Autism, ADHD, OCD… and why no-one can say the word ‘squirrel’

My youngest child, Oliver, characteristically catapulted towards his diagnosis of ADHD and autism with an intense, dramatic and drawn-out mental health breakdown, aged 9.

The polar opposite of his elder brother, Sam, from the moment he was born, as a toddler Oliver rarely stopped smiling, was very sociable and was always in the thick of the action, throwing himself headlong into everything.

He was the child in A&E (ER) more than the other two combined, the child who would come home from school covered in paint, mud and whatever else he’d found to throw himself into, and who shouted rather than spoke — so much so that school recommended a hearing test.

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Photo by Amit Gaur on Unsplash

By year 5 though, school was breaking Oliver. He was behind in maths and English, seemed unable to listen or follow instructions, didn’t seem to understand what was required of him in tasks and was often, according to his teacher, ‘silly’. Also, other pupils found him ‘too much’ and ‘annoying’. All of this was thrown at me during a parent’s evening while Oliver, in the corridor outside, heard every word of the entire character assassination.

I found it hard not to cry as I was hit with all these ways my wonderful, creative, happy child was malfunctioning and unacceptable, so how it felt for Oliver, aged 9, to be hearing all of this, I can’t imagine. All I know is that, before I went in to see the teacher, he was full of cheeriness and chatter and wanting to show me his project book. When I came out of the classroom, he was a very different child.

What followed was two years of Oliver unravelling.

School went from being somewhere he was happy to go to being somewhere that took every bit of his strength and courage to face. He became anxious that he didn’t understand the work, that he didn’t know what to do, and that he wasn’t like the other children. Knowing that they all found him annoying probably didn’t help either.

Before long, Oliver’s anxiety had grown into crippling OCD. He couldn’t walk because he couldn’t choose which foot should ‘go first’. He couldn’t eat in case the food was poisoned. He couldn’t use a fork in case it hurt the (poisoned) food, he couldn’t say certain words in case saying the word made it happen or he turned into it (even words like ‘bread’ and ‘squirrel’ were outlawed. In the end, he just stopped speaking altogether). He also went through phases of hair pulling, clawing at his neck until it bled and washing his hands and face repeatedly until his skin was sore.

Somehow, we stumbled through to March of Year 5 — on top of everything else, we were all utterly sleep-deprived as, unable to be alone with his thoughts, Oliver spent every night on a mattress on our floor, carrying out compulsions through the night that were never right.

But then… Covid!

And while most children struggled with homeschooling and isolation, Oliver thrived. Given that Oliver was, by now, being assessed for ADHD and had obvious mental health challenges, he was one of the children allowed into school. One of only a few other children, and with the time, space and staff for more personalised teaching and a day punctuated by freedom and movement (and the run of the trim trail!) Oliver thrived.

His learning came on, his OCD symptoms lessened, and we saw glimpses of the original, smiling Oliver. But, as soon as June hit and normal life resumed, Oliver’s anxiety ramped up once more, his ability to learn shrank back, and his OCD returned with a vengeance.

High school was worse, with multiple suspensions, a near expulsion, fights, drug and alcohol misuse, exploitation and, eventually, Oliver confined to one room, worksheets and a precious few wonderful Learning Support Assistants as he withdrew completely from mainstream learning but was denied specialist provision by the council.

Within all of this though, key turning points came with Oliver’s diagnoses of ADHD and, later, autism. As well as enabling more support (those ‘special privileges’ of twenty more minutes anguish in an exam or an LSA sitting in lessons with you drawing even more attention to the fact you’re ‘special’, just what you want when you’re 14), Oliver’s diagnoses gave insight and an alternative narrative into his ‘behaviours’, ‘inability to focus’ and ‘refusal to follow instruction’ which may just have saved his — and our — sanity.

But while Oliver’s battles were loud, dramatic and impossible to ignore. Ava’s were the opposite. While Oliver unravelled in front of us, Ava quietly hit a wall. Looking back, the signs were always there, just hidden beneath years of masking and perfection. More about Ava’s diagnosis of ADHD and autism — in her own words — next time.

Sam is screaming. Sam is growling. Sam is banging his head on the metal undercarriage of a caravan. Sam is autistic.

At this stage of my journey charting the ups and downs of neurodivergent family life, I felt it might be useful to share our journey of discovery into each of our childrens’ (and my husband’s) autism and ADHD in the first place.

First up (and first to be diagnosed in our family) — middle-child, Sam.

Sam spent most of his early life screaming and clawing at my face whenever I held him. He never crawled. Rather, he bum-shuffled his way around the world until he decided to walk at around eighteen months.

And if anyone bent down to Sam’s pram to say hello to this little bundle of joy, he would growl.

On one holiday, at around a year old, Sam bum-shuffled under our caravan where he stayed put for a good half hour happily (and intentionally) bashing his head against the metal undercarriage, blissfully unreachable by any of us.

