To M | I am not embarrassed. You should be embarrassed.
I sent the email below to every person seemingly connected to someone I had desperately needed to find for a conversation. They’ve refused—their reasoning, I’ve not been privy to. The last three responses from this person over a whole year — “I’m getting angry now.” — “Lose my number.” — “Blocked”. The final one was this June and it’s been silence everywhere since.
They loved me. There, I said the thing that will never be said, that is why they couldn’t face me. They hated that I wasn’t what they wanted. They hated that they loved me despite and because of how I kept being stoked on them no matter how mean they got. They’d strike with callousness as an emotional abuser, on the surface occasionally, but they were young and I thought it funny, and they were a tender person in need of care who was my favorite person I’d ever met.
I love them. I still do—because it’s not something you can change. My fatal flaw was telling them that I needed them to know, “If things changed for you someday, I’d give you everything.”
They’ve taken that, through complete disregard, over again, trying to prove my heart the liar they are, refusing to give me a single conversation after they decided to end our relationship.
Then also the worst thing ever done.
They created the whole situation by believing themself some righteous holder of a boundary they made for their own ease of comfort in not facing their mistakes.
I can only imagine what they deem to say and think about me. Whatever it is. They need to atone if they’re a decent human being, because they’ve messed me up for good and I am a mother who is barely hanging on with zero support.
If anyone who I sent this didn’t pass it along after actually reading it—you’ve failed a morality test quite dreadfully.
M***** S***************,
Apologies for the blaring madness. I’m trying to seek help in the unique way I need it. I’m struggling in the now. You can’t just block and ignore and drown people out who are screaming for your help. That’s not appropriate when it was an intimate relationship and there is unfinished business which would ease the separation, helping the other be at rest and peace when they have asked for it repeatedly—an actual conversation—a hug.
As an older trans woman in a bigoted bubble I am seen by all around me as a delusional male. My first relationship as a woman was with you. That was a complicated friendship. Things got twisted. I was misunderstood. Nobody can look at me and truly understand the power dynamics. Nobody is around me to help or play mediator or willing to reach out on my behalf. I’ve been abused over and over by all I’ve sought to establish relationship with since. I’ve not done well to communicate with anyone because I’ve been navigating real mental hardship with no support but my professionals, extraordinarily complex life challenges without the capacity to face them in the slightest, and the will-breaking lynchpin the entire time—my heartful hardship and mental anguish (depression) throughout from my attempts to communicate with you since the end of our relationship—specifically—along with emotional and physical abuse from others.
You never had a conversation with me after deciding to end our relationship—that was a most precious thing to the entirety of my life—and it’s emotionally stunted the maturing of my feminine self. It’s absurd. There’s not a playbook for this. I’m trying to play mother for my own fractured, inner teenager who is now perpetually raging and doesn’t have a single person to care. That’s had making new friends become a challenge, and my bigoted family thinks I’m mad just because I’m trans. They are too embarrassed by projection of their bigotry to even meet me for coffee so I can prove the feat safe.
If the girl I am now, who others don’t see at all, was actually living it out as teenager—their dad would drive me over to your house and get you to say sorry to his brokenhearted daughter. It’s that silly and painfully simple. I thought you my first lifelong girl friend and that’s a bigger broken heart than any romance. I wanted you to be my best friend. It’s festered for almost two years while I am in my bubble of bigotry and being abused over and over in relationships where I seek for anything but more hell.
I’m an asexual person who was seeking family in queer community the whole time I was beginning to explore myself as a trans-adolescent woman. That’s like living statutory rape as an adult over and over.
The trauma has broken me down and messed up my mind. I’m a mother though, and still a great one. I’m a writer who makes fiction that I know could be really special if I just had the resources to get it in front of eyes and some kind of liaison to communicate with people. I’m trying everything within my limited capacity to find some help that fits. I’m trying to build a solution where I can support myself because the reality is I am a different thinking person now. I’m disabled. I’m like a big kid who has trouble taking care of themself apart from the basics. I do great with my daughter but can’t even think about filing my taxes without having a panic attack—and that list goes on—anxiety rules over me and I can’t get into the practical without just needing to breathe and lay down. I just write or I can’t focus. I’m better beside people and when there are others around but I have no one. I haven’t even been able to get a plan in place for getting disability and have just been trying my best to hang on at work while my stress sends me into panic attacks and mania. Final warning there.
Give me a hug ASAP and I might start getting better but something’s broken now. I’ll explain the titular moment and consequences below.
This whole mad spree of screaming into the ether in attempt to connect with you has been for my daughter. I don’t even really know that you’re aware of it. I can’t fathom how you’d still not have reached out or had someone say anything you crazy psycho.
