Sharing Silence; #RuahRuinsLives

I don’t know who’s reading this.
Maybe you’ve never met me. Maybe you’re staff, admin, management — or just someone who happened to be CC’d.
You didn’t ask for this. But now you have it.
And I need you to hear me.

I am autistic.
I have an IQ of 140. My mind is sharp — but when I’m overwhelmed, I go non-verbal.
My speech shuts down. My responses collapse.
People think I don’t understand.
But I do.
I just can’t get the words out when I need them most.
And I remember everything.

Ten years ago, Ruah assigned me a support worker. Her name was Mary.
She helped stabilise my life. I started therapy. I got my children back.
Supervised visits became overnights.
My world was slowly coming back together.

Then, eight years ago, Mary left.
No warning. No transition. No follow-up.
I was just alone again.
And everything — absolutely everything — began to fall apart.

NDIS changed. My funding stayed, but my supports vanished.
A provider came into my home. They touched my things. They left.
The money disappeared.
I reported it. Nothing changed.

The next provider came.
They never returned. I still don’t know why.

The calls that followed were cold, impersonal, and overwhelming.
There was no care, just pressure.
I didn’t know who these people were. I still don’t.

My GP left. I relapsed on opioids. Then on alcohol.
My mother became terminally ill. I became her carer. Then she died.
And if anyone from Ruah tried to reach me during that time — I don’t remember.
If they did, it didn’t help. It didn’t hold.
Because what I needed was someone who wouldn’t vanish when I couldn't speak.
Someone who knew what crisis actually looks like.

And in that darkness — I lost my children again.

Not by court. Not by choice.
Ten years ago, we had a court-ordered agreement. I followed every step.
And after years of work — they were back in my life.

But then I lost my support.
And then my ex moved. Cut off contact.
And I didn’t have the strength, the knowledge, or the people behind me to fight it.

I didn’t disappear.
I was erased.

They now grow up thinking I walked away.
That I didn’t care.
That I gave up.

But I didn’t.
I was alone.
And no one — not a single system that claimed to protect us — reached in to pull me back.

I missed birthdays. I missed years.
And I will never get that time back.

And neither will they.

You say you protect the vulnerable.
But when I became one — again — you weren’t there.
You had the records. The notes. The red flags.
You knew the warning signs.
And nothing happened.

I’m not writing this to shame you.
I’m writing it because I need you to understand what silence costs.

Because if you’ve read this far — you’re holding it now too.

And this letter didn’t land in one inbox.
It’s being read.
Right now. Quietly. In offices. In meetings. In between tasks.
Maybe someone’s already rereading it.
Maybe someone’s already asking questions.

I don’t know what this letter will do.
Maybe nothing.
Maybe something.

But whatever happens next — even if it’s silence again — will say something.
About all of us.

I’m Kev.
I’ve carried this alone for too long, and I don’t know what’s left of me.