Keeping the Peace
Anjali N
Once, when I was having dinner with my mother’s latest partner, he straightforwardly and kindly asked if I thought I was autistic. With all the courage I had, I told him I was and that I knew it. He said he’d observed it too, mainly because I was too stringent with my planning and sticking to my routines, and because it showed in my discomfort toward physical affection. I asked if I should try to tell my mother, again, and see if I could convince her enough to at least accept it, if not help with it. He suggested it was better not to, because she’d think that it was her fault.
I was not surprised. Maybe deep down I already knew it, which is why I didn’t want to press on and burden her. Even though I would have liked her to know and support me, I didn’t want her to blame herself, like I knew she would. Most of our conversations about almost everything centered around her. She’d ask for my suggestions and advice and I’d offer them as best I could, thinking that I’d find the same support if needed, but I hadn’t before and it didn’t seem like I was going to get it now. As with most of our conflicts, I give up. It keeps the peace in the house, and I've learned to pick my battles.
I suppose that is what happens eventually. When no one hears you cry or scream, you shut up, afraid that the noise might be too much to bear for them, especially when growing up in a single parent home. All my life it has just been her and I, and for a child who didn't want to make her mother's life any harder than it already was, smiling silently was the expression I learned to master. It made her love me more, I think, that I wasn’t a problematic child. Little did I know that keeping the peace at home could create chaos in my own mind.
*
I didn't need to be professionally diagnosed with autism to know I had it. That's what happens when you obsessively try to find out what is wrong with you. You diagnose yourself before anyone else does. Anyway, if someone did tell me that before I found out, I probably wouldn't believe them. Not because I'm not ready to accept it, but because I don't need anyone else to make my brain dwell on those thoughts. I do that enough myself.
I’m a highly functioning autistic adult. While not an official medical diagnosis, it does describe pretty accurately adults who have mild symptoms of autism. For me, it has a lot to do with social difficulties. From a young age, I had trouble making friends and preferred to be in my own company, with the exception of books. And to be raised in a boarding school without friends was the ultimate form of loneliness. For a while, I pretended to like the same things as my classmates just to fit in, but I always knew I was odd. No matter how hard I tried, I wouldn’t be fulfilled, which is how I could leave without shedding a tear or a goodbye hug after being in the same school with the same people for almost 8 years. Even now I have only three friends, and frankly, that is enough. While I didn’t, on the surface, seem to have any trouble conversing with people, my mind was a mess. I would either find conversations boring or be too intimidated by having them to even think about the words they were saying.
I’d learned to speak even before I could walk, and my teachers would comment on my “impressive vocabulary for a child”, calling me “quite mature for my age” or an “old soul”. I got along better with my seniors, mentors, teachers, and older people than with my peers. I only used to enjoy conversations limited to a few topics, things like fiction, authors or travel, and I’d obsessively read about or discuss these topics, with little to no interest in anything else.
In addition to this, I’ve also grown up quite emotionally sensitive and reactive. I have random outbursts over the littlest things like not finding the brand of milk I like in the supermarket or losing a pen I was using. It is often hard for me to regulate my emotions, and I have to keep reminding myself not to overreact lest I seem ‘neurotic’. Another thing people found odd about me was not being physically affectionate. I don’t hug my friends unless I’m seeing them after a long time, and even then I just go stiff and withdraw quickly. Even now, when my mother comes in for a hug I give in so as not to offend, but I’m not comfortable for even a second of it.
I didn’t know that these were odd behaviours until a few years ago. At first, I thought I was just introverted and quite mature for my age. It was only later that I began to realise there might be more to it. When I was in the 8th grade at boarding school, I was sent for mandatory counselling sessions with my classmates, as well as alone. The counselor had ‘observed’ me during class sessions and noticed some oddities - about my isolation from the rest of the boarders, lack of interaction and reactions to what they were saying. I took it to heart and obsessed over it for a long time, but since we didn’t have access to the internet, I couldn’t look it up. Eventually, I brushed it off and occupied my mind with other things.
*
It returned again when I was in college, when I took more than a month to have my first conversation with someone from my class. I’d usually return to my room and watch a movie or stay in the library. I preferred to eat my meals while listening to a podcast rather than with an actual human, and I basically shut myself out because I was too busy overanalysing every move I made or everything I said, trying to perceive the others’ reactions and hope they didn’t think I was too crazy to hang out with.
