[Note 1: This post includes some general information about the abuse I experienced as a child. The descriptions aren't graphic, but if you're not feeling up to reading about the subject, feel free to skip this post.]
[Note 2: I spell the word God like this: G-d. It represents my belief that G-d is beyond all words and images, beyond any name I could employ to represent the unfathomable mystery of existence. It works for me, but I don't mean to suggest that it should work for you. I have enough on my hands without telling other people what to believe!]
And now, my post:
In the process of realizing that many of my challenges are neurological, rather than psychological, I’ve begun reassessing key relationships from earlier times in my life. A great deal comes into focus. I can make sense of things that had previously been entirely baffling. Most of the issues revolve around my very painful relationship with my parents and extended family, so these are the issues I will share in this post.
My Relationship with My Father
My father was most likely an Aspie. He was abusive, but in a very odd kind of way. He lacked meanness and guile. I never felt that he was a bad person. He just didn’t understand boundaries or what kind of behavior was appropriate. He seemed very lost. I knew he was on overload a lot, even though I didn’t have the words for it. He had many other Asperger traits: he couldn’t make eye contact, he thrived on non-sequiturs, he loved detail, he couldn’t hear me in situations involving more than two people, and he constantly interrupted and changed the subject of any conversation.
Regarding the abuse, I don’t excuse his behavior, but I see why it always had this weird quality of cluelessness rather than malice. It never seemed textbook, and until I discovered AS, I was mystified as to why. I kept waiting to meet someone with a story similar to mine, but despite going to a number of survivor support groups over the years, I never found anyone who did.
My Relationship with My Mother
Oy. My mother was always certain that she was right and knew the proper way to do things. And everything—everything—was always about her. For instance, if I were sick, she wouldn’t say, “Oh, I’m sorry you don’t feel well.” Instead, she’d say, “Goddamit, I had plans today.”
Needless to say, she dominated both my father and me. My next-door neighbor from childhood described my parents in this way: “Your father is a puppet, and your mother is the puppeteer.” I immediately had an image of my mother in the second-story window manipulating the puppet strings while my father watered the lawn. It was the perfect image to describe their relationship. As a result, she was able to dominate me almost entirely. It was like living with a tornado.
It may have been common for Aspies in my parents’ generation to marry a dominating partner. I can see why an undiagnosed Aspie might want to marry someone who is absolutely sure she is right, at all times and in all places. It didn’t go very well for me as a child, however.
My Relationship with My Extended Family
When I was 33, I cut off contact with my both of my parents. I wasn’t able to assert my boundaries and be taken seriously, so I continued to feel very unsafe, even in adulthood. After every conversation with my mother (even from 3000 miles away), I fell into very deep depressions in which I didn’t think that I deserved to live. In response to my breaking contact with my parents, the rest of my extended family broke contact with me, including my brother (and only sibling). I have tried to reestablish contact with several family members, but my attempts have been rejected.
Taking a Sensory Perspective
You can see why I approached these issues from a psychological perspective for many years. Working on my healing in conventional psychotherapy did me a world of good.
But the picture never seemed complete until I brought in my Aspie sensory issues. For example, I went to support groups with women who had undergone similar kinds of abuse, and they didn’t present the way I did. To be sure, they suffered from depression, and anger, and sadness, but they were able to cope with life much better than I did. I used to watch them relating to one another during and after the group, and they were able to connect in a way that I couldn’t. I just couldn’t keep up, and I could never understand it. I thought that the abuse had broken my ability to connect to other people. No matter how much work I did, I always felt apart from everyone, behind an invisible force field. Even in support groups, I felt overwhelmed and cut off.
Now, of course, I recognize all of these responses as Asperger traits. Clearly, the trauma didn’t help, but no amount of psychological healing can fix Asperger traits. It’s nice that I’ve finally stopped banging my head against that particular wall. Really nice.
