The double edged sword of autistic single-mindedness

A few years ago, in my last job, I worked closely with a woman who made projects difficult.

At the time I worked as a content creator. I wrote the words and came up with the messaging, packaging and direction of campaigns and someone else (this woman) took care of the design – tasked with turning the words into something tangible and visible.

Every single time I worked on a project with this person, there would be stress, accusations that I had miscommunicated and dissatisfied clients.

This never happened with anyone else.

 
Getting to the nub

Quite quickly, I picked up that:

1.   This person found any deviation from or adaption of the product from early discussions incredibly unsettling and would act aggressively and defensively to any suggestion of developing, building on or altering an initial idea. To me, an initial idea being shaped and honed into a final product is the creative process. Ideas develop, take shape and form as you go. To this person, you decide what you’re doing, then you do it, exactly that way, no matter what else happens along the way.

2.   This person missed vital parts of conversation. They would swear blind you’d never told them things that you knew you had. Even when other people had been present to witness that you’d said something, she’d swear she’d never heard you. This didn’t just happen with me – in team meetings where, for instance, one of our team would state where a project tracking spreadsheet was stored and how it should be used, a week later, everyone would be using it except this person who would say no-one had told her anything about it.

3.   People avoided challenging this person, or even gently questioning her, as it would result in disproportionate confrontation and aggression. This meant that I often found myself stuck in the middle of this person and others – who wouldn’t want to confront her directly and would instead give me their feedback to give to her.

During the couple of years I worked with this person, I’d often offload onto Ethan at the end of a stressful day – about all of the above behaviours, which caused real stress for me. And he would sympathise, often tell me what to do about it (of course!) and be angry on my behalf.

But what I realised – also quite quickly – is that Ethan does exactly the same!

The perfect trio of aggression, confrontation and selective hearing

Tonight, we were having a discussion about mobile phones.

Ethan suggested we buy Oliver a new (second-hand) phone for Christmas. I mentioned, just as another possible option, that a friend of ours had taken out a plan for his son where he paid about £18 a month for a phone and SIM and that, after two years, they could either keep the phone or trade it in for a better model and keep paying the £18 a month.

Ethan reacted exactly like my old colleague would have done – aggressive, confrontational and missing key details of what I‘d said.

It’s like he didn’t have the bandwidth in his head for any interpretation other than his own.

That kind of rigid thinking, in both the workplace and in a relationship, can be both a strength and a source of destruction. Which is why, I guess autistic colleagues – and autistic husbands – can be both absolute gems and complete pains in the arse!

But it’s also this kind of single-mindedness that makes Ethan utterly devoted, completely on my side, endlessly loyal and my greatest advocate – he simply doesn’t have the bandwidth to see me any other way.

Thankfully for me, I can talk to Ethan about issues like the aggression over me having a different point of view, and he will see it, apologise and we’ll try again (not that it always runs that smoothly, sometimes I’m too tired and pissed off to explain – again – and will sulk or blow up instead).

Unfortunately for me, that same kind of self-awareness and drive to find solutions wasn’t there with my colleague.

I don’t work in that job anymore.

Autism, the Holy Grail of education and chocolate-covered custard creams

After eight years of epic struggle (his first four years of school, before learning got less playful and required more sitting still and listening, were OK, good, even…), today marks the end of the first week of specialist autism college for 16-year-old Oliver.

It’s not just a relief for him. After eight years of defending him in meetings, representing him in meetings, advocating for him (and AuDHD in general) in meetings and battling for some level of provision and adjustment for him in meeting – and this is just one of my neurodivergent kids! – I we are done trying to fit into a one-size-fits-all education system. And I am, I realise, absolutely knackered. Thank god we didn’t have a fourth!