A few months in, things seemed to have improved and I made a friend and a few acquaintances on campus. But something still didn’t feel quite right. There must be some other reason why I was the way I was. At first I thought it was a classic case of social anxiety, attributing it to a new environment. But as my obsessive brain would compel me to, I was pulled into reading more about social psychology, including anxiety in women and how other illnesses are often misdiagnosed as 'anxiety'. One of the first pieces I read was about women not knowing that they were autistic, particularly because "autism" was considered a disability in communication or speech, which is also how I used to think about it. Many women don't receive a diagnosis until they become adults, which is why they present different symptoms than the common ones and also "mask" their symptoms. In one of the essays I read, a woman was diagnosed with depression, anxiety, ADHD and PTSD, before finally being diagnosed with autism, which is where she learned that the autism spectrum could encompass all of these symptoms.
This thought took root in my mind for a long time, but I didn't feel like I wanted to tell anyone yet. I was an independent child and was determined to remain one. I wanted to be sure before I wrongly made any claims. At the time, I was only comfortable with taking online autism tests rather than going to a psychologist for evaluation, so I did that. I took some questionnaires on social anxiety and adult autism, which concluded that I was mildly autistic and highly functioning. I wasn't ready to believe it yet, particularly because I didn't consider that being "mildly" autistic was a matter of concern. I tried to be more outgoing and sociable, keeping myself busy with my assignments, work, and travel, and the rest of my college terms flew by.
When I spent time alone, these thoughts about my odd behaviour and online diagnoses would resurface, but I focused my energy on other things. When the pandemic struck and we were all forced to spend time with ourselves, I actually felt peaceful and content. Although I missed the few friends I made and spoke to them every few months, I didn't miss the 'socialising' that everyone seemed to. South Goa was one of the first places where the restrictions eased and we could go out to shacks and open-air nightlife spots. When I tried to put myself out there again, I found it increasingly uncomfortable, which only worsened when my mother would deride me for choosing to stay at home and sticking to my limited group of friends (all online), while everyone else finally felt 'free'.
*
About a year ago, I met with a professional. It was during the pandemic and being able to sit in my room and talk to a screen seemed far more comforting than the idea of going to a room with a stranger to talk about my feelings. There wasn't much talking though, in fact, most of the session was spent in silence. And when he finally confirmed what I knew all along, I stopped attending the sessions.
Being in therapy, however brief, felt like being naked. And I wasn’t comfortable with that at all. How was I supposed to talk about my feelings when I couldn’t even get the words out of my mouth? It was ironic because the characters in the stories I wrote spoke their minds without a care in the world. Destructive? Maybe, but I suppose it was a way of venting. It made my characters lovable but I’m not sure it would do the same for me. That was another thing I worried about. Love. I spent a lot of my time wondering whether my disability would take away my ability to love, or rather to be loved. If my own mother, who was connected by blood and soul to me, couldn’t understand, then how could a stranger?
The thing about autism is that it is so wide a spectrum that only obvious symptoms seem to catch the attention, while the more subtle ones are brushed off, especially in conservative societies and households. Perhaps it's the fear of the stigma that comes with having a “disabled” child, which is quite common. Or it could be that parents are simply unwilling to accept that their child could be anything less than perfect.
My household, I thought, is anything but traditionally conservative, even though the country I live in often is. I always believed my mother was the “cool mom,” and that our relationship mirrored the one between Lorelai and Rory in Gilmore Girls, which to this day is my comfort show. Theirs was a friendship more than a mother-daughter bond, filled with banter, intelligence, communication, admiration, and above all, acceptance. Lorelai stood by Rory while she made her mistakes, trusting in her modern parenting style and knowing that Rory would eventually find her way and learn a few lessons and gain experiences along the way, which would enrich her life. I felt sure everyone who watched this show would want their mother-daughter relationship to be the same.
For the past 20 years, it has just been us. She came from Indonesia after leaving my father, with nothing but a baby in a blanket and a little cash. With some support, she managed to build a life here. I went to boarding school because mere survival was hard enough already. We met a few times a year and she often brought me along on her work trips as she was a tour manager. What both excited and annoyed me was that we’d be moving houses constantly, because she didn’t like being in one place for too long. While I was in school or college, it didn’t matter much because I didn’t have to be home a lot. But when the pandemic struck and we were forced together in the house that she’d rented in South Goa, things got real.