However, the break from my parents has been a more difficult issue for me to resolve. Every year or so, I go through a “Should I have broken contact?” cycle, in which I talk to my husband or my therapist or myself about the whole situation, and why I broke contact, and whether I could have stayed in contact, and whether the first people I’m going to meet when I die will be my parents, and whether they’ll both obliterate me the moment I show up, and whether G-d will be giving them instructions on how to do so.
In response to my perseveration on this issue, my husband invariably says, “Rachel, there is nothing you could have done differently. We’ve been through it over and over. You could not have maintained contact and protected your sanity or saved your life. You know it, I know it, and G-d knows it.”
And the last time I went over this territory with a therapist, she said, “You know, we’ve really got to talk over this G-d of yours.” How could I explain that, as long as I’m not talking about my parents, my experience of G-d is one of unconditional and unending love? Only with my parents in the conversation does G-d become merciless.
These days, though, when I consider the breaking contact question, I don’t feel inclined to perseverate on it. Something has changed in me. I’m able to look at the situation from a sensory perspective, and a couple of things become very clear.
1. I hate my parents. There, I said it. I don’t hate them in the sense of wishing them harm. They have both passed away, and I hope they are with G-d and that they are healed. I would not want them to spend eternity in the same state of mind in which they lived on earth.
The feeling I have is more visceral: my senses are repelled by them. I can’t explain it any other way. When I look at pictures of them, I feel sick to my stomach. It’s my Aspie empath ability to take in the full picture of a person’s energy, while missing all the little nonverbal details. When I take in the full picture of my mother’s energy, I feel repelled by it. When I feel my dad’s energy, I feel exactly the same thing.
It goes beyond anything they did. It’s about who they were. I believe that my parents, like all people, were made of G-d’s light, and that their souls were pure. So I don’t think of them as evil. It’s just that who they were in this life, and who I am in this life, could not coexist happily, anywhere.
2. Given my jangly nervous system, my ability to go into immediate sensory overload, and my extreme difficulty in conversations consisting of more than two people, it’s amazing that my relationship with my parents lasted for 33 years. With my father’s constant interrupting, my mother’s ability to dominate every situation, and the fact that I couldn’t politely disagree with either of them, about anything, without a loud, verbal, angry, relentless cyclone of epic proportions coming at me from their general direction, I’m not sure how I managed to share space with them for five minutes, never mind 33 years.
I always feel that people will judge me harshly over this subject. I hope you won’t. I’ve done the best I can with what I’ve got. I wish things could have been different, but I know now, finally, that it simply wasn’t possible.
© 2009 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg
Makes sense to me, is all I can say. Good for you for doing what you needed to do.
Sounds like your dad is a textbook aspie, but have you ever considered that both of your parents had AS? One aspie does present very differently from the next, and it’s also much more difficult to recognise in women. She certainly sounds very much like an aspie I used to know.
Kate: Thanks. **Hugs**
Mrs. Spock: Yes, I’ve considered that my mother might have had AS as well. She definitely had difficulty keeping friends, and while she seemed comfortable socially (making small talk, shmoozing, etc.), she was so hooked on appearances that it could all very well have been an act.
One thing that doesn’t fit, though, is that she was quite capable of not telling the truth. Of course, this could be self-delusion/denial rather than outright lying. I think she actually believed the things she was saying, even though I’ve since found out that many things she said simply weren’t true.
It’s quite a puzzle.
Very powerful and moving. I had issues with my dad o”h, as well. I don’t think he was an Aspie, but he had other issues. It’s hard to come to terms with.
Hi rachel,
as you know we share a great many issues and experiences of life. Both women with AS and both with traumatic histories and with abuse issues. I read this post and understand completely why you have handled it as you have. I did not talk with my father for 15 or so years and he knows to leave me be these days. I speak with my mother and since my diagnosis and her own acknowledgement of many of her own AS traits (!) we are able to get on better. Both my parents were neglectful and also abusive. One i would classify as undx’ed AS and the other has a great many traits and both branches of my family show pronounced AS and autistic features. Very strange people and very eccentric. Rigid. Loners. There was even an uncle who was voluntarily almost mute and spent most of his time with animals – a kind of western suburbs of sydney closet gay catholic bachelor who didn’t talk and had the ASPIE STARE big time and spent all his time alone or with animals.