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A funny kind of thankful

And I’m grateful. I really am. Grateful to the council for funding his place (although, given that it was clear to everyone that Oliver needed specialist provision three years ago and they said no – leading to a cataclysmic breakdown and Oliver learning alone in a classroom from worksheets for the last two years – I think they were left with little choice). I’m grateful to the college for existing for people like Oliver. But, at the same time, I’m grieving for the life that 16-year-old him is not accessing.

At his college, there are literally six other students – in the entire college. (Just one of them is doing Sports Studies – one! Makes me wonder what possible sport he can be partaking in – athletics? Yoga? Walley?!)

Whilst Oliver couldn’t be dealing with large groups of people, busy corridors and sensory overwhelm, having so few students in the college allows for a very small friendship pool. And as everyone travels long distances to be there, even if he did make some good friends, he wouldn’t be able to freewheel off with them somewhere after college, as they all get picked up I taxis and whisked home as soon as the college day finishes.

I remember my 16 year old self and all the (mis)adventures and memories I made. It was probably the best time of my life. It’s sad that, for many autistic children, the choice is either overwhelm and autistic shutdown at a mainstream college, or shut off from the world and any chance of having those adventures and making those memories at a specialist setting.

Education's unobtainable Holy Grail 

I feel like the sentiments of this year’s SEND white paper, that calls for better integration of SEND students into mainstream school is, actually, the Holy Grail in all of this – if only it was possible.

·         Because teachers aren’t properly SEND trained and, even if they were, the extent of the curriculum, pressure to reach targets and reduction in classroom support would mean they don’t have the time or space in their teaching to accommodate different learning styles and needs.

·         Because secondary schools will still be huge, sprawling buildings that smell of cabbage and mashed potato, filled with echoing corridors and hundreds/thousands of other people.

·         Because learning will still, mainly, happen from the front of the class, through spoken word, written word and memorisation, because that’s the only way to teach en-masse when there’s one teacher and 30+ students – but these approaches don’t work for so many neurodivergent, visual learners.

·         And because, by trying to circumnavigate some of these challenges by having bigger SEND bases within mainstream schools you are, effectively, just creating mini specialist settings within mainstream schools. Turning the neurodivergent students into the ‘other’.

Honestly, I don’t know what the answer is, but surely there must be one? In the meantime, I’m just so relieved that I won’t have to be having any more battles with teaching staff and systems that don’t understand reasonable adjustments, and that Oliver can finally start learning about things that interest him and in a way that makes his brain come alive.

 

‘Not just’ any custard creams; Not just any family

Meanwhile, the eldest autistic in our family continues to drive me mad with his exasperating behaviour.

I mean, I absolutely advocate for autistic people and always will but, at the same time, living with their foibles – or at least my husband’s – can be infuriating.

Just yesterday, he admonished Oliver for eating two out of the packet of six chocolate-coated custard creams he’d bought from Marks and Spencer (for those who don’t know – it’s the Ritz of grocery shopping).

It’s a loss of control thing – he struggles with anything that takes control away from him and how he thinks things should play out…

Which, it seems, was him eating them all as, later that night, he took the (unopened) second packet of white chocolate-covered custard creams – arguably even better than the plain chocolate version – and ate not just two, but the lot (the evidence there for all to see in the bin the next morning)!

The hypocrisy is incredible! As is the complete lack of moderation or impulse control.

His reaction, on being discovered, was to go out and buy three more packs which he swears he won’t be eating any of. This is always what he does (this happens a lot) and, invariably what happens is that, they stay in the cupboard unopened (or opened with just one or two eaten) until, one night – normally when he’s a glass of wine down – his impulse control will go and he’ll eat them all again!

A is for ADHD and autism, B is for backburner, C is for clarity (and Canada!)

This week I waved my daughter, aged 21, off to Canada for eight months on an optional year abroad tagged on to the end of her degree.

For a while there, I thought she wouldn’t make it.

Three weeks ago, she had nowhere to live, no flight booked and, each time I suggested we look together at getting things sorted, she was ‘too stressed to think about it’.

