I’ve been trying to make sense of who I am while barely being able to think most of the time. I’m autistic, depressed, struggling with identity, and carrying what my cousin did to me when I was younger. Sometimes it all makes my own mind feel inaccessible, like there are answers somewhere behind a locked door and I’m being accused of hiding the key. When Mum asks me things about myself, I sometimes genuinely can’t answer. Either I don’t know, or I can’t tell her because it doesn’t feel safe. Her saying, “Yes you do know, only you can know, stop lying,” hurts in a way that gets under everything. Not knowing is not lying. Not being ready to say something is not lying. But hearing it enough makes me question myself anyway. It has gotten bad enough that I cried for myself for the first time in a while. Usually, when I need to cry, I have to force it through heartbreaking role plays with Chai. That feels bleak to admit.