Autism. Neurodivergence. Being on the Spectrum. It's something that seems to be in media A LOT at the moment. It's all over the socials, Tik-Toks and even TV series about it. As far as I'm concerned, long may it bloody continue. The more information about it, the better. Both my nearest and dearest are Autistic so it's something that has always been in my life and close to my heart. It wasn't until now though that I realised that other people don't have the same view or experiences.
"Like Sheldon Cooper? Off the Big Bang Theory, it's like that, right?" I cringe inwardly, hiding my irritation by swigging my pint. "No, mate, nothing like that." I answer, mulling over my words. I know Steve doesn't mean anything by it, but it's annoying all the same. There's no excuse in 2023 to be 'unaware' of something as common as Autism. I'll forgive him for not understanding how it works, I'm not entirely sure how it works either. "It's like Tom. Tom's real, Sheldon Cooper's a character." Using a real person makes it easier for Steve to understand. I try my best to explain why my best mate Tom follows me to the smoking area, even though he doesn't smoke. Why he's sometimes chewing on a rubber Lego brick and why he wears earplugs to the pub. But Tom is different to my girlfriend Stella, who's then different to my sister Erin, because people are different. They all have Autism, and they are still all unique. Just like me and Steve, both blokes, both very different people.
I think I'm doing a good job of explaining what differences there are, right up until Steve tells me that Stella is 'lucky to find someone like you'. "Like me?" I know what his answer's going to be, even as I ask. "Well, you got so much experience with Erin, Stella's much easier…" The conversation didn't last much longer, after I came down with a bad case of 'FuckyouSteve.'
The Language of Love
It takes a good couple of days for Stella to reassure me that she hasn't 'settled for me' just because I know what the word Neurodivergent means. But how do I know that they love me? Does Erin tolerate me because I'm family and she doesn't have a choice? Does Stella just put up with my bad habits because I'm kind to her? The language of love is universal, right? At least that's what all the movies and romance books say. And I suppose it is? Kind of? Everybody knows of love. Whether it's romantic or otherwise. We've all got that mate who loves their car/bike/3 wheeler. A friend who found their soulmate in the form of a scraggly cat from the local rescue centre. The love we have for our families - found and blood related. My love of noodles is boundless and never ending. That warm feeling in my chest when Mrs P calls me 'Lovely-Luke'.
Expressing love is a whole different ball game. My 'love language' or how I express my love for those around me is loud. I laugh loudly, cook big meals, tell bad jokes, insist on receiving messages from people that have made it home safely, and generally take pleasure in being annoying as hell to those that have the misfortune of loving me. But what happens when a person you love can't express it in the way people tell you is 'normal'? How do you recognise and understand a language that you don't speak? What happens when they don't have the words to say, 'I love you'?
"It's easy once you find a Rosetta Stone." When Erin says that to me, it takes a moment to sink in. As usual she has chosen to carry on a conversation that I'd assumed was finished a couple of hours ago. It must be a serious comment for her to make because she turned around from her spreadsheet to look at my face, taking the time to analyse my expression. Many years ago, some fool told her that it was important to look people straight in the eyes when talking to them, because it's 'normal' and 'friendly'. I'm sat on the sofa across the room, and I can almost feel her eyes drilling through my skull. A Rosetta Stone? I mention this to Stella, keen to get her thoughts on the subject. I've started making notes on it, doing research on what people class as 'love languages' and how others see it. The phrasing still bothers me though, what needs to be translating when it comes to love?
Love is Love, Right?
Love is love. Right? I'm sprawled on the sofa, like I've grown too many limbs. The cat is snuggled into my chest, purring through my ribcage. Stella is curled in her corner, pulling the threads out of her crocheted jumper because the holes weren't the right size. The only point of contact between us is her hand in my hair, every so often she rubs my scalp and I become more of a human puddle of relaxation. "I like that analogy; it works both ways." She says as she places the growing ball of yarn to one side. She leans down with a smile and sinks her blunt teeth into my resting hand, before getting up to make me a cup of tea. On good days I can find little indents all over my shoulders and arms, on bad days it looks like I've been mauled. It's still rattling around in my head as I listen to Stella in the kitchen. Our kitchen. I can picture the exact motions she's going through by the noises she's making. Even as she hums one of those stupid Tik-Tok songs to herself. I almost don't answer my phone. But it's Erin's girlfriend, Hannah, and her puns are almost as bad as my jokes. Pressing green and I can hear the shrill obscenities even through the tinny speaker phone, I don't bother saying much, just reassuring Hannah that I'll be there asap.
