What Happens When Professional Support Doesn’t Feel Supportive

Dear JM,

You probably didn’t mean to hurt me. I know that.
But the truth is, your message did hurt me. It hurt more than I could explain in a short email — especially when I was already trying so hard to do everything right.

The information I sent wasn’t meant to overwhelm. I sent it as I received it, following the steps you suggested — trying to keep you updated and ensure everything was complete.

As you know, the CRA and DTC situation has been ongoing for months. The setbacks with my psychiatrist, the missed letter due to the incomplete address, the follow-ups, the delays — it’s been a constant weight I’ve been carrying.

When I asked if you’d sent the referral to CEVAM, it wasn’t to accuse you of overstepping. It was because the email message from CEVAM came right after the referral you requested from my family doctor was sent — I honestly thought it was all connected. That’s all. It felt practical to check.

Your response — that you’d never send something without consent — caught me off guard. I didn’t accuse you. I didn’t question your ethics. I just asked a question, trying to understand. And suddenly, I was back in that place I know too well: being made to feel like I’d done something wrong just by trying to clarify something.

And that’s the thing. I’m not trying to create conflict. I’m trying to create clarity. I’m trying to keep track of systems that aren’t built for people like me — systems where I have to chase down every form, every timeline, every update, just to make sure everything is accessible and in order.

I wish you had seen that. I wish your response had reflected that.

Because I’m not disorganized. I’m not looking for extra help. I’m doing my best to manage things that are already overwhelming — silently, and alone.

Despite knowing that I no longer had access to a vehicle and that I couldn’t safely use public transportation due to sensory overload and anxiety, you dismissed my request for support with transportation. You referred to my adapted transport application in a way that minimized my reality, suggesting anxiety wasn’t enough — that only “severe autism” would justify such a need. But for someone like me, who had to give up a car due to financial hardship and can’t safely use highways or crowded buses, that kind of support isn’t a convenience. It’s survival. And hearing my situation brushed aside so easily felt not only invalidating, but quietly disheartening.

That’s why this letter exists. Because I needed to say it — not just for you, but for me.
And maybe for the next person who’s made to feel like their clarity is a burden.

Sincerely,
Patricia

Postscript — A Familiar Pattern, Repeating

It’s been a few weeks since I wrote this letter. And although the situations have shifted, the underlying pattern has not.

Just recently, I was left waiting at home for a scheduled meeting with the same social worker. No message came. Not a call. Not a text. Not even a quick “I’m running late.” Nothing — until afterward. And even then, the explanation felt more like an excuse than an apology.

It’s not just about one social worker. It’s about what my body has learned to expect after years of being let down gently, quietly, professionally.

Because I knew — before he even typed it — exactly what he would say.

I knew he’d offer a technical excuse instead of an apology.

I knew he’d say, “These things happen,” instead of, “That shouldn’t have happened to you.”

Because my body has lived this story before.

Where someone fails me and then talks their way out of it — while I’m left holding the emotional aftermath, again.

He’s not cruel. But he’s not fully present either.
He’s performing care. He’s protecting himself, not me.
He’s offering surface support that looks legitimate, but feels hollow.

And when you’re autistic, that disconnect lands hard. It isn’t just disappointing. It’s destabilizing.

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