A Letter I Wish I Could Send to Someone Who Hurt Me Deeply

A Letter I Wish I Could Send to Someone Who Hurt Me Deeply

This isn’t a letter I ever imagined writing, but sometimes, the weight of unspoken words becomes too much to bear. I hope this reaches you in the spirit of understanding, even if it’s just my way of processing everything that’s happened.

When I first received my autism diagnosis, it felt like a puzzle piece finally clicked into place. For years, I’d been navigating a world that often felt confusing and overwhelming, and that diagnosis was the lens through which everything began to make sense. But that clarity came with vulnerability—a rawness that made me uncertain of how others would perceive me. Would they see me differently? Would they dismiss me? Would they doubt my experiences?

At one point, I trusted someone deeply, not just professionally but on a personal level. They weren’t just someone I worked with; they were someone I believed would understand and care. That’s why it hurts so much now. I feel as though the very foundation of that trust has crumbled beneath me.

There have been moments that cut especially deep—when others have questioned or implied doubt about my diagnosis. One instance stands out, where someone’s comments about whether I’m truly autistic felt like a direct invalidation of my experiences. I can’t help but feel that these doubts didn’t originate solely from them but were influenced by others. It’s painful to feel as though my experiences and identity are being scrutinized or dismissed, particularly by those whose opinions I once valued. Whether these doubts stem from misunderstanding or something else, they strike at the core of my being. Autism is not just a label for me; it’s a key to understanding myself and navigating the world. When my diagnosis is questioned, it feels like a part of my truth is being invalidated. That’s a wound that takes time to heal.

I know I’m verbal, and I know I’m not unintelligent. But it really hurts when someone who should be an advocate for understanding autism, someone who diagnosed me, now questions that diagnosis. It’s incredibly invalidating and has left me feeling shaken. To have someone who once seemed to understand turn around and cast doubt on something so personal is a pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

It’s especially difficult being autistic and verbal, because while I can communicate effectively in many ways, autism is fundamentally a communication difference. It’s exhausting when that difference is misperceived or dismissed simply because I don’t fit someone’s preconceived notion. When someone sees you only through the lens of others’ expectations, rather than your lived reality, it feels like your truth is being erased. That’s deeply invalidating, and it adds another layer of sadness to an already challenging situation.

I guess the selective mutism, the “why are you copying me” claims, and “she won’t make eye contact, she is always distracted”—when I’m not distracted—were all fraudulent because I’m an adult. I say this sarcastically, but the truth is, it feels incredibly unfair that these aspects of my autism, which are real and challenging, are dismissed or weaponized against me. Oh wow, I guess since I can use sarcasm, I must not be autistic either, right? And to make it clear, these were things said about me as a child, when I didn’t mask as well. It’s frustrating that these struggles are now being dismissed because I’m an adult.

It’s also painful to realize that even though I’ve spoken positively about them in their absence, defending their character and intentions, they wouldn’t stand that same ground for me. They gave someone else my position based on nonfactual evidence, despite years of my hard work and dedication. This person was supposed to mentor me, but instead, they told me they regretted ever agreeing to do so. What hurts even more is that a single recording seems to have reshaped their entire view of me, erasing years of working together and being supportive. Instead of trying to understand me, they took that single moment and deemed me the worst, ignoring the years I’ve put in and the countless times I’ve proved myself. It feels unfair, and it’s hard to process how something so fleeting could overshadow so much history. What hurts the most is that they won’t even give me grounds to speak, when I allowed them to have their way so many times and belittled myself so they could be happy. The moment I took a stand and said, “I don’t like this,” I was deemed the wrong one. I wasn’t given a chance to explain myself—I guess because I’m supposed to be a dumb autistic, right? I say this humbly, but the pain of being dismissed so quickly is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone. They took the one time I was frustrated, scared, and confused—knowing I was autistic—and used it against me, despite the multiple times I have stood for them in rooms they were not present.

It’s hard to trust as someone autistic. It’s hard to feel understood when you’re verbal and don’t present stereotypically. The very things I do well can make my struggles invisible to others, even though those struggles are daily and profoundly disabling. It’s like being deaf but expected to hear because you can speak. It’s like wearing contacts as a blind person, only to have others assume you don’t struggle to see. It’s like being told you’re inattentive when, in reality, sensory processing and ADHD compound the challenges of navigating the world. Each layer of invisibility adds weight to an already heavy existence.

It’s sad that after being hurt so many times, I’ve reached a point where trusting anyone feels impossible—even those who genuinely care. That weight, built from repeated disappointments, makes it hard to believe in the goodness of others, no matter how much they may deserve it.

Trust should be based on your own judgment, not the judgment of others. You should know in your gut whether someone is trustworthy, and if you don’t, you should never consider that person a friend. Otherwise, you risk severely traumatizing the other person.

These words and actions have left me questioning so much. I’ve tried to move forward, to focus on peace and resolution, but there are moments where the sadness feels insurmountable. I think back to the times I believed we were on the same page, only to now feel as though my diagnosis and my intentions have been doubted, twisted, or used against me. I never wanted conflict; all I’ve ever wanted was clarity and fairness.

There’s something uniquely painful about feeling misunderstood, especially when you’ve put so much effort into being transparent. Autism can make communication challenging, but it also means I value honesty and directness more than anything. When I’ve tried to explain my feelings or defend myself, it’s felt like those attempts have been dismissed or met with hostility. It’s heartbreaking to think that my efforts to bridge the gap have only widened it.

Despite all of this, I don’t hold anger in my heart. Sadness, yes. Disappointment, absolutely. But I’ve learned that holding onto bitterness only weighs you down. What I wish most is for understanding—for both sides to reflect on what’s happened and why, and to find some kind of closure. I don’t want to dwell on what’s broken; I want to focus on what I can build for myself moving forward.

Even now, after being hurt deeply, I find myself protecting the person who caused this pain. I refuse to name them, even here, because my heart won’t allow me to retaliate in kind. It’s a strange, bittersweet truth: that even when I feel wounded, I still want to shield the person who has caused me harm. Perhaps that’s a reflection of who I am, or perhaps it’s a reflection of the hope I hold onto—that understanding and kindness can still prevail.

I’ve realized that trust, once fractured, is difficult to repair. But even if trust feels out of reach in this situation, I still hope for peace. Not just for me, but for everyone involved. I hope there’s clarity in actions and that the choices we’ve all made can lead to growth, rather than further harm.

This letter isn’t meant to blame or accuse. I hope it isn’t seen as manipulation either, because my attempts to be understood have been perceived that way all along. It’s a reflection—a way to put into words the emotions that have been swirling inside me. I’m still finding my way, navigating a world that doesn’t always make sense to me. I hope, wherever life takes all of us, there’s space for reflection and understanding.

Sincerely,

Someone Who Once Trusted Deeply