collapse of Support

From this point, everything started to fall apart:

The LACs said they’d set up cleaning support providers. These providers came into my home, invaded my space, touched my belongings, and made me feel unsafe. I asked them to leave. Then they vanished—taking a full year of my NDIS funding with them.

I reported it using the email address the LACs gave me for reporting NDIS fraud. I never heard back.

The following year, it happened again. Different provider, same result. I was told they were safe and legitimate. They weren’t.

Then the LACs changed tactics. They became pushier. One called multiple times a day. I started receiving pressure through texts, voicemails, emails and even in the post, acting like I was a problem to be managed. There was no compassion, just force. Their involvement no longer felt like help—it felt like harassment. And I didn’t have any advocate to back me up or protect me.

I still don’t know who these people really were. Whether they were actual NDIS representatives, scammers, or just dangerously negligent. I don’t know where my money went, and I’ve had no help recovering it.

The Final Blow

My mum died. As much as she hurt me in life, she was the only constant I had. After she died, I became completely and utterly isolated. I've now been alone—really alone—for over 3 years. I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to do this anymore. I am exhausted. I don’t have the capacity to fight through this system anymore. I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay for a long time.

About My Children

What makes this even harder is the grief of losing my children—not to death, but to a system that failed me and them. I love my children deeply. I always wanted to be a parent to them, but I was left unsupported, overwhelmed, and broken down by the very systems meant to help. I wasn’t given the resources, advocacy, or stability I needed to hold on. The truth is: I never stopped caring. I was unwell and isolated, not unwilling or unloving. And every day I live with the weight of that loss.

Financial Issues

I know how to budget. In fact, it’s something I’m proud of—it's one of the few areas of life I’ve always managed well. But my medication expenses alone come to over $400 a month. Add that to the cost of basic living—rent, food, utilities—and I’m constantly forced to choose between essential needs just to stay on top of my health.

This isn’t about poor money management. It’s about having too little support to cover the cost of survival. Every dollar I spend on pain relief, appointments, or managing daily health means going without something else important. It’s unsustainable, and I need help.

Physical Health

My physical health started declining over 12 years ago. I was diagnosed with degenerative disc disease and suffered damage to my sciatic nerve. I received incorrect medical advice for years, which contributed to the development of fibromyalgia. I was repeatedly let down by doctors who didn’t take me seriously—many just pushed medications without investigating the underlying causes. As a result, I developed dependencies on prescription drugs, including opioids, during a period of desperation and unmanaged pain.

I’ve spent years bouncing between GPs, trying to find someone who would actually help. Only recently—just a few months ago—did I finally find a doctor who listened. I’ve started spinal injections and physiotherapy, but I need NDIS funding to continue treatment and help with transport to get to appointments. Eventually, they think I will need surgery, but I’m still waiting on a specialist appointment to learn more.

Because of sensory issues linked to my autism, I have to wear earplugs daily—but I can’t afford proper ones. I’m forced to reuse cheap plugs, which has led to repeated ear infections that cause ongoing pain and makes my situation worse.

I also have dental issues that cause daily discomfort and make eating difficult. These need urgent attention, but I don’t know how to access the support required to deal with them.

In the last few months, I’ve made meaningful progress. But without consistent help, support, and financial backing, I can’t continue moving forward.

My vision is naturally deteriorating with age, I require an eye test and glasses but lack the support to do so.

Present Situation

I haven’t seen anyone from Ruah in about 8 years.

It’s been around 5 years since I reported the NDIS theft.

I asked my housing officer multiple times where my support worker was. I was told they’d look into it. No one ever followed up.

Access Housing has permission to communicate with Ruah through my ILP documentation, which I renew frequently. So why has nothing happened?

Recently:

My Questions

  1. How did Ruah and Access Housing let this happen?
  2. Who took over from Mary—and why did they abandon me?
  3. How were those LACs allowed to steal and harass me?
  4. Why didn’t Access Housing or Ruah contact one another when I went silent?
  5. What happened to my stolen NDIS funding?
  6. Was the email I reported it to even real?
  7. Were those actual NDIS providers—or was I scammed?
  8. Why is my current housing officer punishing me for signs of decline that are explicitly documented as needing intervention?