Autism, schoolfriends, clubs and playdates

As he got older, Sam made friends; but it took concerted effort on my part to develop and maintain these friendships — getting to know mums at the school gate, inviting children back to play, signing Sam up to Beavers and after-school clubs and, basically, ensuring his life included socialisation. Often, I played more of a part in his playdates than he did, with ‘organised fun’ ready for when his social battery ran out. Happily, at that age, his little friends, mostly indifferent to Sam zoning out and watching dinosaur documentaries by himself, would happily carry on entertaining themselves.

At school, his big sister reported he would often ‘play’ by himself in the mud — the mud and stones acting as the characters, while he muttered the lines they said to each other as he reenacted scenes in his head. At home, he did the same with lego figures for hours in his room — seemingly needing to act out what he saw or thought as a way of processing.

In those days, I was often called on to stay behind and talk to Sam’s teacher — about the loud and distracting animal noises he made during carpet time, or the occasion when he was ‘being a dinosaur’ and ripped a classmate’s expensive new coat while ‘eating him’. It wasn’t bad behaviour. In that moment, Sam was a dinosaur. Most likely what went through his head in that moment was, ‘I’ve caught this stegosaurus. I better rip him up before he gets away’. Alternatively, there might have been nothing running through his head — just the adrenaline of having caught his prey. What definitely didn’t go through his head was, ‘hmmm, biting this kid’s coat might actually rip it. Never mind, I’ll do it anyway’, as both the teacher and the mum of the other boy seemed to suggest.

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Autistic realisation

For Sam, the gradual dawning that perhaps his mind worked a little differently and that banter — a vital skill to master in Year 6 — was a mystery to him, coincided with I’m a Celebrity fever gripping his school and, in particular that year, Anne’s frolics and foibles as an openly autistic contestant. Sam’s classmates, like most of the nation, liked Anne but, as the children around him discussed what Anne had said and done, Sam recognised something of himself.

Unfortunately for Sam, the realisation hit just as the class lined up for registration, and all I had time for was a quick reassurance that he might be (he was undergoing assessment at the time), that was fine and that we’d talk about it after school. I spent all day worrying but, when we spoke that evening, Sam took it all in his characteristic stride and seemed relieved to know why he saw the world differently — as was confirmed with his positive diagnosis a couple of weeks later.

Today, after a tricky but, unlike his brother, not quite soul-destroying, time at secondary school, Sam is now training to be an electrician — the practical element of the learning suiting him much better. And, while he still definitely needs ‘alone time’ and only really has one close friend, at the age of 18, he’s recently discovered alcohol as the great leveller in social situations (more on that in another post) — and is actually enjoying the experience of going to the pub sometimes.

But if Sam’s difference was visible from the beginning, his younger brother, Oliver, was the opposite. Where Sam was steady and inward, Oliver was excitable and loud. His challenges didn’t arrive all at once; they crept in through the cracks, only becoming visible when the world began asking more of him than he could give…

More on that in my next post.

Two very different social events with my AuDHD husband = Two very different experiences

On Wednesday, Ethan and I met two friends for a pub quiz.

When I say friends, I mean the wife is my friend and the husband just about manages to fill an evening finding things to chat to Ethan about. 

It's pretty much replicated across all of the people we're 'friends' with.

These days, Ethan has come a long way from the silent, overwhelmed and internally angry man he once was on nights out - the revellery and easy-going nature of everyone else heightening the sense of frustration and disappointment in himself, which showed itself as sullenness and standoffishness. 

But what Wednesday confirmed to me, that I'd kind of forgotten, is that pub quizzes are never going to make successful nights out for Ethan. 

For a start, it was a warm night, and we were in a noisy, sticky pub huddled around a table among lots of other groups also huddled around tables. 

That's never a good start.

To make matters worse, we'd ordered tapas. Whoever came up with the idea of turning the basic human - and largely independent - activity of eating into a shared 'experience', did not have autistics in mind. 

That old feeling of slight panic mixed with embarrassment that used to be a regular fixture on a night out with Ethan in tow, returned as he, literally, made a meal of digging into the pancetta fries, one large forkful after another, giving no-one else a chance.     

Pub quizzes for dummies

Ethan hadn't contributed much to conversation - it's hard for his autistic brain to focus on two things at once and obviously eating won out. So when the question paper appeared, I breathed a sigh of relief thinking that now, at least, there'd be a focal point to conversation that Ethan could join in on. 

I was wrong. 

It was impossible for Ethan's brain to dip in and out of discussing the question paper and normal conversation, something everyone else was doing with ease. With that demand, on top of the noise, the people and the heat, his brain and body were on sensory overload.  

"On top of that, as the questions built, he felt increasingly stupid."

On top of that, as the questions built, he felt increasingly stupid. Not because he is, but because he can't ever remember anyone's names or the names of songs/bands and has no interest in popular culture. Also, however much he might like, say, a film or an artist, his ADHD brain cannot store and recall information (something, I've discovered through the pain of GCSEs, he's passed on to both our boys).

