Verified by 
In the 2007 film, Autism: The Musical, a mother made a comment which really touched me and made me think. Speaking of her relationship to her daughter, she says: "I tortured myself over the years thinking that in order to fully love her and parent her, I needed to be able to understand her head." This comment really drove home to me what it must be like to be on the other side of an autism spectrum diagnosis...and what a struggle it must be for parents.
This concept was a bit difficult for me, at first... You see, my parents, like all parents, are far from perfect...but I never got the sense they felt this way. Why? Well, as I've mentioned, I strongly suspect both my father and stepfather were on the spectrum, and my mother readily admits that she believes that she is not neurologically typical. I see a great deal of my own traits in both biological parents...and in many areas, I think they "got" me better than the average person.
Like many kids, I often wished that my parents were different. More traditional, a little less eccentric. More "normal." Yet, now I wonder...if that were the case, would my parents have struggled, just like the mother in the movie? What must it be like, to have a child you so love, yet struggle to understand? Wondering what they're thinking. Why they're in pain, why they strike out...if they feel your love.
Looking for a comparative paradigm within my own experience, I think about my first encounters with my stepmother, and her family. When my father first started dating, after his divorce from my mother, he was very slow about introducing me to the new woman in his life. He knew that I was extremely shy (at least that's the word he hung on it), and I struggled a quite bit with new situations. So, our relationship began tentatively, gradually. It began with quiet evenings in our apartment, with her and her son. Over time, we would spend time with them at her house. Introducing me to the relatives...well, that came last. And that was the greatest challenge.
My stepmother came from a very large, very interconnected, traditional family whom I finally met at a backyard barbecue at my stepmother's brother's house, down the street. Perhaps trying to encourage me to feel comfortable, they paired me up with his daughter, a girl close to my age. For a neurotypical kid, maybe it would have worked - but I found it torturous. She meant well, as did I - but the awkwardness of the encounter was difficult to ignore. She was a very typical "girly girl," a very social one who in a few years would become a cheerleader. We had nothing in common.
We sat in her room, painfully trying to make conversation, and as time went on, it became harder and harder. After what seemed like hours, my frustration level was high, and I was nearing meltdown. Jointly acknowledging that we'd done all the "relating" we could do, we decided to go outside, join the rest of the crowd. For me, that was like going from the frying pan into the fire. People everywhere. Kids screaming, running around. The low constant chatter of people talking. It soon sent me in to full overload.
I needed my father. In such situations, he was my home base - he seemed to know how to intervene, how to help me. So, standing on the outskirts of the crowd, I pondered my strategy. How could I find him, get to him, before I reached my breaking point? Venturing closer to the noisy mob would be, to my overloaded mind and senses, like running the gauntlet. But what other option did I have?
Reaching a conclusion, I took a deep breath and went for it. I kept my head down, staring straight ahead...avoiding the interested gazes of the adults as I passed by. Not only was it uncomfortable to look them in the face, I had also come to learn that looking toward people's faces had one unavoidable consequence: They talked to you. I didn't mean to be asocial, or rude, but in my overwhelmed state, I simply didn't have the energy to engage them.
Ranging through the crowd, I searched the sea of skirts and slacks for something familiar. Then, I saw it. Brown tweed. Elbow patches. My father's favorite jacket!! My goal in sight now, I focused on that bit of sleeve. I had to get there. When I did, I breathed a sigh of relief, and slipped my hand in the one at the end of that arm. But as I did, I saw something that made my stomach lurch. A flash of gold at the wrist. A watch. My father didn't wear a watch!
Gasping, I looked up into the bespectacled face of my soon-to-be step-grandfather. His mouth moved, and I heard a rumbling sound, which shortly decoded itself into words, "Well, hello there..." He smiled, and began to bend down.
I panicked. How did one interact with a grandfatherly type person? I had limited experience at it...my paternal grandmother was a widow - I'd never known a grandfather on her side of the family, and my maternal grandfather was a habitually quiet man, who seemed to prefer his newspaper to excess conversation. I found him restful to be around. Outside of the niceties, he seemed content to simply be in each other's presence.
This man was different. His relationships with his grandchildren had a completely different quality. He interacted with them, teased them, hugged them. The little ones sat in his lap. I had no experience with this type of interaction...and had no idea how to respond. Would I even be able to respond at all? At times of great stress, my mouth had a tendency to declare mutiny...rendering me incapable of saying a word.
Unable to come up with anything to say, and unable to speak it if I did, the fear and embarrassment got the better of me. I dropped his hand, and ran for all I was worth.
I always felt a bit chagrined that this was his first introduction to me. A lesser man would have taken it personally, branded me as weird, or all of the above. But he didn't, and neither did the rest of the family, at least not that I ever heard. Time after time, they reached out to me, included me. Even though I often shied away from family events.
It was the family that got me into the summer program at their church, where I met my first real friend in years. The uncle who hosted the fateful barbecue encouraged me to be involved in the youth group which he taught. After I was injured in an accident, he and has wife had a wheelchair ramp built on the front of their home, so that I could stay there while my parents worked, and arranged for an extended relative, a teacher, to homeschool me while I recovered.
So many times, and in so many ways, they reached out to me. But, do I believe that they understood me? No...I never got that sense. Underneath it all, I always sensed a certain confusion. Why did I withdraw? Why didn't I join in like the other kids?
I don't think they "understood my head" - but the older I get, the more I revisit their example of love. What they showed me is that love is as much an action, as it is a feeling...and no, they didn't have to "get" me to show me love, or to get me to feel it. And I often feel that their willingness and determination to continue to reach out to me, despite not understanding me teaches a deeper lesson.
It's easy to love someone who's like you, whom you "get." It can be a bit harder to love someone who's different, whose motivations you don't understand. But the effort is infinitely worth it.
For updates you can follow me on Facebook or Twitter. Feedback? E-mail me.