I too spent years encouraged along the “emotions based therapy” route. Others i met in rehab flourished and developed systemic networks of social connections and friendships. They went to parties, conversed ligtholy, enjoyed each others’ company, had fun in groups. When I was in therapy and in groups (which i loathed — still do — any GROUP activity is like hell for me —give me one on one any day…) I tried my darndest to makes sense of my self and my life and my history. i think it can be diffiuclt when one has the double whammy – an ASD and a traumatic history – and counsellors and health professionals can remain oblivious to the subtleties of ASD’s and focus on all that abuse stuff. And tehre we languish and get stuck – jammed into a state of perpetual emotional analysis that is easy for us women with AS and all the ASD problems remain and cause havoc… the vestibular issues, teh sensory processing, the need for solitude (ten hours a day would be good for me) and so we remain jammed and stuck, afraid of life and still not understanding why it is we are the way we are. Quite frankly, that kind of therapy did me little good. I spent years talking about issues and nothing changed. Therapist after therapist. “tell us your history – again and again and again….” I worked hard at therapy. I worled hard to change and struggled to keep my head afloat, just above the lapping waters of life on life’s terms. I tried my guts out. I tried a bit more, and felt more of a failure and yet more of a failure until two years ago pre ASD diagnosis, i was ready to kill myself….NOt because of abuse, or trauma – that was long ago addressed, but because there was still other problems not being addressed. I was still a strange misfit mystery to myself. and to others. I worked harder at it than anyone i know with scant results. Others i saw or knew from rehabs zoomed by into a world of social embrace and acitivty, while i remained firmly set in a preference for all things quiet, small, routined and safe and reclusive and special interests based. In 12 step programs i was told it was trauma. Even now i am told not to use my ASD as an “excuse” and that i am just the same as all the other people i know with traumatic histories. Well…I am in one sense. But in another sense my life and my ASD means i approach the world and my relationships quite differently. I have slightly different needs – and if these are not met and i am expected to engage with the world like others i know, i fall apart VERY QUICKLY and get suicidal and have meltdowns.
I do not have much to do with my family face to face. I find it overwhelming and too complex and I struggle to understand who I am in relation to others, because of my ASD. I lose my sense of who I am and I cannot shift easily between feelings, thoughts, relating with family members and trying to follow other conversations. Always one on one, for me.
ONe really just has to get by and do the best one can, in this life.
Sometiems the choice is between sanity and saying goodbye to people. I have always chosen the former.
I do not find your blog about your folks harsh or ill-considered. It is measured and it is founded upon a very real choice which is about survival and a wish to live. I do notice in my own family others without an ASD are much more able to avoid or overlook or minimise the kind of abuse that happened in our home when young. THere is something about my whistle-blowing sense of “what is right and just” that always gets to be a problem for others. That and an inability to edit what i need to say makes for difficulty. I wonder if you had a similar sense of “justice” around the issue of family abuse – one that made any pretence of “happy families” untenable for you. And if that is the case, then that is a very good thing as it illustrates you had a true sense of being true to yoruself even as a 33 year old undiagnosed AS female. It is painful but it is a very good thing. You may be misunderstood by your family memebrs, but you are reaching self-acceptance and you are loved by a husband and a child who love you for who you are and what you are. We have to hold onto that.
You are not harsh, rachel. You are a woman with AS who has had a really hard journey and is finally coming to a wonderful self-realisation in the latter part of your life.
I like that you are my U.S aspie penpal and i am glad you are in my life.
if there are any typo’s please excuse.
I am new to this blog, but I just had to say that this comment so resonated with me. I am in the USA and have spent a lifetime trying numerous self help books, therapies, psychiatric treatments, and religious affiliations, all in a quest to “fix” me. Alas it was all to no avail. Thank you Millie for sharing here (and Rachael for maintaining this blog). I was diagnosed as an Aspie when I was a toddler, but was not made aware of it till I was in my 40′s, and didn’t have access to usable information on high functioning autism until recently. So much makes sense now. The sensory overload, the meltdowns (always in private) and the inability to navigate social situations.
