This Autism Marriage
Marriage is hard.
Add a few kids, a mortgage, soccer practice, daycare, potty training, Driver’s Ed, and things usually get a little harder.
Add in autism and all bets are off, as they say.
Autism has a way of amplifying things, you see. It’s kind of like being in a disco, where the lights are flashing and spinning and the music is thumping. You can’t think clearly.
Specialists, education plans, soap smeared on the walls, broken dreams, late-night screams, trains lined up in a row.
That’s our autism, anyway.
Perhaps your wife feels a little lost to you right now. Perhaps it seems like she is consumed by the appointments, the doctors, the to-do list, the future.
I know this because, once upon a time, I was her.
And sometimes I still am.
Do you remember when you first met—when everything was fresh and new and exciting?
The way her laugh made your heart race, and you finished each other’s sentences, and shared the same inside jokes?
It feels like a hundred years ago right now, I know.
Now there are times when you feel like strangers—moments when you almost can’t remember her girlish smile or where you went for your first date.
Autism does this. It erases the goodness and replaces it with distance.
It’s almost as if you are on two separate islands, and the ocean-size gulf feels impossible to cross.
You want to solve it, this mysterious riddle of a child.
She wants to talk and ruminate and wonder.
A mother’s grief is loud and messy and colorful. It fills the room. It steals the air.
But a father’s grief is strictly after-hours. It is a when-everyone-is-asleep-and-it’s-quiet kind of thing. It is private, and perhaps lonely. You wipe your tears in the dark.
I met my husband Joe in college. It was the end of August. The sun shined lemon-yellow warm.
In my mind’s eye I can see him standing beneath huge stone arches on campus, this younger, relaxed version of himself. I see his slow smile, and the way he shifted his backpack on his shoulder.
Sometimes I think about all we had ahead of us—five kids, minivans, messy kitchens, rained-out beach vacations, autism.
If we knew, would we have changed anything?
Would we have turned beneath the late-summer sky, and walked in opposite directions?
I don’t know.
Maybe.
A lot of times Joe felt like, out of the two of us, he had to be the strong one. He had to hold it together and reassure me it was going to be fine. He wanted to fix it.
Sweet, tender father. Let yourself break. The breaking is okay. It is good. After all, only through the cracks can light shine.
I don’t know how to do this alone.
She doesn’t know how to do this alone.
Sure, we look like we do.
We stomp around knowingly and cite research and make arguments about why thousands of dollars in horse therapy could be the answer.
There is no answer. There is just you, and her, and this child, and autism.
The truth is, when it comes to Jack and autism, my husband and I rarely do anything the same way.
School work, pumpkin carving, sandwich making, lightbulb changing.
This doesn’t mean we aren’t on the same page.
It simply means we reach him differently.
Each of you will play your own part on this journey.
You will give differently, love differently, hope differently, try differently.
Tender father.
Beloved husband.
She needs you.
We need you.
We need you even when it looks like the exact opposite—when we’re combative and defensive and irritated and tired.
We build this armor to protect ourselves, you see.
We hide behind paperwork and forms and therapies. We reject and sneer and complain.
We do this to mask our guilt, our grief, our heartache, our shame.
We do it because we are afraid you may see our brokenness.
There is no magic answer to crossing the marital divide that autism creates. I hate this more than you can imagine.
I want a quick fix, an easy out, a shortcut.
But the truth is, even in the midst of the hardest times, there is a lot of goodness in a marriage. You just have to know where to look.
Crowded in between the minivans and the dark clouds are first words, songs in the car, tiny steps forward, splashes in the waves, meatloaf on white plates, sweet dreams, stolen kisses, and a fierce, earnest hope.
I don’t know how to do this alone.
She doesn’t know how to do this alone.
Look beneath her armor.
She is in there. She is trying. She is hurting.
Hold her.
Hear her.
Grab onto the goodness with both hands, and hold it as tightly as you can.
This is where the work is.
Pura Vida Hikes
October 25, 2021 @ 10:53 am
This is so painfully beautiful. Thank you.
Suz
October 25, 2021 @ 12:23 pm
Grab onto the goodness with both hands, and hold it as tightly as you can.
This is where the work is.
^this is the uncomfortable truth, I guess. There is no real good without slog. I miss mine and my husband’s younger days even though we were clueless idiots! Good question about knowing what you know now would you walk away. I think the idea of what was going to happen would have blown my 19 year old mind. Ignorance is often bliss. So easy to think you grow apart, and things definitely get in the way of marriage, but when you look at what you’ve given your heart to and realise you are pulling in the same direction it makes a bit more sense. I miss the easy days though.
Thomas V. Whelan
October 25, 2021 @ 6:11 pm
Carrie: Please accept my heartfelt ‘thank you’ for so generously sharing your candid portrayal of the wide gamut of feelings and thoughts you experience. The core of what you offer, to those of us blessed to read your sensitive writings, is how boundless your LOVE is for Jack, your husband and family, and for those of us who have been positively affected by your glorious insights into “life” with a child diagnosed as having ASD. Me, I’m merely an empathetic grandparent of my daughter’s child with an ASD diagnosis…or is it known now as neurodivergence? Anyway, my six year old grandson, who “carries” this diagnosis, gives the most loving hugs and cuddles; shows me that time and material objects are not truly important; and with a bit of guidance can create paintings that would make Van Gogh or Picasso jealous. So what is really “normal?” All that said, may you and your family be blessed and rewarded, no matter how, for everything you have given and will always provide for your beloved son, Jack. May Jack find his ‘way’ and may that bring him happiness, contentment, and peace.
Kathy Janessa
October 25, 2021 @ 6:25 pm
Beautifully put. God bless you both with strength and love.
SCOTT WILCOX
October 28, 2021 @ 2:06 pm
Again, sweet Carrie, from the bottom of my heart I can only say “Wow, and thank you”. At times I wish I’d been able to keep my marriage together, but in the long run looking back, it’s better for my girl that I didn’t. God knew what He was doing. Blessings to you and your entire family.