Towards the end of the evening, he'd pretty much given up. And that old silent, simmering separation returned. I stepped into the breach, socialising for both of us, but we both had a pretty miserable evening and walked home silently a few paces out of step with each other.

I was left feeling the way I haven't felt for years - that I'm married to someone I'm unable to have a normal social life with and that I'm just going to have to do everything without him in future, feeding the ever-increasing rift between us.

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Thank f*** it's Friday

Fast forward to Friday night, and we'd been invited to a friend's for dinner - one of only a couple of friends that we actually know through Ethan.

Key differences to Wednesday night were that:

• There were just four of us, and we were in a quiet house - no competing ambient noise, other conversations going on around us, or multiple people in our conversation to try to navigate around. 

• We started the evening outside in the garden - peaceful, plenty of air and space, and a cool breeze.

• There were no demands - from a quiz or otherwise - that made Ethan feel inferior, different or 'not enough'.

• We all had our own dinner, on our own plates, for only ourselves to eat!

We had a fantastic evening. Conversation was balanced - covering topics Ethan felt able to contribute to (films featured quite a bit, as well as the superiority of IMAX). And we walked home laughing, still chatting and holding hands.

"We walked home laughing, still chatting and holding hands"

 

What, when, who and how

It's reminded me that, while Ethan's made huge progress socially and huge adaptations and efforts to fit into my world, there are adaptions and compromises that I have to make for him too. 

Certain events are always going to remain impenetrable for him - and trying to break through them is only going to break him, and us.

Just like I could never rewire a house or build a computer, Ethan is never going to thrive at a pub quiz. 

That doesn't mean we can never be sociable together with others, just that we need to choose what we do - when and how. 

And there might be times when it's better for everyone that I just go along to something on my own. 

And that's OK.     

Yay! It’s the holidays… (with a family of neurodivergents)

My middle child, Sam (ADHD and autism) summed it up best when he disparagingly described a holiday as, ‘…still being with your family, but without any of your stuff’!

The plus side of the long school holidays, when you have neurodivergent (or any) kids, is not having to navigate drop-offs and pick-ups, checking and rechecking school bags, battling over homework or facing the daily crushing comparison (I know I shouldn’t) with all the other happy, well-adjusted, confident, sociable little darlings in the school playground.

The pay-off for all of that, is endless empty days that need to be filled with enforced fun.

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Picture the scene…

We’re away for a few days in Llandudno and enthusiasm is waning.

I suggest a game of Kubb on the promenade. Just getting them to agree is quite the undertaking (Sam: ‘people will look at us’, Oliver: ‘effort’) but, ignoring their protests, I set up and the game gets underway.

I’d read and inwardly digested the rules ahead of time – knowing the impossible amounts of patience and processing it would require for us to decipher the rules together. So I begin by explaining that Sam and Oliver start with all six batons.

Ethan (autism and ADHD) picks up three of the batons and walks over to his side of the game.

I take the batons off Ethan and repeat that the boys start with all six batons.

Sam and Oliver take their turn. Oliver throws his baton with (way too much) gusto. It flies down the promenade. Ethan shouts.

To give Sam his due for his reason for not wanting to play the game, he’s right – people are looking at us.

On Sam and Oliver’s next turn, to soften the blow for Ethan, I pick up the batons as Oliver throws – knowing Oliver won’t be able to help hurling them (he has no fine motor skills), and Ethan won’t be able to help overreacting (he has no fine tolerance skills).

A few yards away, a woman has begun to film our happy family game on her phone.

 

Knock yourself out

Just as I bend down to pick up the most recent baton Oliver has lobbed, he throws another. It whacks me, full force, straight in the jaw.

Ethan shouts (louder this time). People have moved beyond ‘looking’ to staring. The woman stops filming.

Oliver repeats and repeats and repeats and repeats his thought process as to why he chucked the baton even though he knew my head was there. If any of us try to interject or even move during any of these four retellings, he has to start again, from the beginning. I don’t know whether the need to repeatedly repeat, with no interruptions and all of our undivided attention, is part of Oliver’s OCD, autism, ADHD or all three but, part way through the third retelling as my jaw throbs, my patience snaps.

“For god’s sake Oliver, shut up and just say sorry,” I yell. “From now on you’re taking a bloody ADHD tablet every day and I don’t care about the side effects.” I instantly feel evil.

More stares. Some smirks.

We play on. We’re on ‘holiday’. The boys have been forcibly removed from their screens and I’m determined we will make memories (and, to be fair, we did).

The boys are winning. Ethan is getting irritated. Not being able to cope with losing is a trait often linked with autism and, just because you’re 52 doesn’t mean you grow out of it.

 

Whose rule is it anyway?