She’s also got herself loved up since she first signed up for her Canadian adventure and, for two and a half weeks before she was due to go, rather than sorting out her sh*t and/or earning money to fund her sh*t, was out with her. She coped with the impending separation by ‘not thinking about it’, which, seemingly, was the same tactic she used regarding everything that needed to be sorted to enable her to not just arrive in Canada but have somewhere to live when she got there.

 

The alarm-snooze cycle

Ava gets overloaded when she has stuff to do – so much so that, rather than do those things, or at least some of those things, to help clear the decks, she will instead set ten different alarms on her phone, write a list covering every detail of what she has to do – and then retreat into task paralysis. Staying up late watching comfort TV and scrolling through her phone, only pausing to snooze the constant alarms buzzing on her phone, then feel even more overwhelmed the next day as her list grows and her achievements wither.

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It’s been the same with every assignment she has had to do while at university – she’ll do everything but make a start on it until the deadline is almost crushing her, then stay up all night to get it done.

This approach recently bit her on the bum when her dissertation and two of her final assignments were all due in the same fortnight – a result of her having been given extensions and still leaving everything to the last minute where they collided spectacularly.

This time, instead of doing her usual staying up for two or three nights to get them done, she got septic tonsillitis as a result of being so run down and stressed, resulting in me driving up and down the motorway keeping her fed and medicated while she worked through the pain and turned in her work – then slept for a week.

She does generally manage to pull it out the bag – and still achieve firsts – but exhausts herself and everyone around her in the process.

 

Deliberating, delaying and dreaming

So it was great to wave her off to Canada on Tuesday, knowing that, once again at the 11^th hour, she’d organised somewhere to live, four other people to live with, her flight and her visa. But we were both up most of the night the night before (during which I made a total of four trips from the hotel room to the car and back to collect things we’d forgotten while Ava sat stranded and soaking in the shower because we’d forgotten to bring shampoo). And we had to do an emergency repack literally as we were leaving for the airport as we couldn’t fit everything in!

But, in the rush of the moment as Ava was heading to check-in, I also managed to buy her the wrong SIM card (UK only) and put my car keys in her rucksack side pocket for somewhere to put them – the fact that it – and therefore they – would be going to Canada with her momentarily escaping my attention. It was actually Ava this time that alerted me to the fact.

So maybe we’re not so different. I too find that I can spend most of my working day deliberating, delaying and dreaming, only to be struck with motivational panic at 4.30 pm when I realise it’s almost the end of the day and I’ve not got anything done.

And I too write endless lists on little post-its stuck all over our house, then hyperfocus on the lists and how much there is to do, rather than just making a start and crossing things off.  

More and more, I’m realising that the autistic and ADHD traits that I see in my diagnosed children are also traits that I myself have – but which, growing up in the 80s, I never had the language, knowledge or self-perception to understand and which, since marrying a partner with AuDHD and then going on to have three children with the same diagnoses plus OCD chucked in for good measure, I haven’t had the time or energy to process.

Perhaps now, that time is here.

 

Being Reminded You’re Autistic by a Neurotypical World

There’s a saying, isn’t there? Something along the lines of, ‘an autistic person is only autistic when surrounded by neurotypical people’.

And yet being around neurotypical people is a requirement for life – at least for most of us.

I find, for my family, it creates a fine line on which we have to balance as we navigate our way through life.

When we are all at home, each doing our own thing but in each other’s company, life is calm, easy and perfectly satisfactory – until it isn’t.

 

The inner tug of war

We all have the desire, for some of the time at least, to be out experiencing the world, to be connecting with other people, to have friends and to be truly living.

The issue for some of us (the males in the family) is that it’s hard to find and maintain friendships in order to have people to go out and experience the world with.

It’s a strange and cruel aspect of autism in my husband and boys that, even when they say similar things, do similar things and act in a similar way to the people around them, they stand out. When talking to them, you get the impression they’re trying too hard; that it’s all a bit forced. And that, in turn, puts you – and the conversation – on edge. So much so that people avoid including them in social occasions.