What I Need

I’m not signing anything legal right now. I don’t trust anyone yet. I need to see consistent, tangible help first. I need:

I’m not trying to be difficult—I’m trying to survive. For too long, I’ve been ignored, misdiagnosed, passed around, and left to fall apart. The systems built to protect me have instead isolated me.

I want to trust again. I want the kind of help I had before. But I need answers. And I need actions, not more promises.

Please don’t ask me to repeat myself. Please don’t offer platitudes. Just hear me. And help.

What I Don’t Want

This isn’t just about this meeting. It’s about what happens from here until the end of my life. I am autistic. My brain processes the world in ways that are different—often more intense, more literal, more sensitive. That’s not a defect. But it is something that needs to be understood and accommodated. These are not preferences. These are survival needs.

I don’t want excuses. My brain holds onto things. I don’t forget. Excuses don’t soften the impact of what’s happened—they just add confusion and emotional noise. I need clarity, not reasons why it didn’t happen. I’ve lived with the consequences. I don’t want to be talked around. I want to be talked to.

I don’t want apologies unless they come with tangible change. My nervous system doesn’t respond to words—it responds to patterns. If nothing changes, my brain learns that nothing is safe. If you want me to feel safe, show me, consistently, that this time is different.

I don’t want to be exposed to the behind-the-scenes chaos. My brain struggles to filter information. If I’m told about team issues, politics, workloads, or policies, I won’t just hear it—I’ll absorb it. I’ll blame myself. I’ll spiral. I’ll feel like a burden. Shield me from the noise. I need simplicity and structure to function, not complexity and crisis.

I don’t want hollow words. If something’s promised and not delivered, I won’t just feel let down—I’ll feel unsafe. That breach will linger. I need to be able to rely on what’s said. My brain takes things literally, and my heart holds onto the gaps between what’s said and what’s done.

I don’t want to hear “we can’t,” “we won’t,” or “that’s not policy.” I can’t decode bureaucratic language, and I shouldn’t have to. What I can understand—and what I need—is: “We’re working on it,” or, “You’re not alone—we’ll figure this out.” You don’t need to tell me how it’s being done. Just tell me it is.

I don’t want poor communication. Autism doesn’t just affect how I express myself—it affects how I receive information. I need things said clearly, directly, kindly, and without assumption. I need consistency. I need to trust that updates will come even if nothing has changed. When I’m left wondering, I shut down. That’s not stubbornness—it’s survival.

I don’t want someone who reads or listens to reply—I want someone who reads or listens to understand. Understanding is the difference between connection and abandonment. Between help that works and help that hurts.

I don’t want to be left in isolation ever again. If I go silent, that’s a red flag. If I disappear, that’s when I need more support—not less. No one person should have the power to terminate my support—not even me when I’m overwhelmed. The system should protect people like me from falling through cracks that we didn’t create.

I don’t want to wait anymore. I’ve waited in silence. I’ve waited in pain. I’ve waited while entire chapters of my life—my relationships, my health, my identity—collapsed. I don’t have it in me to wait in limbo again. Not knowing what’s happening or whether I’m being heard makes me panic. Please understand—eight years of waiting is more than enough. What I need now is momentum. What I need now is proof that this time, someone is actually coming through for me.

What I Want

What I want is simple: I want you to make this right.

But do not mistake that for a request for your standard templates, service plans, or pre-written client responses. I am not a case number. I am a human being whose life has been irreversibly damaged by eight years of inaction, abandonment, and neglect—by you. Eight years of support that were promised, planned for, documented—and never delivered.

I will never get that time back. My children will never get that time back. The damage done to them—to our bond, our time, our shared memories—is permanent. And your silence, your negligence, your disappearance from our lives during that time is not just a service failure. It’s a wound that will last generations.