He starts arguing with me about the rules: stating it’s impossible for us to win (it isn’t). I try to calmly explain why it isn’t impossible. Ethan isn’t hearing what I’m saying because he has his own thought process which cannot flex to what I am saying. I know this. But I’m human: I’ve read the rules, he hasn’t and, while he’s arguing and stating, as fact, observations that are incorrect, the boys are fast losing interest and the dog (who has been tied to a bench a couple of metres away) is starting to howl – so I’m frustrated. I shout (I’m now shouting almost as much as Ethan). And use the F word.

At which point, Sam (bless him) with all the patience and wisdom of a world-weary 15 year old (and also possibly because people are staring again), steps in and calmly explains to Ethan how he and I could still, theoretically, knock all our blocks down and win (which we all know isn’t going to happen).

But Ethan’s mind set will not shift (or, at least, he won’t admit to being wrong, which is quite another thing). I tell him to move on and stop spoiling it for everyone (who am I kidding – this game is spoilt beyond redemption). The dog continues with his incessant howling and we all play on. We are now all playing Kubb with a huge ‘Kubb on’ (sorry) and collectively just want the ordeal to end.

Thankfully, a couple more rounds and the boys have won.

The stress of the game has almost been worth it for the relief of it being over. Until Sam discovers that he’s lost his ear pods somewhere along the promenade, and the next drama begins…

Minor but irritating Asperger traits #1: Magic tricks

For the last few weeks we’ve taken to having ‘Sunday night family time’ watching Britain’s Next Great Magician on TV. Everyone’s a winner. The kids love it, it’s actually, for the most part, quite entertaining and it requires far less effort at the end of a busy week than reading a bedtime story.

However, I do have one complaint: Ethan.

He either has to smugly claim that he knows how each trick is done (and thus take the magic out of magic trick for us all) or, if there’s a trick he can’t explain, he’ll rewind the programme, slow it right down (the wonders of modern technology for a person with Asperger’s) and carry out a detailed study. Needless to say, this is really annoying for everyone else watching the programme. I also find it sad (and infuriating) that he needs to know how everything works – fiercely practical always. Where’s the space for dreaming, wonder, make-believe? But anything he can’t explain, pin down to science and reason, seems to bother him. It’s part of him feeling in control of his world, I guess.

I think that being able to explain a magic trick, if only to himself, makes him feel good, self-assured, right. And being right boosts his self-esteem when so often in life and social situations, he is wrong.

The rest of us, weirdly, watch a magic show for the magic. So, this week, I’m keeping tight hold of the remote control!

Aspergers and the imbalance of responsibility

Sometimes I wish I’d listened to those persistent (sometimes raging) doubts that had told me I was making a huge mistake by marrying Ethan.

He is so difficult to live with at times, totally dysfunctional to have a grown-up relationship with and almost impossible to bring up kids with. It leaves me wondering what was left to draw me to him. But I know really – it was the security, the stability and the flattery of being utterly the centre of his world. I was his special interest for as long as it took to get that ring on my finger.

It’s not that he’s stopped trying now, or turned into a tyrant. I know he does his best – most of the time. It’s just that his best is woefully inadequate and it’s so frustrating that his best never gets any better.

I’ve learnt that, when I’m working and he’s in charge of the kids, telling him over the phone what he needs to do doesn’t cut it. He’s forgotten what I’ve said by the time I get off the phone. So these days I text him the information. Today, in the midst of a really hectic schedule, I took the time to text him the information for this afternoon (‘I’ll bring dinner home, could you peel some potatoes, Sam needs to practice his spellings, Oliver’s going to his friend’s house so don’t worry about him and Ava needs picking up from church at 5pm’). I also emailed him Sam’s spellings to practice.

5pm as I leave work I phone Ethan. This is our conversation:

Me: “Could you put the oven on so it’s warming up?’

Ethan: “Oven? Why am I putting the oven…er (I can hear him scrabbling about in his conscious mind trying desperately to remember what he realises he’s supposed to know)…What’s going in the oven?”

Me (exasperated): “It doesn’t matter what’s going in the oven, just that you turn it on please so it’s warming up….(silence)…for the tea…that I’m bringing home.”

Ethan: Right…erm. OK…

Me: “What’s the problem? Just put it on. And then go and get Ava. You do know it’s after 5pm?”

Ethan: “OK (pause)…Where’s Ava?”

By the time I got home, I was already wound up. So the half-cooked pasta, chopped courgette and pepper and cold oven when I got home was enough to break me. I couldn’t even appreciate the fact that he’d made a start on dinner BECAUSE IT WAS THE WRONG DINNER. I HAD THE B*****Y DINNER IN MY BAG!

Me: “You did at least practice Sam’s spellings with him, did you?”

Ethan (pleased with himself) “Yes, I did.”

I felt slightly calmed. It was only when I was putting Sam to bed later that night and he told me that Ethan had grabbed his head to make him look at the spellings that my heart lurched.  Up to that time Ethan had just been annoying and unreliable. But the frequency with which he loses his temper with the kids over normal childhood behaviour (“he wasn’t doing what I said”) genuinely bothers me. As long as I don’t ask Ethan to do anything in the house or with the kids while he’s in charge, there’s no harm done. But there’s also no jobs done, meaning they’re all waiting for me when I get home. And who wants that?

