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What can I say? I lived my whole life like that.
Now they want to hear my voice and my story. Now they want to know. Now they need to know.
I used to pray for days like this, when someone would notice my silence, notice the weird stuff about my life. But now that it’s time to speak, I can’t. I can’t free myself from my own prison. I try sometimes, and I manage to say some truths sometimes, some can get out, but other truths I should say stay in my mouth; they stay curled, pressed on every part by shame, by anger, by grief, blocked also because saying them in English would be saying them in the wrong language. I can’t utter those words, this story, this part of me in English. They are asking for the revelation of Ossia, but Ossia doesn’t know how to speak English; he speaks Russian and Romani. It’s Dick Grayson who is fluent in English, but they want him dead, they hate him because he almost killed me (and managed to kill a few of them), they are mad at him, unaware that the sole purpose of him was to bring death, destruction, and vengeance. He served his purpose, and now what?
They ask, and they ask, and they press and press, but do they really want to know? Do they want to know how I miss the snow of Saint Petersburg, how I miss the melody of my languages, how English stresses me, how I miss the smell of solyanka in the caravan, or do they just want to know why I never told them that I was not always Dick Grayson? Do they care about me or just about my omissions? Do they want to know me, or just fill the gaps?
Is there anything to know at all? Ossia is not more real than Dick Grayson, and Dick Grayson is not less real than Ossia! They might already know me; I have been Ossia for 8 years only, and Dick Grayson for 18 years. It might even be that Dick is more real than Ossia, but I have never really been fully Dick: I have been Richard, Robin, Renegade, Nightwing, Agent 37… Do I have an identity, or am I just a changeling, condemned to never be but only to act as a being? Who am I?
Well, after this drama-queen introduction, time to get into writing. I need to answer your and my questions, I need to have a clear overview of who I am, and unfortunately for you, dear family, I can’t speak; I can’t tell you in English everything, even if, with the years, English has become a comfortable language, but for that… well, let’s say it is as uncomfortable as a bullet in my ribcage (too soon?). So let me write, let me gather my memories and my thoughts, give me some time to think and find the right words; I will tell you everything that I can muster the courage to remember.
I know you are probably scared right now, because I have disappeared. I’m not far, I’m safe, and there are no guns around. I just need time to breathe, time to recenter myself in a clear view. I promise this is not the same kind of isolation as before, not the one where I drowned in self-loathing and pain, too proud and stubborn to ask for the help you were clearly offering, no, this is not that. This is me making my world all about me for once, and focusing on my own multitude; this is me running far away to better jump into your arms. Trust me, you are not losing me; I’m coming back. I’m asking you to have faith in me. I know this is hard considering everything, but please, trust me.
Every week you will receive a long email with a piece of my story, of me, with answers to the questions you have, the ones you don’t know you have, and the ones you don’t have.
I love you. I’m coming back.
Signed: determining that is a work in progress / someone who loves you.