Because we’d so often been away from each other, I chose to keep certain parts of my life private from her, like the fact that I had dated and kissed boys in high school and college, that I knew about alcohol, drugs, and so on. I knew she wouldn't mind the alcohol, but when it came to boys she’d immediately act erratic, storming me with a hundred questions, but definitely not being ‘cool’ about it like I thought she would. She was quite open about her relationships with me, and we’d laugh over her boy problems and try to psychoanalyse their behaviours if she had her doubts. We’d watch teen romance movies and she’d ask about the boys in school, convincing me that she was my friend, and that she was so excited for me to have my first crush or first love or first kiss - all the little experiences that make teenage girls giddy with joy. But when I tried to bring it up, her tone and demeanour would be cold and strict, not like the ‘friend’ I’d want to share my experiences with. So even now I don’t share them, so as not to rile her up in any way.
*
Being home used to be a holiday, but suddenly in the pandemic there was no college life, or any other separate life to return to anymore. I was at home with my mother, indefinitely, or so we thought at the time. Even after things became more ‘normal’ on the outside, we could not return to campus, so I began trying to build my life where I was and trying to make friends. I wasn’t ever good at it and it had only become more tiresome now that our whole idea of social life had changed. My mother would encourage, even borderline force me to spend time with the friends that she had made there. It was then that I found some of the mild symptoms I’d read about resurfacing after being dormant in the early stages of the pandemic. It was also a time that people were more openly discussing mental health and disabilities.
Although I wanted to talk to my mother about this, I didn’t want to burden her with more than she already had to deal with. She had lost her job in the pandemic and I had to work and study to keep things afloat for myself. It was only in recent months that I finally gathered the courage to bring it up delicately, but it didn’t turn out the way I expected.
All my classmates throughout school considered my mother ‘cool’ and ‘progressive’. She’d wear the most western outfits, keep her hair short, stylish, and coloured, and would even allow me to colour my hair when no other parent would allow their kid. She encouraged me to get my first tattoo, gave me my first hookah, cigarette, and drink, when I was far too young to even understand what they were. She encouraged me to travel alone even before I was a teenager, and we’d take several trips together, go to nightclubs, check out boys that were too old for me at the time, or try a new cocktail at every meal - experiences that others have with their friends and hide from their parents. I’d come back to school with the most interesting stories from different cities and countries, and share them with everyone, because of how proud I was of my mother for letting me grow in these ways.
But even a ‘progressive’ woman like my mother refuses to believe that I could have any disorder or disability at all. She’ll be the first to list out a number of disorders and diseases the minute she feels more bloated than usual, or something trite like that. God, I hope she's not reading this. But maybe that wouldn't be so bad. Maybe she'll finally hear the words that I've choked on or swallowed down in past years. Whenever I did mention it a few times in passing, her response was the same. "No, you can't possibly be autistic. You're a writer, how could you have difficulty with communication? And besides, we talk about everything! There's nothing wrong with you!"
"Yeah, you're right," I’d tell her, as usual, and swallow the rest of my explanation along with the rest of the wine that soothed my mind more than a conversation could.
*
If there was one thing I dearly wanted, it was to be loved. Not in the flowers and chocolates and expensive dates way, but the patient, understanding, kind way. But that seemed like a burden I couldn’t put on anyone’s shoulders. I always believed the world was cruel to everyone, one way or another, and if people truly loved someone then they would do their best to take away the other’s pain. I would do the same in a heartbeat, but I wouldn't let anyone do it for me.
There were times when I would get anxious when someone hugged me, even my friends and relatives. What would a potential boyfriend think of that? And what about when I would keep to myself when I was emotional, utterly incapable of saying a word? How would I communicate or be emotionally balanced long enough to do that? That’s the key to a good relationship, I’d been told.
But love is a strange thing. It makes the most dramatic entrance, usually when you think you’re not looking for it or not ready for it. It’s a mirror that shows you everything you are and everything you can be. It is where you find the worst of yourself but also the best of yourself. I have never cried as much as I did when I fell in love. Most times, words failed me, so I cried, not out of pain but also because of how deeply I felt the love and I couldn’t express it in words. There were a million little things I couldn’t say in words.