Home again, home again jiggity-jig

Just back from holiday with Ethan and the kids and need another holiday to recover!

Eleven days in a (very small) self-catering caravan on a Spanish tourist site with an Aspergic husband and son (along with our neuro-typical kids) was rather like an endurance test - with a few idyllic moments and amazing views thrown in to keep us all going!

The stress started the moment our sandalled feet hit the tarmac of the airport. Airports seem to hold a special terror for Ethan. Even with two hours to go until boarding, Ethan got jittery with anxiety – eyes wide and intense, voice raised, fingers twitching. He marched us through check-in and security, leading from the front at a rate of knots, dragged children and bags banging in to other passengers on the way. No time for Ava and I to indulge in airport perks such as trying on perfume samples at duty free…except that we did, because I refuse to (and refuse to let my kids be) ruled by Aspergers, and we were on holiday for goodness sake.

Our frivolous waste of precious minutes was met with silent building pressure in Ethan leading to an angry look and an even faster pace to the boarding gate, where we sat and waited for fifteen minutes for the shuttle bus to take us to our plane. I couldn’t help pointing out that ‘I’d told him so.’

His reconciliatory comment on the plane that my perfume ‘smelt nice’ did little to appease my resentment. I was already bracing myself for the journey home….

That said, Ethan’s intensive focus, his planning and ordering of documents into carefully-labelled envelopes, his pre-booking of the taxi to take us home from the airport, does get us all efficiently and easily from A to B. It just somehow also saps all the joy out of the adventure. 

Are you receiving me?!

Anyone else out there in neuro-diverse partnerships experience their NT partner only giving half the information required?! My husband does it all the time! Frustratingly (or perhaps as a sub-conscious means of survival!) my brain never retains the incidents, except for this morning's which is still fresh in my memory...
So, Ethan came into our room, out of no-where while I was getting dressed on holiday and said, 'Do you want to go for a walk by yourself today? I'll look after the kids, I don't mind."
Seemed a bit of a random suggestion for a family holiday so I replied, "erm, no thanks. I'll stay with all of you..."
To which, Ethan, seeming a bit put out, replied, "oh right, ok."
It wasn't until later when I realised the date & mentioned to Ethan that it was the seventh anniversary of my mum dying that he said, genuinely confused, "yeah, I know. I've already spoken to you about it when I offered for you to go for a walk."
The penny dropped...but when I mentioned that he hadn't mentioned the context of it being the anniversary of mum dying he was convinced he had communicated that information. What goes on in his head and what he thinks he's said compared to what he does say seem to be poles apart sometimes!

Managing the unmanageable

Going on holiday in the morning.

Packing has been an interesting meeting of the minds.

Ethan started preparing small 30 ml-sized plastic bottles a couple of weeks ago, along with sticky labels for shampoo, shower gel and conditioner. He also ordered two new suitcases and a weight checker.

Ava texted me when I was out last night pleading with me to come home because Ethan wouldn’t let her take her cleanser (not even in cargo luggage) ‘because it was too big’. He is excelling himself in anal retentiveness and old-woman fussing. Initially it drove me mad. But, as time has gone on, I’ve realised there’s no point fighting it. He is who he is. So I’ve let him do his little labelled bottles, his master packing list and his bag weighing and I’ve sneaked in Ava’s cleanser along with some other non-conforming moisturisers and face-washes. Because I’ve realised that, for Ethan, regimenting the packing, making everything neat and uniform, is his way of controlling the uncontrollable. Because, although the holiday is something he’s looking forward to, it’s also something unfamiliar, out of the ordinary, unchartered. And he needs to be able to compartmentalise it into manageable chunks – quite literally.

And, actually, he was right to buy the extra suitcases. We’d never have got everything into the one big and one small one we had.

Perhaps we do make a good team after all. 

Aspergers, relationships and Mental Health Awareness Week

Am particularly conscious, during this Mental Health Awareness week which focuses on relationships, of how mental health affects not just the person with Asperger’s but the whole family around him or her.

This weekend was the perfect example of how Asperger’s affects our family. A toy wooden boat fell on Ethan’s head as he was getting something out of Sam’s wardrobe on Saturday (a toy wooden boat that Ethan himself had put there, I hasten to add). Ethan’s anger immediately took hold. He stormed downstairs with the wooden boat where he proceeded to smash it into pieces. Sam cried, I shouted, Ethan fumed.

The fallout lasted all day. I was so angry with my husband. I was disappointed for my son. I had to spend the whole day with Ethan and go to a party with him that night feeling rubbish and hurt and worn out with him. Having spent the first ten years of our marriage sulking over events like this, I have now learnt it’s a reaction that is completely counter-productive. I tried to talk with Ethan about what had happened. But his refusal to accept any blame (it’s the boat’s fault, it’s the wardrobe’s fault, he never played with it anyway, it had some parts missing (it didn’t)) made me even more depressed and frustrated.

