Beautiful watercolour by kiwitachan
I've written previously about how my ASD diagnosis opened a whole new world of self understanding floating in the alphabet soup of personal experiences I never previously recognised as "things". In the year that has passed since the possibility I could be neurodivergent was first floated, I've had the eye-opening experience of connecting with Autistics and other ND folks from around the world. This has provided ample opportunity to discuss commonalities and differences in how we experience the world. While we are all individuals ("I'm not!" one for the Life of Brian fans…), there are some shared experiences that resonate strongly with nearly all Autistics I've had the pleasure of interacting with. One of these is the overwhelming need for closure that tends to trigger endlessly looping thoughts, clinically described as perseveration.
I imagine that all people have niggling thoughts they simply cannot lay to rest from time to time, but many Autistics report having multitudes of thoughts that continue to echo through the vast hallways of their brains endlessly. It is not uncommon for such thoughts to rip us out of a dead sleep and keep us awake for days, interrupt normal daily activities, or sap the joy from our lives. It can be something as simple as a conversation 25 years ago that didn't go the way we expected, or an entire relationship left in shambles that we would give anything to at least understand, if not repair. In an earlier post, I touched on my own desperate desire to rectify past bungled relationships and felt it was time to move on and let those go, but alas, my brain is like a rusted vice grip, so I will endeavour to write my side of the stories in an attempt to lay my ghosts to rest.
Jewish Headstone by Nikodem Nijaki (wikimedia commons)
There is a picture of me horsing around with my first real boyfriend, snapped by my mom one happy afternoon, that clearly depicts my whole-hearted adoration of him. We're on the couch in my living room, playfully punching each other, I'm wearing a ridiculous hat, and we're both laughing through our pretend acts of aggression. I do not need to look at this photo to remember all the details because it is so clearly emblazoned on my brain as one of the few times in four years of high school I was truly happy.
Master T was a year younger than me and at least a foot taller. Even before he got sick, he was a dangerously skinny kid with the proudest Roman nose and a razor sharp sense of humour, which he could instantly turn against any unwitting adversary at the slightest provocation. To me he was a god.
We met through a high school theatre production, he working back stage while I lapped up the limelight. In the years to come, his prowess on the stage would far surpass mine, but that first season, he seemed content to control the curtains and make cutting remarks at the expense of all the actors. I wanted nothing more than for him to like me, but that desire just made me spout the most insipid utterances when I could think of anything to say at all. Somehow, more by sheer will than any degree of finesse, I got him alone and professed my overpowering attraction to him. This led to a delightful make-out session and us 'going out together', which mostly amounted to him occasionally coming to my house for more kissing.
He never invited me to his house and quickly thwarted any suggestion that we go there. He never included me in anything to do with his friends and would nearly always leave me hanging to meet up with them. I wanted him so badly, but as the weeks went on, he became increasingly distracted and intent on drinking with his friends any time alcohol presented itself. My mind raced through these discrete and incomplete pieces of evidence to conclude that 1) I really didn't mean much to him at all, and 2) he was developing a substance abuse problem at the ripe old age of 15. The first conclusion broke my heart, the second was simply terrifying. I'd grown up on a steady diet of stories about a family friend a few years my senior who was a brilliant and beautiful girl being dragged down by her dead-beat, drug addicted boyfriend. These stories fuelled my rapidly spiralling fears that this was the path I had unwittingly stumbled upon and if I didn't change course quickly, I would be "ruined" as she was (N.B. she ended up becoming a doctor).
I resolutely did not want to break up with Master T, the thought of it crushed me. I wanted to talk to him about his drinking, but I lacked the skills to broach such a delicate topic with anyone, especially someone who left me tongue tied and capable of slicing me to ribbons with an unparalleled caustic tongue. I was also of the mind that no one, especially not him, could actually care about me. I honestly believed it would not bother him one scrap if I simply vaporised and let him be. So, I just stopped talking to him and couldn't even bring myself to look at him in passing because it hurt so much. Twenty five years have passed, and the simple act of writing this brings tears to my eyes and an unbearable tightness in my chest. I can still see him coming toward me from the Senior wing as I approached it and just walking right past.
No one knew it at the time, but Master T was incredibly sick. He knew he was in excruciating pain, but he didn't tell anyone, choosing instead to self medicate with whatever alcohol his friends could get their hands on. My inability to deal with confusing and conflicting signals meant I walked away from someone who made my heart sing when he needed more support than ever. This thought still gnaws away at the corners of my brain far more often than I appreciate. Not long after I left him in a lurch, he was admitted to a distinguished hospital with the most advanced case of his disease they'd ever witnessed in someone his age. He required intensive treatment and was partly disabled from the extensive damage. While I know the disease and its effects are in no way my fault, I have never been able to forgive myself for walking away at that critical time in his life, for my inability to sit with someone else's pain rather than run away from the overwhelming effect it has on me.
A year later, another stage production underway, we were foisted together again. Tensions were high, but my feelings for Master T had only intensified. Now it was his turn to drive and as we sat in a darkened parking lot he wanted answers. Answers I didn't have. Answers for something it would take me decades to completely decipher. I was nearly 30 before I discovered my inability to perceive love and affection from others and on the brink of 40 before I understood the interplay between my neurology and environment that generated that devastating flaw.
We got back together during the production run and I was over the moon at this second chance. I wanted to do it better. I wanted so badly to right the wrongs, but he was only in it for retribution. With cold calculation, he threw back the dish I'd unintentionally served and had his revenge. I can still feel my breath wrenched from my body as he delivered the blow, he didn't want to see me anymore. I can see the grass around me wavering as I made my way unsteadily back across the open field where the new high school now stands. The ache was so palpable and pervasive; it would have hurt less if he'd physically beat me.
The only benefit to holding on so clearly to these painful details is using them as raw materials to weave into something new and beautiful. I'm nearly finished writing a novel in which my main character shares many of my challenges, but is more self aware and better supported. Still, she is not immune to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and the scene in which her boyfriend breaks up with her is based directly on this moment of acute agony in my own anthology of pain.
I thought that writing a friendly post-script to our story could stop the perseverating on my grievous error, but I was wrong. While it did bring me great joy to reconnect with Master T online in recent years, and even more so to talk in person, it did not resolve the final chord still hanging in my mind. Our interactions and conversation steered clear of the past, navigating only the safe waters of the present. I thought this would be enough, to feel absolved in a smile and a snarky joke, but without the chance to ever say "I'm sorry I hurt you, and I forgive you for hurting me" the thoughts play on endless repeat, wearing holes in the carpet of my mind.
It's a complicated thing, the past. It's made even more complicated by the way my brain holds so fiercely to things others can lay to rest. I assume Master T never looses a wink of sleep over this briefest moment of our shared ancient history, but for me it's an interminable wobbly tooth that I cannot excise.