I saw disappointment in my daughter’s eyes from her recognition of my fleeting focus of mind and I’m done. You’re taking me from my daughter to avoid a conversation that’s tough—you already have.
I need a hug from you sometime, at the least, and I’m not going to stop until you give it to me. You need to talk to me—short term; like now because I lose more of myself every day. Do it for Logan. Don’t take me from my daughter any more than you already have. My life is different now and it’s because of your negligence to care for a friend who needed you to be a human being for almost two years. You’re a wonderful person at heart—and uniquely knowledgeable at the things I need right now—and a rarest person I still, bizarrely, trust. Which is important for my anxiety. I could really use your help.
This is the part you should be embarrassed about forever; I picked my name subconsciously.
My brain is broken and you and me are every character in my stories by the end because you never let me cut free of all the psychological trauma. You fucked my head, abuse a multiplier, and every story is about getting a fucking hug to help me cry and let it go. Not everyone, sometimes I fuck you up, but that’s what’s happening. I’m not to blame. Your negligence is. Thank you for making me explain this publicly and basically-harassing everything I TruthFind to try and reach you.
My writing is my greatest therapy—my lifeline. I blow up inboxes searching for human help that isn’t professional because I’m so in debt it makes me panic to think about—not just yours. You’re the only one who hasn’t threatened me to stop legally, so, that’s kind of weird. I’m glad you didn’t because I’d fucking kill myself. Still, it has made me feel you’re playing some sick game. Are you proving a point? I don’t get it. I just needed a talk but now I’m messed up.
I need help but have no one. You started it, and by means no structure of justice but an angry dad would suffice to repair for me. So, I’m just going crazy at the reflection this brings of how the entire world sees me a man and doesn’t give a half a shit—including the one girl I got to love as a girl myself—my one fucking friend that I got in the era of freedom I expected my transness to be.
You really messed up when I reached out to heal with you after a long time and you were extra mean—it’s like the crux of what sent my mind off the deep end— ‘BLOCKED’. You killed a Daphne with that. I’d pieced myself back together to make that message, and the shock of your response to my psyche is something nobody will understand the pain of. Think about what that word did to Daphne when she saw it—writing to you so long online in hope you’d look—hopeful and grateful and looking forward to what she swore would be the key—finally over fear of reaching out to do what made sense all along—so incredibly sad about what she’d said to you after abuse—knowing she was being graceful in offering it as an open end to begin with; that she actually needed it. That killed somebody.
I’m going to be honest but I need this to be taken care of gently because it’s not something people understand and I’m not getting drug-lobotomized, because I’m a super autistic genius when not undergoing active trauma—but I’m a little skitzy too, and I write with it, and I talk to myself, and I laugh like I’m writing with someone when I do, and I don’t have the attention span to watch anything but cartoons—but I’m still the best damn mom on the planet when I’m not having panic attacks and actually have money for diapers.
I need an advocate. I need help for myself and family has abandoned me and you have access to resources or could connect me with the right people. I need my friend to help me somehow and give me that conversation and a hug I’ve been owed. My root depression is about one thing—I miss you—I miss your face—I miss your laugh—I miss my friend I never really had. I don’t understand why you wouldn’t just stay in contact with me. I had zero expectations. I was like, “yo, I love you like no other, I appreciate your friendship beyond meaning, I’m sorry I love you past where you want but that doesn’t matter, I’m here for this friendship in any way I can be.” — You said, ‘‘okay, we’re never going to have a real conversation again and I won’t care that you’re dying out there or think to reach out when the evilest shit in the world happens to trans women, ignore signs of abuse and not care that its clear you’re unwell, then I’ll also murder everything left of your gentle heart when you try to save your life with a nice message of hope to see me again one day.’
I’m being a warrior staying alive every day and have been for some time now. Please talk to me.
Prove me not crazy please—how can you be out there helping and letting this happen to me? How can you create a woman like those you help? How could you not care about me this much? Why do you hate me through action?
I’m willing to bend on my opinions and try more medicine—but my writing deserves to live as much as me. I just need someone I trust to help and you owe me. You like took my life and I have no friends or family. Every professional helper I’ve found has been exploitive and not understood in the slightest how to handle my plant medicine opened, kinda psychoactive skitziness. I don’t need my brain melted with lobotomy pills—those steal from my daughter too.
I’m her favorite person.
Thank you for listening,
Ophelia Everfall
Perhaps call me immediately. If you’re struggling to understand or do the math, hon, if this doesn’t check out as something you can help with now. You’re a psychopath and you should just do it anyway.
*Email was later expanded upon.