Eventually, through my perseverance and refusal to let him walk away from what he’d done – he admitted liability. He accepted that he’d lost his temper, that he’d acted badly, that he needed to say sorry to Sam. But it took all day to get to that point and I was still left feeling resentful that I’d had to work hard on him all day for him to reach that point, and angry and disillusioned that it had happened at all.

I’m reminded of the importance of the NT partners of AS individuals to look after their own fragile mental health. To ensure they have time for them and, crucially, time with other NT friends. So much of my life with AS is hidden as Ethan doesn’t want people to know about his condition. I understand that, and respect it, but it makes being able to off-load difficult - if not impossible. Having one or two close friends that your partner agrees can know about his/her AS and be your sanity (although often, unless they have experienced living with someone with AS themselves, it can be hard for them to really get it) can be a lifeline, as can forums like those on Different Together. And, of course, writing a blog can help too :).

So, this Mental Health Awareness Week, thanks for being my sounding board, my confidante, my listening ear! And do protect your own mental health however you need to – we’ve got a lot we need to be strong for.

Blame the Aspergers

There are times when I hope my husband’s more frustrating traits are down to Asperger’s Syndrome and not anything else.

…like when I came downstairs this morning to find that our new puppy had pooed all over her bed, and both her blankets. The poo had gone inside the grooves of her cage and smeared onto the wall behind. I was alerted to this fact by my daughter, Ava, proclaiming that Maggie had ‘pooed everywhere’ whilst letting her out of her cage to run her pooey paws all over the house.

What has any of this to do with Ethan and his Asperger’s, you may ask?

It was Ethan that put the puppy to bed last night: without the waterproof mat that I’d placed on top of the cage ready to cover her bed. Instead he’d shoved both her newly-washed blankets inside her bed ready to be smeared with excrement so that we wouldn’t be able to use them the next day.

The kids ended up being late for school, I had to deal with far more poo before breakfast than anyone should have to face and Ethan whizzed himself off to work.

But it’s not just the dog’s bed missing its most important component, it’s the many other omissions, forgettings and just plain vacant moments that make me wonder whether anything at all is going on inside Ethan’s head. And that’s when I hope that it is Asperger’s to blame – rather than my husband just being thick.

The same day (yesterday), I was at work and took the time to text him an itinerary of what our various kids needed to be doing when. By the time I got home at 6.30pm, Ava and her friend should have been at youth club (itinerary instruction #1 ‘Ava and Jessie need to set off at 5.45pm for youth group to be there for 6pm’) and Sam and Ethan should have had their tea and be ready for the Cubs bike ride that was starting at 7pm. Instead what I was greeted with when I got home was Ava and her friend happily playing with the dog half an hour after their youth group had started and Sam and Oliver only just sitting down to their tea. I managed to get the girls out (late) to their club and Ethan and Sam to the bike ride – but they only had a drink and snack because I remembered the water bottles and biscuits that Ethan had forgotten and left by the front door. And Ethan came home freezing because he just walked out of the house in what he was wearing (which wasn’t much).

I asked what was happening (or not happening) in Ethan’s brain when he put the dog to bed and got ready to leave for the bike-ride last night and this is what I discovered:

<what I would be thinking>: ‘Right, I need to put Maggie to bed so she needs her bed in her cage. I’ll take the blanket out so it doesn’t get wee or poo on. And I need to put a mat in to soak up any wee or catch any poo. There we go, ah – isn’t she cute? Here, have a stroke.’

<what Ethan thought> ‘Right, I need to put Maggie to bed. So, grab the bed, put it in the cage, put her in cage.’

<what I would be thinking> ‘Right, I need to get to this bike ride. What do I need? I’ve got bikes and helmets, I need the drink and a snack. Do I need keys – no Laura will be in. Money? No. Jacket? It’s going to get colder, I’ll grab a hoodie.’

<what Ethan thought> ‘Right, I need to go.’

Maybe it’s just a man thing – but it can’t be a man-with-kids thing. With three kids in tow he just needs to think things through a bit more.

I’m going away this weekend and Ethan is responsible not only for looking after our kids for the weekend but also for getting Oliver to football, Ava to dancing, Oliver (later) to a party and Sam to his gym class! Maybe, with me totally out of the picture, he’ll rise to the challenge. And I need to keep giving him the opportunities (or, rather, forcing him to engage his brain) because the alternative is that I do everything all the time, which just leads to me getting resentful and bitter (even if it does mean everything gets done properly)!

Although I can’t rant too much – Ethan’s just whizzed the swimming kit down to school for Sam that I forgot to hand in this morning!