It’s why Sam can get along with people on a surface level – there’s nothing to actively dislike – but doesn’t get invited to parties or nights out. It’s why the only way Oliver was able to remain part of a ‘going out’ group was by getting drunk or high – or both – and forcing himself to be the life and soul of the party (always the one doing the dare, climbing the drainpipe, going that step too far, anything that meant he could avoid conversation). And it’s the reason why Ethan after his 54 years on earth has, literally, two friends (both also neurodivergent).

Having to get used to seeing them sitting at home playing on their own or with ‘randomers’ on video games for hours at a time is something I’ve had to make peace with. And, most of the time, this fragile peace remains.

The problems come when I’m the one socialising in the neurotypical world.

Autistic in a neurodivergent world (AI image)

The mixed blessings of friends

This is where the balance becomes frustrating. Socialisation is something that both myself and my daughter need.

We’re both sociable and, to some extent (and whether we like it or not) have our confidence, self-worth and self-acceptance sustained by being an accepted by the world.

As neurodivergents, this creates a tension.

We feed this ‘can’t live with them, can’t live without them’ scenario with monumental effort before seeking the complete opposite of what we’ve just sought for our survival and retreating to a quiet, alone space to recover.

But here’s the irony, while we’re doing our best to fit in as proof – mainly to ourselves – that we are a bona fide, accepted part of the world, the experience of being with neurotypical people reminds us again and again, that we’re different.

 

Comparison, the joy-stealer

Out with my friends this week, who all have children the same age as two of mine (16 and 18), the talk, understandably, centred around exam results (GCSEs and A-levels) and the universities/sixth form colleges their offspring would attend, once the revelry of summer was over.

At the time of the conversation, their children were

1. In Spain with a friend

2. At a music festival with a whole group of friends

3. In London with their girlfriend, having just come back from a ‘lads’ holiday’

Meanwhile, my two were up the road in the same position they’d been in for most of the summer – in their rooms, on their own, playing video games.

The high-achieving neurotypical offspring of my friends, while not only enjoying the benefits of easy sociability, had all also got As, A*s and Bs (there was literally just one C among all 16 collective exams). And, as chatter around universities and colleges, IKEA shopping and mattress toppers reverberated around the room, my own delight at my youngest actually passing the four GCSEs he took and my eldest making it onto Level 3 of his electrical course (with the cohort of peers he’s studied with for two years now without seeming to make a single friend) wilted like a sun-starved marigold.

 

"While we’re doing our best to fit in as proof – mainly to ourselves – that we are a bona fide, accepted part of the world, the experience of being with neurotypical people reminds us again and again, that we’re different."

In the world, not of it

I love my friends, Most of the time I’m rejuvenated and uplifted by being with them. And the fact I’m out of the neurodivergent world that so much of my life inhabits is one of the reasons why these friendships are so important to me. But part of that is accepting that the version of life they talk about is going to look very different from mine.

This is the delicate line I tread – my kids don’t seem autistic, at least not in a way that is holding them back or limiting their life – until I’m among my neurotypical friends and am forcibly reminded of how neurotypical young people are living.

I know the important thing is that my kids (and husband) are happy, not that they’re the same as everyone else. What I struggle with is that I’m not entirely sure they are happy. That is, I think they’d be happier if they were able to go out with friends and it feel natural and easy, be invited to parties and enjoy festivals.

The more you’re in the neurotypical world, the more you’re reminded of what you’ve not got. I guess that’s the crux of it. And yet that’s the world we’ve all got to be part of.

 

SEN or not, we're not testing our young people on what matters

So, GCSE results day rolls around once more.

A day when, whether you’re on board with the system or not, every 16 year old gets judged. By how much they’ve revised, by how much they’ve applied themselves, but also, for factors completely beyond their control.

