I don’t know who’s reading this. Maybe we’ve never met. Maybe you’re staff. Maybe you’re admin, management — or just someone who got CC’d.
You didn’t ask for this. But now you have it. And I need you to hear me.
I’m autistic. My mind is sharp — until I’m overwhelmed. Then everything collapses. I go non-verbal. My speech shuts down. My body freezes. 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 stabilised my life. I started therapy. I got my children back. Supervised visits became overnights. My world was coming back together.
Then — Mary left. No warning. No transition. No handover. Just gone.
And everything fell apart.
The NDIS changed. My funding stayed — but my supports vanished. A provider entered my home. They touched my things. They left. The money disappeared.
I reported it. Nothing happened. Another provider came. They never returned. I still don’t know why. Calls followed. Cold. Pressuring. Overwhelming. There was no continuity. No care. I didn’t know who these people were. I still don’t.
My GP left. I relapsed. First on opioids. Then on alcohol. My mother became terminal. I became her carer. Then she died.
If anyone from Ruah reached out — I don’t remember. If they did, it didn’t hold.
Because what I needed was someone who wouldn’t vanish when I couldn’t speak. Someone who understood what real crisis looks like. And in that darkness — I lost my children again.
Not by court. Not by choice. But by silence.
Ten years ago, we had a court-ordered agreement. I followed it. Every step. Every condition. My children were back in my life.
Then I lost my support. Then my ex moved. Cut contact. And I didn’t have the strength, the knowledge, or the backing to fight it.
I didn’t disappear. I was erased.
Now they grow up believing I walked away. That I gave up. That I didn’t care.
But I didn’t. I was alone. And no system — not one — stepped 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 risk flags. You saw it. You knew.
And you did nothing.
I’m not writing this to shame you. I’m writing this because you need to understand what silence costs.
And now, if you’ve read this far — you’re holding it too.
Because this letter didn’t land in one inbox. It’s being read. Right now. In offices. In meetings. Between emails. Between shifts. Quietly. Carefully.
Someone is already rereading it. Someone is already wondering what this means. Maybe even 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 — it will say something.
About you. About this system. 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.
Please.
