Love, Kate
I am a writer. I am autistic, but I have so much to say. I have notebooks, upon notebooks that are filled up with stories, novels, or letters to people, that I’ll never send. I felt that sometimes when I write, I always feel so self conscious about it. How will they receive me? How do they feel when my name comes up? Do they look at it and scoff? Or are they happy to see my name on an envelope or their phones? I always wonder this? How would you react if my name popped up somewhere?
When I began writing my letters, I usually write to people that are either alive or dead, but I could never send the letters, for I would get so much out.
I would try to get my feelings out. My frustration for my inability to be understood. I would always sign the letters, “Love, Kate”. I wrote so many letters in a notebook to people who I know would never realize I was alive, or the dead. It’s better to write to dead people, because they can hear you and they can read it, regardless if you believe that or not. I know I’m not perfect, and I know I have horrible self-esteem. I do. I don’t value my life at all and I wish I did. But, I don’t. I love the people around me, and I love getting people things. It’s fun, but do people really appreciate them? That’s always what goes in the back of my mind. My heart is tired of trying to do things for people, but they rarely reciprocate . What’s the issue? I don’t know? I had a few people tell me that I was suffocating and overwhelming. Then, I shut myself up in my apartment (after I go to work and suffer in silence). The words of others, really affect me.
As an Autsitic woman, I’m always questioning my worth. Do people even really like me? Am I being laughed at? Or are they laughing with me? Do they even like when I reach out? What is the purpose of that? Why do I care so much? Why do I love so much, when my love is usually returned? I don’t know?
When I was younger, I use to love writing letters to movie stars. I usually got a reply, with a nice autographed photo and that was enough. I wish I could write them more, and I wish we could exchange letters. I still have those autographs by the way, and I cherish them so much.
There’s so much I wish I could write them. But, many of my letters are “odd” or “Weird”. God, I wish I could just write a normal letter.
I try to talk about the day, or just feelings in general. I tried to piece together my life. I try to love my writing, but sometimes, I look at my early letters I’ve written down in notebooks, and I just have to throw up. Not because my writing is bad, but because of the letter’s contents: Sad, depressing and just overall, “werid”. I’ll give you a perfect example:
“Dear Deanna {Durbin}
It’s been a day. I know that my heart is going down the tube. I don’t know if I’ll ever be lovavble. I don’t want to say anything I shouldn’t, but I want to lay it all out. The girls at school, I don’t want to name names, but they each said I’d never have a boyfriend, or I’d never be touched. I long for that. I see the other girls put their arms around a boy and yet, a boy looks at me and I’m just the “girl-next-door” or the “best friend”. I’m not seen as a love interest, except if it’s in a play. I try to wear my hair nice, and I try to wear some makeup, but I’m not doing anything right? I have so many boys I would like in my corner, but I don’t have it. No sex-appeal? Prettier girls are much prettier than me? How did you feel, knowing that you were going to get fucked over? I am already fucked over. I don’t know what I am doing, when it comes to things like this? I am just now starting to understand what I want? I want a guy whose handsome, and whose smart. But, I feel like I don’t attract those, only the reject guys, who no one wants and who aren’t cute at all. This sucks. I wish I was prettier. I wish I had the looks of You, Bonita Granville, and Vivien Leigh. It’s so hard to look like a child. I know, 16, but I’m still scared that I’ll never have a fulfilling relationship. So many whispers about me. How am I suppose to feel this way? He already is interested in my friend, and I am just not that girl? He says, “You’re pretty”. But am I sexy enough? I can never feel that way? How am I going to do this? How am I going to be attractive to another, and how can they see that I am more than just a “girl- next- door?” That’s all I feel like I’ll ever be.
Anyways, I know you’re probably having a better day than me.
Love, Kate.”
I wrote that when I was 16 in 2008, yes it ages me well. Deanna Durbin was still alive then, she would die about 5 years later. I had written her a quite a few letters, none that I ever sent. But I did send her one when I was 13 and I did get an autograph photo back, and I hold that so dear.
When I knew actress Gloria Jean (1926–2018), we exchanged emails, rather than letters ( I still have a chunk of them), but when she died, I wrote to her so many times, in notebooks, hoping that one day, I’d go to her grave and read them to her. She was creamated, so I didn’t get to do that. None of the letters I wrote to her, I would ever share with her family, because Gloria would have just gotten what I was talking about. For me, I’ve always found solace in writing, always have. Like Anne Frank, it was the only way I could get my feelings down, without people being such assholes about it, or talking shit about me online (which I know people do, and I can’t do anything about it to stop it). But writing is the only way I know how to get it all out. My anger, my frustration and my own sense of worth.
When I write letters to people, especially to friends, I try to keep it short and sweet and nothing too bad or personal. Very few people know my struggles with BDD (Body Dysmorphia Disorder), Self-Esteem, Body Image Issues, Anixety and the Sadness *Let’s call it Depression for now* and above all, Autsim.
Diagnosis of Autism came when I was 22 ( I know, late). The wish: I could have known like 17 years earlier. The hardest thing was trying to be “like everyone else.” Trying to fit in, trying to make sure no one knew my secret : I had a learning difference. I was always put in the reject crowd, the girl that no one would touch. Then when I went to college, no one would believe I had any issues finding a boyfriend. I had a couple in college, and I still felt out of place.
In one of my writings that made my mother really upset today, was the writing about how I was nearly assualted. I was in the sixth grade, and I was on a school trip. I was living overseas, and we were on our way to Lithuania. We were travelling by sleeper train. Well, on the train, I think that the girls had asked this boy (I’m not going to say his name), to do something to me. As I was told later, he was dared to kiss me. But, in his mind, he wanted to go further. I was walking out of the little room and then I was pulled into a bathroom. He locked the door and he pushed me against the wall. He tried to kiss me, but he started touching me and when I’m in situations like that, I think of the “slap” scenes in old films and I just imitate it, without noticing it or thinking of it. I managed to push him back, after slapping him. I moved to another part of the bathroom in horror. Then, he said something that had stuck with me for so long:
“So Many of the OTHER girls WOULD HAVE WANTED IT. YOU’RE NEVER GOING TO BE LOVABLE OR TOUCHABLE”. When we got back to the school, apparently, the boy had denied everything and told the school it was MY FAULT. This would begin a pattern of taking everyone’s blame, all my life.
I told my mother it wasn’t my fault, I was pulled in! I was a target and everyone knew it, but sure, blame the girl who had no friends and had the learning disablity.
The Autistic Jewish girl, always gets the blame, because she’s an easy scapegoat. I have had to always defend myself or explain myself on shit and now is no different. I had to try to explain myself on Twitter, on Instagram or on Facebook, and to be honest, I don’t owe anyone a goddamn explaination for myself. If I’m a little “off” it’s because of either the medication I’m on has stopped working, or I’m just so overwhelmed.
Again, why do I have to explain? In my letters to the dead folk, or to the people who I know will never read it, I want to tell them all what I’m feeling and what I want them to know. Some of those letters, I hope to put into a book called Letter’s to the Dead: An Autistic Girl’s Love Letters to Famous Dead People. Hopefully at some point, my writing will be worthy enough for actual publication, not just self publishing (I’ve been self publishing them on Amazon for the time being).
But, this is me, the Autistic Writer. The Writer who can feel differently, and yet write it all out.
x