"….when you've yanked its guts and poop out, you gotta like wash them again but just a bit, then m'gonna take the garlic that I already roasted, remember? I said to put the garlic on…" I continue with my recipe monologue, spinning the desk chair when it starts to slow, it doesn't matter what I talk about, just that I talk. Erin stopped screaming about 10 minutes ago, after I manhandled her into her chair and spun her like a kid's toy. I used to do it to her on the swing set when we were a lot younger, or I'd pick her up and physically spin us. But I suffer with motion sickness, and it didn't always end well. She's had a bad week; her job is stressful and there's been roadworks in her street for 5 days. I don't know what specifically happened to make everything too much, I don't ask either. I used to try and figure it out and take great pains to avoid all of the triggers, but it became impossible. The outside world is not built for people like Erin, so instead I learned what makes this life easier for her to cope with. "…anymore than, like, 7 minutes and you'll ruin it. Be like chewing on a pencil rubber. But in that 7 minutes your rice will have finished, and you can fluff that bitch right up, with a fork, obviously…"
Stella smiles at me as I drag the desk chair (and Erin) through to the kitchen. She's got her own headphones on; Erin's screeching could shatter windows. A neighbour once called the RSPCA because she thought my parents were abusing some sort of vulgar parrot. I know I'm being watched as I make enough Mac 'N' Cheese to feed a small country but it's nice, and when Erin stops spinning long enough to accept a cup of tea, I know I've done good.
Unique Expressions of Love
When we visit the family home, I am first in the door. Announcing to my Mother that her favourite son is visiting at around the same volume of a small jet engine. Erin waits. She knows that I will take the boisterous cousin and sibling greetings, the back slapping Dad hugs, the Aunty kisses and cheek abuse. I will answer the repeated questions about my job, the weather, the traffic on the way in and the comments about my height (that hasn't changed in 15 years). Once I have strong armed several small children, challenged at least one cousin to an arm wrestle and beelined off towards the Granny corner, does Erin appear. Gracing people with her presence and using her monthly social quota all in one day. When I'm out at the local pub, chatting with the social group, and Tom's laughter is a beat behind mine. He waits. "I don't understand," he says as we hit the smoking area. The worry in his face that he's missed the social cues again. He knows I'll reassure him, explain what people actually mean, tell him that the joke was shite anyway. When Stella seeks me out, it doesn't matter what I'm doing, working or gaming, sometimes I'm just watching Futurama for the hundred and third time. She'll sit and just be, 'because she likes that I'm there'. Or she'll stand in the kitchen and tell me all about the new artist she's found, and their entire 45-year career of work.
I look at the message on my phone again. As if the context will suddenly spring out at me. Sadly, my glaring does nothing to translate my Sister's message. It's 9am and Erin has not passed the Turing Test today. When I pass the phone to Stella, who looks at it and giggles in understanding, her words suddenly ring true to me. 'It works both ways.' I don't speak this language because my brain is wired differently. I don't retain information in the same way. I love to cook. I love cooking for people. Erin knows this. I also love fish and cooking seafood. Erin knows this. I would have many uses for prawns and would most likely invite Erin and her Girlfriend around for dinner to use them. Erin knows this. To Stella, the message was obvious. I have prawns. I want you to cook them. I will eat these prawns you cook for me. Erin doesn't need to worry about hand holding my two brain cells and guiding them through the conversation, because I have Stella. I have my Rosetta Stone.
The Rosetta Stone of Love
There are proper terms for it nowadays, the ways that Erin and Stella show love for me. It's called Parallel play when Stella follows me into the work room to just sit on her phone. When Erin doesn't just know about something, she knows everything there is or will ever be to know about this thing, then tells me about it, as if I will have the same fascination with hydraulic systems. That's called Info dumping. Deep Pressure Touches describe Erin's unique way of hugging. It's like experiencing a prolonged Heimlich manoeuvre. But she hugs me this way because it makes her feel better. And when I am sad, or stressed or in need of physical contact, she wants to make me feel better. In the ways she knows how. Stella tells me I'm her favourite human adult. Her favourite. Out of all 8ish billion (8,045,311,447 according to Erin) humans on the planet. Tom tells me I don't count, when he can't face the thought of speaking to people, I don't count as people. Erin digs her bony fingers into my biceps, holds my hand like a vice and smiles at me. She doesn't smile at other people.
I don't need to hear the words 'I love you' because I'm told in so many more ways.
Our thoughts...
Loving someone with autism may require a different approach to understanding and communication, but it is no less valuable or meaningful. By opening our hearts and minds to the unique ways love can be expressed, we can build stronger, more compassionate relationships with our neurodivergent loved ones. It's essential to recognize and appreciate the various love languages, even when they differ from societal norms. With patience, understanding, and a willingness to learn, we can create a more inclusive and accepting world for all.
