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.