Out of sheer luck, I believe, I found someone who could even sit through my silence while I gathered my thoughts to try to speak out at least a tiny percentage of what I felt. That didn’t happen automatically, of course. After the pandemic, I was going to take a solo trip to Kodaikanal for the summer. On my first day at the hostel, I walked down to the cafe, tired and restless, and the sound of spirited laughter rushed into my ears. I could only see the back of his curly head and a faded blue hoodie, while his friends chatted about something. I took a seat on the table next to his, too tired for an introduction, but he left even before I had a chance to energise myself with the coffee I ordered. Somehow I ended up talking to the boy he was chatting with and didn’t notice when he ended up standing next to my table. When I looked up at him, I was met with the most warm, honey-coloured eyes, and dimpled smile. I don’t remember how our conversation began or even what we were talking about, something about energies and auras. But an hour later, I felt full of life, like I was well-rested, and the whole cafeteria was empty, save for us. His open, free spirit is what drew me to him and refreshed me, and although he was supposed to leave that day, he didn’t. We spent the whole month in the lush, green hills, but I tried to keep him at arm’s length, afraid that if he got too close, he wouldn’t like what he was seeing. The summer ended and we returned to our homes and continued dating. Despite the distance, I was more drawn to him than ever. He’d make the time and put in the effort to listen and try to understand what I was saying, even though most of the time my brain was racing with thoughts that I could hardly fathom.
After a while, he came over to my place to meet my mother, who completely shut off the idea of us dating, hurling insults and forcing us to be away from each other because he wasn’t “polished enough” and was “not the right one”, with his wild hair, his motorbike, and extensive travel plans. She was clear that she had someone else in mind for me and that I would never be happy with someone like him, because I had much more to see and do. But I didn’t want to give up. I knew it was something worth waiting and fighting for, and I had to give it a chance.
*
What drew me to him, more than anything, was the emotional security I had felt with him. For once, I let myself feel all the love that he was prepared to give. He always tried to create a space that was safe for me to speak without being shut down or judged, and he would embrace my insecurities and oddities even more than I could. When it came to physical intimacy as well, he’d always make sure I was comfortable with it because that was his love language. In turn, I had to learn to give as well as receive physical affection, which came organically and willingly. At first, I’d never even let him touch or play with my hair and would instantly flinch, when he did it subconsciously again, we were both surprised to see that it felt natural to me. Now I wait till the day I can hold him again and let him hold me, because even though I may not be comfortable with other people, I have grown to love and want the affection from him. Intimacy requires vulnerability. For the longest time, I didn’t let myself be vulnerable, no matter how much I liked a person, because I felt the need to protect myself. But when someone consistently creates a safe space for you and proves how much they’d like to know you with their actions, and is open to listening and understanding, not just for a day or two, but for months, it becomes a path for open communication and trust. And all I did was walk half-way.
When we were secretly travelling together through the Himalayas, almost six months after we started dating, I told him about my disability, and tried to explain it. Calmly, he told me that he had more or less noticed, but didn’t know much about autism, and urged me to continue describing it. He told me how he observed that I’d talk in depth about things that interested me but I wouldn’t do much except read and work obsessively outside my specific hobbies and interests. I would get drastically upset if things didn’t go my way or if there was a change in routine, which was difficult for him because he was always easygoing. I would prefer to do any task solo, even when it came to travel plans or work projects. I would hardly ever engage in small talk and would often be too blunt with people, or I’d never join in or initiate conversations because of how different I felt to them. I would deflect our conversations when it came to talking about my feelings because I would get overwhelmed and thought my partner wouldn’t understand, but in truth, I had not even given him a chance to.
It was like he held a mirror up for me to show me the parts I had suppressed for so long. It was foolish of me to think I could get away with these behaviours in a relationship, the way I did with my mother. I suppose that was what being loved did to someone. Usually, this was when I’d run away from a relationship or shut my partner off because the truth was too much for me to bear. But he didn’t let me. He didn’t brush it under the carpet like I thought he would, nor did he ever use it against me, which was my greatest fear at the time.
After months of being together I have noticed a change in myself, at least when I’m with him. He encourages me to pursue different interests and convinces me to go with the flow like he does, which is more difficult than I thought it would be. He’s sociable and pulls me into conversations, and often comes up with activities to do together. Still, when he asks to talk about my feelings, I stay quiet most of the time, either gathering my thoughts to form a proper sentence verbally or plotting a way to get out of it. But he doesn’t give up. He sits through my uncomfortable silence as if he can hear the words I’m not saying, and the words I’ve never told anyone.
Even though I still cannot bring myself to speak to my own mother, I know I still have someone to turn to until I find a way. It is indeed the strangest thing to be loved in the way you need to be, and to start healing the scars you haven’t shown yet.
***
About the Author
Anjali N is a rising writer and a creative associate editor at PocketFM, an audio-series platform based in India. Born in Indonesia and brought up in India, she leads a nomadic digital lifestyle, driven by her passion for books, food, and eco-friendly travel.