By the kind of brain they were born with that, unless it fits the narrow, western curriculum's definition of intelligence, will be rated poorly – however creative, original, intuitive or kind is may be. By how well supported and stable their life is and by how well they performed in a particular two-hour-period on a particular day, no matter what else might have been going on in their lives at the time.

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SEND and (the current state of) mainstream education don’t mix

As I wrote on social media on results day about my son, Oliver, who is autistic and has ADHD and OCD and for whom school has been a struggle every step of the way – not because he’s stupid, but because school – western style – overwhelms him. Because lessons aren’t taught in a way that his brain can access. Because 1,800 other young people in one place – with all their associated sounds, smells and sensations – causes sensory overload to such an extent that he can’t think about anything else…

As a result, he wasn’t able to make it through a single full school lesson during his GCSE years, so even just taking four GCSEs – which still involved him having to sit ten exams – was something of an achievement.

This is what my social media post said on results day:

“So proud of this kid – and all the kids like him – for whom GCSE results are a dim reflection of who they are and all they’ve achieved.

So proud of him for keeping on going, for doing his best and for refusing to be beaten by an education system that not only wasn't designed for him, but which very nearly broke him. Others aren’t so lucky.

The biggest of thank yous to the wonderful people who made school bearable – and even fun sometimes! And who ensured Oliver left mainstream education with his self-esteem intact. The British education system needs more like you.

So, whatever your exam results, to all those neurodivergent kids out there battling through systems that allow others to excel while they give it everything they’ve got and still can’t hope to reach the standards the world holds up as ‘success’, you’re amazing. Keep being you.

And to all the kids who have achieved great exam results, you’re amazing too. The world needs us all.”

Are we testing – and learning – the wrong things?

And, in a world where we have an ever-increasing army of machines to remember, regurgitate, analyse and calculate, thank god for minds that create, diverge, entertain and inspire – whatever their exam results say.

Having friends whose neurotypical kids are meeting all their milestones – as a parent of neurodivergent kids, is it really possible not to compare?

Last night I spent the evening with two very close and very lovely friends. They are kind, down-to-earth, inclusive and know of the diagnoses – and the struggles – that my kids have had and are still having. And they’ve not always had easy rides themselves with their kids.

Also, I wouldn’t ever want them to edit themselves or hold back from being able to talk freely about what’s going on in their lives and the lives of their kids. We’re good friends and we share in each other’s highs and lows – that’s what friends do.

And, for the most part, I have learnt not to let myself go down the comparison road with other people’s kids. But still, every once in a while (probably more often than I’d care to admit) I find myself uncomfortable, unhappy, unhinged and every other ‘un’ it’s possible to be when in the presence of other people talking about all the great things their kids are up to.

It’s got easier since I’m not at the school gates any more, with happy, confident, sociable, ‘successful’ children on every side while mine clings to me, trembling and begging not to have to go into the classroom.

These days, all of our kids are upper secondary school onwards, we’re (most of us) not so embroiled in their lives anymore as they make their own way in the world and we, at last, have more time for ourselves.

But last night, amid the talk of A-level results this Thursday, what unis they’ve all applied to, what back-up uni they’ll go to if they don’t quite get the grades (A,A,B) they need for their first choice, and tales from their inter-railing over the summer, new boyfriends, festivals and holidays with mates, I got that old flat feeling at the chasm that exists between other people's kids – and mine.

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This autistic life

My youngest has spent the last two years ‘learning’ from worksheets and text books in a room with just one other pupil and a Learning Support Assistant – too triggered, overwhelmed and dysregulated to be able to enter a classroom. As a result, he has no friends as all of his classmates have, quite rightly, progressed and developed and built friendship groups without him, as he has stagnated in a room. So, this summer, while they’ve all been at festivals and parties and proms, he’s been on his Xbox, reading comics and watching TV, alone.

I celebrated last week that he’d bought a walking pad so that he could get some steps in while he watched TV – it felt like progress!