I have accepted the challenges of advocating for myself as a post menopausal woman on the autistic spectrum. Now that I am accommodating my neurological uniqueness I am finding greater peace than I ever thought possible.
I wish that same peace for you.
Hi Sharon,
So wonderful to hear from you. And welcome!
Rachel and I have had such similar life histories, in the general sense.
I let contact with my dad lapse when I moved away from home, figuring he would call at some point to satisfy his curiosity, if nothing else. after seventeen years it never happened (and he passed away a couple of years ago), and I was quite content with it, since he was a bad dad and a toxic person.
I never made the choice that Rachel did, but allowed it to happen, and accepted my decision, and it was the correct one.
I was hassled at length by friends and family, and I always wondered why they had such a hard time with it, since they knew what my dad was like.
I figure that people who can’t make the tough decisions for themselves sometimes attack (with their misplaced aggression) the ones who can.
fortunately, my AS detachment has made my odd life a happy one despite the lack of a traditional family dynamic, and I hope for the same for you
Rachel, thank you for being honest. Again. Your words are refreshing to read, even if they are painful. I hope the writing is cathartic for you. It is a light to the rest of us.
John, Millie, Ben, and Erin: Thanks so much for your beautiful comments. The post describes a very difficult piece of my life, so I’m glad it came through as I’d intended, and that you found it helpful.
Ugh Rachel. I feel that. I went through unspeakable forms of hell as a child, ranging all sorts of abuse and neglect, and the ramifications of all of it. For years, I felt unworthy of life and nearly lost my life to eating disorders and self-injury. What saved me was breaking contact with my mother, instead of continuing to try to win her approval and gain the sort of relationship I’d always wished for. I mistakenly believed the failing was my own. It was not. In the time spent away from her, I healed so much, and learned so much. What you said, “my senses are repelled by them”, I could not have said it better, and I don’t think I could have said it as well. My feelings toward my mother are a visceral repulsion. I am also quite repelled intellectually at times, but mostly it is a very sensory-feeling issue. She causes my whole being discomfort, and the only thing worse is having the two of them together in the same place. Oh. My.
I also want to say that I truly respect both your honesty and your insight to your own being and feelings. One thing aspies are very good at is thinking and examining. This can make for some excellent introspection, and this seems to be the case with you.
Stat Mama, hugs to you, for everything you’ve been through. It helps so much to hear about your experience, and to know, once again, that I’m not alone.
I read something today that made me think of you:
“When the chafetz Chaim was young he stayed by peoples houses while he was in Yeshiva. Once a wealthy person refused to host him. So the Chafetz Chaim would walk in the cold winter to Yeshiva. Naturally he got sick and missed school anyway.
Later in life the Chafetz Chaim became a great sage. The wealthy gentlemen remembered his inhospitality and went to apologize to him. The Chafetz Chaim responded: “I can forgive you for the pneumonia but I will not forgive you for depriving me of the right to learn for several months”
We learn from this story that you dont have to forgive people if you have been terribly wronged. ”
I really feel for you, admire you for your brave decision-making, and hope that your life remains happy and fulfilled.
Jennifer, thank you so much.
Many years ago, I consulted a rabbi about whether I was making the right choice. After consulting with other rabbis, he said the decision was unanimous: Yes, absolutely.
There were two basic reasons. First, with parents that are so difficult, one might be provoked to say something harsh to them that would dishonor them; better to detach than to dishonor. Second, it is a positive mitzvah to break contact when continued contact causes one to feel that one’s life is not worth living. Saving a life is the single most important thing one can do.
There’s a lot of wisdom in our tradition.
“My mother was always certain that she was right and knew the proper way to do things. And everything—everything—was always about her.”