You left me isolated in a way no one should ever experience. No voice to call for help. No one to check in. No support when I relapsed. No one to witness my grief when my mother died. No one to even notice I was disappearing. Not even when I asked for help. Not even when I was clearly falling apart. And through all of it, you—an organisation meant to support the most vulnerable—stood by and did nothing. That is not a gap in service. That is institutional abandonment.

I have lived in survival mode while systems built to protect me left me behind. I’ve endured things I will never fully recover from. I missed the most important years of my children’s lives. I didn’t get to be the parent I wanted to be. They didn’t get the stability they deserved. And that doesn’t just vanish with time. The impact on them—on their emotional development, on their trust in adults, on how they learn what love and safety look like—will echo for the rest of their lives. And I need you to understand: that is on you.

So when I say I want this made right, I mean this: I want an immediate and tailored plan—not a generic response, not another empty promise—to address what was lost and to finally build what I was originally promised. I want a support system that functions. I want trauma-informed care. I want coordinated services between Ruah and Housing Choices that actually speak to one another. I want professionals around me who don’t disappear the moment things get difficult.

I want accountability.

And no, this is not a threat. It is a statement of fact. If Ruah is not willing or able to help me to my satisfaction—if I am once again left waiting, sidelined, or handed a half-measure—then I will seek support elsewhere. That includes legal action, public advocacy, or media exposure. I am not doing this quietly anymore.

You had eight years to listen. Now I need you to act.

What I Ask

I ask you—not just as Ruah the organisation, not just as a caseworker or staff member—but as a human being. As someone who once stood at a crossroads and chose a career that exists to protect those too isolated, too broken, or too voiceless to protect themselves. You chose this path to make sure that what happened to me never happens. And yet, it did.

Not in a small way. Not in a way that could be fixed with an apology or a form or a rushed referral. This was failure on a level that spans over two generations. Because the consequences of your silence didn’t just fall on me—they fell on my children. You weren’t just absent in a crisis—you were absent for years. My life didn’t spiral in secret. It spiraled in plain sight.

Everything you say your job is meant to prevent—you watched it happen. And worse, you walked away from it.

Please don’t let this become just another document lost in an inbox. Don’t push it to next week, don’t assign it to someone else, don’t let those responsible hide behind systems, policies, or bureaucracy. If this makes you uncomfortable, good. It should. That feeling? That’s conscience. Hold onto it. Because that discomfort might be the only thing that separates this from happening to someone else.

Print it. Share it. Whisper about it in your lunchroom if you have to. But do something. Be the person you said you'd be when you chose this job. Be the reason someone like me doesn’t get forgotten again.

All I want now is a chance to heal—to have the stability to recover before it’s too late. And if my children ever decide to reach out to me, I need to be well enough to give them the truth. To help them heal too.

Please. Don’t let this cycle continue. Don’t turn away again. You still have a chance to do what’s right.

Final Statement

You need to understand: this is not just a list of unfortunate events. This is my life. This is the permanent wreckage left behind by systems and people who were supposed to help — but didn’t.

This isn’t about small mistakes. It’s about years stolen. About watching everything I fought for — including my own children — slip through my fingers because I was abandoned, misdiagnosed, ignored. I had rights. I had potential. And you let it rot in plain sight.

Your job, your organisation, exists because of people like me. You chose a profession that is supposed to prevent this very outcome — to protect those of us who are voiceless, vulnerable, or neurodivergent from falling through the cracks. You were meant to catch me. You didn’t. And the fallout of that failure is not abstract. It’s not just mine. It ripples into the lives of my children, who now grow up without their father — not because I didn’t care, but because I was failed over and over again.

So now I sit here, handing this to you because I can’t speak. Because I go non-verbal under stress. Because I have a brain that holds an intelligence I can barely articulate aloud. I’m exhausted from trying to translate myself into words others will bother to listen to. And I am out of time, out of patience, and out of the strength to keep doing it alone.

You don’t get to file this under “too hard” or “maybe next week.” You don’t get to have a weekend while I live in the aftermath of the negligence your organisation allowed. Not anymore.

This is the point where you either become the person you claim to be — the person your job title suggests you are — or you prove that I really was just another name on a list.

Hello, I am Kev, and I need your help.

please

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