Meanwhile, his elder brother has two friends – although it’s one main friend really that keeps the three-way friendship going. While this linchpin has been away for the past three weeks, my eldest son has seen absolutely nobody – the two that are left at home unable to fill the space and time without the third, lively, friend to bring them all together.

He did have a girlfriend – for the last four years – until she ended it six months ago. At the time, I thought it was a good thing. Sam was too dependent on her. He relied on her to organise him and get him out of the house. Saw her because it was comfortable, and he didn’t feel out of his depth socially. But it meant that he never pushed himself, didn’t step out of his comfort zones, and didn’t need to make the effort to build other friendships. I thought that the two of them splitting up would be good for them both.

 

It’s not you, it’s me

And it has been good for her. 

I imagine that being responsible for Sam took its toll. That it was annoying always being the one jollying things along, coming up with the ideas of things to do, trying to whip up enthusiasm to embrace life and seize the day with a partner who preferred sleeping in, staying in and looking in. I don’t have to imagine hard because that’s exactly how it is for me and, if I had my time again, the truth is I would steer clear of building a life with someone who is autistic.

That feels like an awful thing to say, because I’m basically saying that I’d advice girls not to ‘get stuck’ with my son. Perhaps if he was with someone who was similar to him – and happy to stay in, keep their borders small and live a safe, quiet life – I’d feel differently. But this girlfriend wasn’t like that and – although she was good for Sam in lots of ways – being with Sam, I don’t think, in the long run, was good for her. And so I feel proud of her for breaking away while she still could, before she got too entangled. Before they moved in together or had a child together or had a joint mortgage or any of the other things that could have happened to keep her with him. Or to cause her to finish it much later when there was far more for Sam to lose.

But seeing just now, on her Insta account, her camping out all night on a mountain with what looks suspiciously like a new boyfriend, going away with friends, smiling out among other happy faces painted with the England flag at a watch party during the World Cup… and compare that to Sam, who has spent his summer, mostly, on his Xbox or washing pots at the pub he works at amid the odd quiet night out with the two friends he has, it makes my heart hurt.

Other young people move on, build new experiences, meet new people, make new friends. 

Mine don't.

 

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Autistic genes

And I know this is how my boys are. The way they are, they wouldn’t want to be at parties or travelling around Europe. But another part of me thinks, how do they know if they never get the chance to try? And they never will because they don’t have the friendship group – or the outlook – that doing these things requires.

I love my kids dearly and this feels like something we’re not allowed to say, but I wish, for their sake as well as my own (but, mostly, for theirs) that they hadn’t been born with the genetics they have. 

I wish my kids weren’t autistic and didn’t have ADHD. Because yes, it might be that they never want to do those things that other people’s kids do (although I suspect that a part of them wants to want them) – but I think that if they had the genetics that made them a) want to and b) be able to do these things – go to parties, make new friends, have fun nights out, connect with people – they'd be happier. I think their self-esteem and confidence would be better. I think they'd feel more like they belonged in the world and that they were truly living.

However safe and comfortable it is, that's something you don’t get from hours of watching TV alone or playing solo-player computer games.

From walking home holding hands to feeling I would happily divorce him on the spot - welcome to the emotionally exhausting world of neurodiverse partnernerships

Hard to believe that, just a week ago, all was well with the world and my relationship, and I was walking along the road holding hands with my autistic but loveable husband. Even his irritating foibles weren't that irritating and, anyway, it could all be explained by his uniquely wonderful differently wired mind.

Yet, less than a week later, that same differently-wired mind is making me want to kill him.

Over tea (our evening meal, for those of you not in the north of England), he was stressing to our eldest son about what time he was going to get the car to the garage after work. Saying that Sam absolutely had to have it there by 5 pm and he better not be any later, etc. The impression being – and I think I'm right in saying that anyone would surmise the same – that the earlier Sam could get the car to the garage on the Friday afternoon, the better.