I know this far better than I have ever wanted to. This is my mother, hook line and sinker but also mix in the constant interrupting AND dominating every situation. Unfortunately she is living with my husband and I at the moment (hopefully for only a few more months) and feels the need to create crisis’ large and small for her to be able to come to the rescue so she feels like she has done something worthwhile that day. It’s been staying at the point that my skin gets prickly being around her for very long because everything in me is getting so severely agitated. I cannot count any more how she takes credit for things that I have done, without having a clue (or caring) that she did. Here’s a blurb from a couple of months ago:
Mom: “Have you seen my coffee mug with the dollar bill on it?”
Me: “No, have you looked (list random places)?”
Mom: “Yes, and I can’t seem to find it ANYWHERE!”
Me: “I’ll try to keep an eye out for it.”
-She tells my husband about it too and then ten minutes pass by-
Me: “Mom, I found your mug.”
Mom: “Where WAS it? I looked EVERYWHERE!” (no she didn’t, she was just expecting me to drop everything and hunt it down for her. I just happened to see it by accident.)
Me: “On the shelf above where the mugs normally are.”
-Five more minutes pass before my husband enters the room-
Mom: “Oh Craig, you’ll be glad to know that I found my mug.”
Me: “WHO found your mug?”
Mom: “Oh, well I guess you did, but at least I have it now.”
(Did you happen to notice the lack of a simple Thank You from her? I say it to my husband all the time because I know it is emotionally important, but my mother almost never says it (without sarcasm) and yet she was the one who taught me that you ALWAYS say it!)
The one thing I cannot shake is how deeply I feel cut every single time she does things like that. Normally it catches me so off guard that I’m too dumbfounded to say anything. By the time I realize how I’m actually feeling, from how she reacted to me or treated me, that it would just be too much trouble trying to bring it back up. Every single time it cuts just as badly as it did when I was a kid. Too many days I still wonder if I’m sane, and if I am, how much longer it will last.
Quote from Millie:
“And there we languish and get stuck – jammed into a state of perpetual emotional analysis that is easy for us women with AS and all the ASD problems remain and cause havoc… the vestibular issues, the sensory processing, the need for solitude (ten hours a day would be good for me) and so we remain jammed and stuck, afraid of life and still not understanding why it is we are the way we are.”
My family (mother and siblings) have accused me of “thinking too much” and being too introverted, somehow thinking it was something that could just be switched off. I’ve had a bit of a clue that the rest of the world probably wasn’t like that, but this is the first time that I’ve seen a full refection of myself in tat area without any masks in someone else’s words. So much of what I’ve thought over for so many years was simply trying to figure out how I was “broken.” This coming from someone who can take something out of a box and assemble it and only getting agitated if I HAVE TO read the directions, from simple to complex. Now finally realizing that I’m not broken.
“I was ready to kill myself…. because there was still other problems not being addressed. I was still a strange misfit mystery to myself. and to others. I worked harder at it than anyone I know with scant results. I remained firmly set in a preference for all things quiet, small, routine and safe and reclusive and special interests based.”
Clearly and simply this explains how I felt inside when my husband finally took me into our doctor and he diagnosed me as chronic depressive. It was the worst episode of depression I’ve ever had in my life (and that’s saying something.) The brokenness swallowed me whole and I was sitting at our computer every day (often for 18+ hours) unconsciously trying to get my system to slow down and simply have my heart stop. I’ve known that I can’t commit suicide because my skin screams even just thinking about it (hey it’s a plus side to being hypersensitive!) but that was about as close as I could come. It was also the same period in my life that I realized that I literally couldn’t remember how to laugh. It had been 6 months to a year before that I could remember laughing last, but thinking about it then made me nauseous. When I was little I was ALWAYS laughing, even in high school a friend would call me giggle box because I’d be laughing so much (and usually because I was that happy.)
I want to cry (happy tears) because I feel like I have finally found where I belong, without having to explain myself, or hide behind deceiving masks.
Thank you, fellow Aspies, for having the courage to be yourselves.
And thank you for being here, Susanne!