May 18th 2025

Dear -----,
It is with some semblance of discomposure that I write to you now, for I can scarcely hope that you look upon me, a figment of your past, with much approval. My behaviour over the past few months has been abominable, though steadily improving. But I'm sure you will look at this period of your life as one of the most difficult ever, and resent me accordingly. It's just as well; it means you are doing better than myself. 
It is not the purpose of this letter to provide you with any advice for your present circumstances, whatever they might be. I have barely enough power to care for myself, let alone a version of myself who has lived a full 365 days longer than me. Instead, I would like to use the next few minutes to describe to you what life has been like for me this past year. You are familiar, no doubt, of the general circumstances that have led me to this point, but in point of preserving the happenings of the last few months for future generations, I will relate them as I see fit. 
It is with real fondness that I look back on who I was - WHAT I was - this time last year. The friends, the adventures - everything suited me so perfectly. I was, if not perfectly and incandescently happy, at least happy enough to consider each and every day with gratitude. 
How far I have fallen since then. 
I would start from the beginning, but in all honesty I don’t know where it all began. I suppose the marijuana was the first indication that anything was out of the ordinary. I always enjoyed the feeling of being high. It slowed the world around me, siphoned my thoughts to a fine point. It was like thinking in HD. My worries and anxieties gave way to a rush of endorphins and, often, intense creativity. It became a frequent source of comfort for me at home, where my parents’ ideas for me became overbearing. Mom desired from me a devotion to a God that for all purposes does not exist, and Dad and Lee-Ann had labelled me as a liar and were intent on proving my dishonesty by rifling through my belongings in search of anything incriminating. Weed became my means of escape, a desperate grasp for autonomy. 
But gradually, things began to feel odd. Out of place. I would hear people calling my name when I was alone, see shadows moving out of the corner of my vision. I began to distrust my own mind, and an era of quiet suspicion began. Additionally, I had become acquainted with the possibility of having autism, a concept which frightened me almost out of my senses. My family would never approve; I knew this to be certain, with all their jokes at the expense of ret*rds. But I was in such a state of fog that I could not fully realize my probable diagnosis. I thought, "there is nothing wrong with being autistic, but I'm not. Certainly not. That could never be me."
These thoughts, along with the previously mentioned paranoia, became comirbid. "What does it really mean to have autism?" I wondered. "Could THIS be why I've always struggled? Why the world around me seemed so unsuitable, so loud and frightening?" Perhaps I was attempting to attribute meaning where there was none, but the revelatory concept of my life's hardships owing to an actual developmental disorder instead of my own inherent worthlessness was too interesting to pass up. Most ardently did I re-examine the happenings of my life under this new lens, and found that many pieces were beginning to slide into place. 
One night, while riding the tides of booze and weed, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. There was something in the curve of my mouth, the sharpness of my eyes, that seemed to speak the truth. 
“I have autism,” I said aloud. 
An overdose and a hospital trip shortly followed. I was detained for three days under the care of a few overworked and underpaid doctors, who, in a move that preceded my downfall, decided it would be best to completely take me off of all my medication. 

I will not begin to tell you how disturbed my mind became after this; the thoughts that occupied my brain were those of distrust, suspicion, bewilderment, and jealousy. I reached out to acquaintances I hadn’t seen in five years to accuse them of various transgressions. Everyone and everything was at fault. The world felt oppressive and cruel, and intense delusions came to me of my friends and family talking behind my back, conniving, plotting, scheming. I demanded that they cease immediately to the general confusion of most. I still wonder to this day if, during my psychosis, I did irreparable damage to those relationships which I hold dearest to myself; Johnny, Melissa and Julian were all prime targets.  This era of paranoia lasted about three weeks, and then came the total and final shutdown of my system. 
Gradually, as the days passed, I found less and less enjoyment in life. No longer wracked by suspicion, life had lost almost all its meaning. I was ashamed of my own behaviour, ashamed and grieved. I began to fancy that I didn’t deserve to live, and resolved on ending my life. 
Weeks upon weeks of misery and concern from friends and parents followed this unhappy realization. I was hospitalized again when I came upstairs one morning in tears and told my father I couldn’t stop thinking about “how to make it look like an accident.” How heartily, even now, do I grieve for the sentiments expressed during this time. They served no purpose other than to concern my relatives and make a fool out of myself. 
After my third hospital visit, my parents became desperate. They knew my life was in danger, and decided that more drastic measures would need to be taken. They sent me to a trauma relief facility called Homewood where I spent several months over the winter. I really wasn’t expecting anything to change - but such is always the case when one is in such a melancholic state. When you are depressed, you expect to be that way forever. But the truth is, Homewood saved my life. It gave me a real purpose. It introduced me to one of the best friends I’ve ever made. If you are reading this, CT, I salute you. 
Homewood went by in a flash. Before I knew it, I was returning home and eleven weeks had passed. I returned home with a new understanding of my mind and my trauma, and have been reflecting on past events with satisfaction these past few weeks. I have a steady job near the lake, and play D&D on Mondays. I see Owain before work most mornings. Things seem to be going well for me. 
But I am harbouring a rather large secret which I must keep concealed from my parents at all costs. 
I am still very addicted to weed. 
And vaping, as it were. 
I wish it weren’t so. But my parents have closely monitored me since I was released from the facility, and I felt it necessary to find some way of exerting autonomy. I feel at a loss these days. The throes of addiction are suffocating. My writing hardly exists, and when it does present itself, it is lacklustre at best. I have spent exorbitant amounts of money on drugs. I have lied to my parents multiple times. I have trouble falling asleep at night. 
But. 
I am much happier now than I have been in recent months. Precarious as it may be due to the influence of drugs, my mental health is quite satisfactory. My mood is tolerable, and I would venture to even call it pleasant. 
So at least there is that. 
I wonder how long it will last. 
But, well, that is enough about myself. I know the whole point of these letters is to reminisce, but I can see no further point in lamenting over past events so fervently. I can most earnestly express my gratitude in recovering as well as I have, and can only hope for a brighter future that will have me free from the clutches of this unfortunate addiction. 
I hope you have made many new friends this year, and that you have finished and published your book, though I have no such expectation of the latter. Your book will unfold naturally, and may take longer to write than one year. So much the better. It will be a labor of love when it is at last complete. 
I really do wish you every happiness in the world, and hope you are faring better than myself at present. It has gone quite late now - almost 2am - so I fear I must conclude this letter now. I hope you have found it satisfactory; my style was meant to emulate Pride & Prejudice. I know how much you love that book. 
Yours very sincerely,
-------