Asperger's and making the most of our differences

I’m reading The Rosie Project at the moment (only on chapter 3 so far but I highly recommend it – it’s brilliant if you want to see the world (and the rest of us) from the perspective of someone with Asperger’s and be able to laugh about our differences – sometimes that’s our best weapon!) As I say, I’m only on chapter 3 but already it’s done a lot in my mind to redress the balance between us (NTs) being right and those with AS being wrong – we’re different: we see things differently, we react to things differently (if we react at all) and therein lies the challenge. We want our AS partners to connect with us, to see things our way. But, actually, by embracing our differences and working as a team to each other’s strengths and weaknesses, could we be the perfect partnership?

I don’t know. It’s a question I’m asking myself too. And I know there are all kinds of hurdles and misunderstandings and frustrations to work through. I also know that, sometimes, like when your AS partner ignores a question or someone’s greeting because he’s zoned out, that Asperger’s is at odds with the world and that, if an aspie wants to build relationships and function well in society, they need to adapt – even change, to a certain extent.

But, at least sometimes, can we combine our very different traits to get the best out of a situation? Take The Rosie Project.

It’s such a breath of fresh air after serious, factual, self-help books that I read some of it out to Ethan – the best part of a chapter. And somewhere, in the middle of the chapter, was a reference to a hot January evening.

I recall briefly (we’re talking a split second) wondering about this as I read that line and surmising that the author must be being sarcastic (as evenings clearly are not hot in January). I, even more briefly, recognised that the sarcasm didn’t really work and was out of character for the narrator of the book but didn’t dwell on it and was onto the next sentence without a second’s hesitation. I had to stop a couple of times during my reading to inform Ethan that ‘this was a funny bit and did he ‘get it’?’ since his face showed no understanding, connection or hint of a smile. He, somewhat exasperatedly, confirmed that ‘yes he did get it and yes it was funny and he was enjoying it, could I please carry on.’ When I reached the end of the section Ethan’s response was: 

‘Is it set in Australia?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, bemused. ‘How do you know that?’ (‘and why is that insignificant fact the one thing you’ve decided to pick up on?’ I thought but didn’t say)

‘Because he says about it being hot in January.’

‘Ohhhhhh,’ I said, the penny dropping, ‘I knew it was set in Australia and still didn’t realise that’s why it would be hot in January. I thought he was just being sarcastic.’

Ethan looked at me scathingly, ‘No. Why would he be?’

Why indeed? The bloke’s got AS for goodness sake! But maybe other details that wouldn’t have made sense to me through the course of the novel now will, thanks to Ethan and his penchant for seemingly unimportant details. We make a good team!

Aspergers Christmas spoiler #3

It's Christmas Day and he's opening the present you’ve bought him. The kids are excited because they’ve ‘helped’ wrap it. He opens it, looks at it, pauses a moment and says…

“Oh dear.”

You know he has Aspergers - that he struggles to understand even his own emotions, that present-giving with all eyes on him waiting for a reaction is particularly pressured for him. But actually, right at that moment, you’re just p****d off. Fed up with having a husband who deflates everyone around him, fed up with having to pander to him and make excuses for him, fed up with him always being miserable. So, even though it’s Christmas Day and you’re in the middle of present-opening and all the kids are there and excited and you don’t want to spoil the day for them, you find you just can’t hold it back.

“What is wrong with you?” you say. “I know you’ve got Asperger's but there’s no excuse for being just bloody rude."

He looks awkward and does a kind of smirk, because he doesn’t know what else to do, and that makes you even madder.

“It’s not funny,” you shout at him, surrounded by wrapping paper and a now crying daughter who’s begging you to stop arguing. “It’s just horrible and rude and it’s now spoiled things for everyone. Why would you say that? Even if it’s not something you want. You must surely know that’s not the right thing to say when you open a present that somebody has brought for you?”

At which point your husband tells you to stop being so sensitive and walks out of the room. And you survey the scene before you of two suddenly quiet boys who’ve developed an intense interest in the game of wildlife scrabble that, two minutes earlier they had cast aside disdainfully as it wasn’t Lego or something with a screen and your daughter who is wiping her tears on her sleeve and you realise that, for their sake as well as your own, you have to come back from this. That you can’t let it write-off Christmas Day. That, actually, for a million different reasons, including the laptop, No.7 toiletry set, pestle and mortar and mini gifts from the kids that he’s bought, wrapped and got the kids to write the labels on for you and the many Christmas social gatherings that he’s come to and forced himself to perform at, you know he loves you and doesn’t mean to mess up so badly. So you kiss the kids, tell them sorry and that it’s going to be fine and you go and find your husband. Although you’re still mad and feel he’s the one that should be apologising, you apologise for your part in the proceedings; for having a go at him on Christmas Day in front of the kids. You tell him that you understand that his Asperger’s makes it difficult for him to know what to say but, of all the things he could have picked to say “Oh dear” was probably the worst. And the steam is taken out of the situation. He apologises too. Says he knows it was a stupid thing to say but that he just couldn’t think of anything else. He admits that he already knew about the present because Ava had given it away two days ago – so he was aware he had to act surprised even though he wasn’t and, it seems, this was too much for his mind to process, along with the pressure of everyone watching him and him being aware there was a kind of protocol that he should be following. He doesn’t know why it was that ‘Oh dear’ came out but you suspect it was an expression of how he felt under the pressure of the situation. After all, Aspies find it hard to edit themselves – what they’re feeling or thinking is generally what comes out while they’re busy trying to think of what they should really be saying!