So I said, aiming to be helpful, 'Why don't I just drop Sam at work and then I can drop the car at the garage and they can start work on it whenever they like?'

The response to which was unexpected, to say the least. 

 

Confusion, anger and aggression – a winning combination

Ethan started aggressively asking why I would say that. Why that would make any difference. Whether I thought the garage could just drop everything and fit us in, etc.

He also, bafflingly, started talking about what time we would get the car on Saturday.

I was confused.

I wondered out loud what difference the time we collected the car on Saturday made to anything. Wasn’t this conversation about what time we could get the car to the garage on Friday?

Ethan continued (still aggressively) to make no sense, talking about why I would say I’d take the car earlier on Friday. Why was I interfering?

I was still just as confused. And, by now, angry. 

Why was he being such an idiot? Plus what the hell was he on about? He'd been stressing about Sam getting the car to the garage by 5 pm, I'd just offered to solve the problem by dropping Sam at work myself and then dropping the car at the garage earlier so he didn't need to stress about whether Sam would get the car there by 5 pm. I presumed I was being helpful. 

And I was getting blasted for it. 

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The ‘afterwards’ problem

After Ethan had ranted and got aggressive and been generally unpleasant (and this is the problem, it's always afterwards) he revealed the key piece of information that the garage was only going to loosen the bolts on the car last thing on Friday, ready to do the work first thing Saturday morning. So, in his head, Ethan shouting at me about whether I thought 'the garage would just fit us in whenever we wanted' made complete sense, because the guy wasn't going to work on the car until Saturday morning, but needed it last thing Friday. Therefore, why was I getting involved and why was I making ‘stupid’ suggestions?

The problem was, Ethan hadn't communicated this key information to me (or, in fact, to any of us) and was then angry that we didn't instantly understand the situation and that I was 'interfering when he'd already made the arrangements'. One of his lines, when I suggested I could drop the car, was 'I've made the plans, why are you interfering? Sam's dropping the car by 5 pm. That's what's going to happen.' 

“Ethan hadn’t communicated this key information and was then angry when     we didn’t understand”

And that’s the problem. The rigid, inflexible (I know, the mean the same thing!), obstinate thinking that won’t flex to what anyone else is saying – not even enough to make room for a slightly different angle.

In one sense, this was a simple case of miscommunication. But it's the same thing that happens again and again. Ethan only shares half the information but, in his head, thinks he's explained fully. Then, when other people ask or say something that doesn't fit with what he thinks he's told you but hasn't, he gets mad. 

I know it’s because his ADHD brain has missed out on communicating a chunk of essential information. I know it’s because his autistic brain can’t bend and flex to fit in another perspective. And I suspect a part of it is rejection sensitive dysphoria at feeling his authority and decision-making is being questioned.

But none of this understanding makes him easier to live with in the moment he’s behaving like a narcissistic knobhead.

As a side note, he’s also always sorry afterwards but, again, a mumbled sorry afterwards and then the same situation repeated ad infinitum, wears a bit thin.

 

The problem of drinking when you’re autistic

The other problem is that, even if the other person did have the wrong end of the stick, rather than communicate calmly and reasonably like a normal person, he gets angry, attacks and belittles. 

Which makes the other person think 'sod you'. Which is probably one of the (many) reasons he has no friends. 

And yet, when he's not behaving like an idiot, he can be so lovely and thoughtful and kind. 

Those times though, do seem to be getting less frequent and the knobby times getting more so. 

They're not helped by the fact he spends half his life slightly drunk. Hiding rum in a cupboard and topping it up whenever it gets low so I won't know how much he's drunk (or so he thinks). I'm actually starting to think sod it myself, let him drink himself to death. The problem is, when he's drunk, he loses the little bit of filter he has, and the effort he makes, when he's sober, to stay calm, process information before reacting and manage his emotions, dissolves (which, clearly, is why he likes/needs to drink). 

But each time we hit an episode like tonight, those handholding moments seem more and more out of reach.