Christmas Day was saved. Ethan came back into the room, we carried on opening presents. We even kissed in front of the kids to show we weren’t mad with each other. I actually ended up feeling a bit sorry for him – that, even in the relative comfort of his own home with just his family around, he still felt panicked and stressed when he had to play a part that he wasn’t sure of. Is there anywhere, anytime, anyplace that this guy can relax?  Oh yes, that’ll be in the office in the dark playing computer games…until I come and have a go at him for shutting himself in there instead of being with his family. Hmmmm….

It ain’t easy! All we can do is keep picking ourselves up and trying again. 

I wish all of you, AS or NT and despite the surface-level complications, highs and lows, tears and triumphs, a foundation of happiness, acceptance and peace this new year. 

Christmas - Asperger's style

A new theme to my (rather sporadic) blog posts for the Christmas season inspired by us decorating our tree this weekend: Christmas spoilers and blessings - as experienced when living with a partner with Asperger’s Syndrome.

So, picture the scene, the Christmas tree is up and Ethan comes down from the loft carrying two boxes of tree decorations – collected and made over many years of children’s Christmases. We (my five-year-old, seven-year-old, ten-year-old and I) tear into the boxes, excited to begin this festive family tradition. In our box of decorations we come across tinsel, of course, and baubles – and more baubles…every now and again the continual stream of baubles is made more exciting by the discovery of one of the children’s first Christmas baubles or a ceramic angel with Ava’s name on. But steadily, the box is emptying and something is still missing. The years’ and years’ worth of toilet roll Father Christmases and cardboard angels that are the inevitable and personal finishing touches to any family Christmas tree… the culmination of ten years of children’s Christmases are all gone, save for a single glittery red stocking and a cardboard manger scene that have survived Ethan’s cull.

Unbeknown to any of us, when putting the Christmas tree decorations back in the loft last year, Ethan had taken it upon himself to sort through them and had chucked out ‘the old, tatty-looking decorations’! He was utterly desensitised to the fact that these were his children’s creations, lovingly and excitedly made and tracking their creativity from toddler-hood to present-day. He was thinking purely practically; they’d seen better days so out they went!

I was gutted, obviously and astounded once again by the way his mind works. However, after my emotional reaction fuelled by mulled wine, I don’t think he’ll be doing it again! And the children have already set to work creating new festive delights to adorn our house with!

The blessing, because I feel, particularly at this time of goodwill, that I should counter any whinge with recognition of what I have to be thankful for, is that Ethan has so far risen to the occasion, made the effort, put a (sometimes slightly pained) smile on his face and has been cheerful, sociable and (mostly) upbeat during what has been even for me a sociably-exhausting couple of weeks.

Hoping he’s pacing himself cos we’ve got another three weeks to go before he can slump into the hibernation of January! 

Aspergers and not quite connecting

I heard a talk from someone with Asperger’s Syndrome lately where she mentioned the block that exists between AS and NT (neuro-typical) people: a kind of invisible wall that neither person can penetrate. For the AS person there’s a sense that, however hard they try to interact and impersonate the rules of social engagement they’ll always be just slightly off the mark, left with the sense that they’ve not quite got it right; not quite made the connection. And for the NT on the other side, the feeling that this person that they’re communicating with just isn’t quite getting it; isn’t quite tuned in, is on a different wavelength.

I witnessed this at the weekend. We threw a party on Saturday night (belated bonfire, early Christmas!). Ethan loves getting the house ready for a party – tinkering with mood lighting, organising a system for drinks, selecting a playlist…And, he starts off well – greeting people enthusiastically, offering drinks, asking people questions. But he just can’t keep it going. After a couple of hours he was starting to wilt. By the time we were down to the last few stragglers who didn’t want to leave, mentally, Ethan was gone. I was tired too but, as an NT, I could pretend I wasn’t and give the impression that I was still interested and connected with the conversation. Ethan couldn’t. I saw it as he made his point by tidying up around us and turning the music off as people were still sitting chatting. And when a guy tried to start up a conversation with Ethan by telling him about something funny that had happened that day, there was a very slight delay between him finishing his account and Ethan’s woefully inadequate response of ‘yeah’. Although Ethan was looking at the person speaking, his eyes weren’t focusing on him and even his smile somehow seemed fake. I saw, as clearly as you can see something that’s invisible, the barrier between them.

Mind you, the guy did leave quite promptly after that. Maybe I should hire Ethan out as a service to party hosts wanting to get rid of those last stubborn guests!