Joyless.

I think I became grateful for the forced moments of joy quite early on. I would sense a black, rut-like cloud around him, but doubted my own very reasonable senses, because he was telling me that he was happy. Although actually, he never did use that word; instead, he opted for "content." 

This should have told me all I needed to know really. I was always waiting for this gift-wrapped moment of elation from him, but it never really came. He would tell me he was happy, but his facial expression has rarely been in sync, the tone of his voice, his body language not quite aligned. But again, I told myself that Peter was a good person and that if he said he was happy, then he was. 

Peter's colour is grey, if I had to choose one. He doesn't like to stand out, likes to blend in, he's your average colour scheme, he rarely smiles. Grey was stable and secure though, which isn't something I had been used to so I found grey lightly alluring somehow. 

When our children were born, in the delivery suite he was very hands on- practicals are his strong point and I'd been wise enough to give him the instructions beforehand. But when we finally got to see their beautiful faces, there were no tears of joy, no smiles, no gazing into their eyes. Just a very pragmatic reaction of "oh she's here, what would you like me to do for you next?" He wanted to help me and do things for me, afterall what else was there for him to do? Holidays are met with non-chalance, the children's firsts are merely a minor acknowledgement than a moment of delight. But my joy needs company. 

Birthdays are a sore point. 

Practically, he's great. He takes it upon himself to research books I might like, he'll usually get me a surprise gift, something I'd thought of buying and had forgotten about or a sports experience that I'd mentioned a few times, but once the gifts are handed over, it's back to business. Many women tell me how lucky I am that he's so mindful when it comes to gift buying and he has a very pedantic mother to thank tor that. 

There have been years where his special interests have taken priority over special occasions and he's ignored these precious occasions like they don't exist, to suit him and his own pursuits. I've been asked to celebrate my birthday at other times that are more convenient for him; I've been met with sulking and resentment for saying no. I've been left with a screaming, refluxy, breastfeeding newborn and a three year old on my birthday justified by him buying me an extra gift that year. That's the day I realised I couldn't love him anymore. 

He ticks the practical birthday boxes, but there's no joy, no special time, no meaningful conversation, no fun. There are birthday meals which should be romantic, where I should be seen, but deep down, I know the conversation is no different to one he could be having with his sister.

Sometimes he'll try to "act" out joy. He'll do a "happy dance" like the children do, but his body is tense, his face is serious and he resembles a deranged animal as he moves stoically and forcefully around the room. I force a smile, force a bit of joy in return for his, but I don't feel it. Peter really tries sometimes and I think that makes it difficult, because even though there is no joy, he tries for it. Every practical act he does, every time he does a bit more than his share to please me, everytime he cleans the loo, he's trying to bring a bit more joy, a bit more love. 

But stuff, mopping floors, cups of tea, silent romantic meals don't bring joy- only passion can do that. You can't learn passion, they have to feel it, don't they? Sometimes, I see a spark, a squeak of passion when he's absorbed in his special interests, but it's not joy- more an infatuation, an intense focus. I think this is the culprit for the droplets of supposed joy I saw in the beginning- I was a mere special interest, a focus. And when we're no longer a focus, well, what do we become? 

A resource? 

And there's no joy in that. 

Letting go of Expectations

Through counselling, I've learned the hard way, that expectations cause disappointment. 

For a long time, I expected a "normal" relationship, one that would grow into a loving marriage. I wasn't expecting competition, individualised agendas, secrecy, passive aggression, sulking, using me as a resource rather than cherishing me as a person, lack of loyalty, lack of sex and a huge, massive lack of understanding. 

For a long time, the inequality of our relationship pivoted around me seeking to understand him, whilst he sought mostly, to prove me wrong. At first, I started to think that his behaviour was cruel and nasty, that he had this hidden mean streak. Was he a narcissist? 

But this wasn't the case. 

Peter loved quiz shows and for him, life is a big quiz show. He needed to prove me wrong so that he could be right, he has to get as much as he can for his time, for his money, for his love. Every transaction needs to be worth his while. Just writing those words makes my stomach go over. It's because I know deep down that this mentality is not ok because relationships are reciprocal, nurturing, understanding and they're about cherishing each other. Can a man with ASD even be in a romantic, intimate relationship? Without faking it? Making himself vulnerable for intimacy to truly evolve? From my experience, no. 

Peter wants to be loving, Peter wants to get it and he truly, truly wants to understand because at the crux of it all, he is mostly a good person.

 This is why I stay, for now. 

It's difficult because anyone in a loving, intimate relationship should have expectations of love and warmth, understanding, reassurance and validation. But being with an Aspie creates a dysfunctional dynamic where these basic expectations can not be achieved. Expecting the impossible made me ill and it is only since I removed those expectations have I found ways to be happy again, despite this "relationship" continuing. 

I have come to terms with the notion that this isn't a romantic relationship at all; it's more of a practical transaction whilst our children are young. I fill my emotional cup with my writing, music, yoga, meditation, ASMR, my friends, my children, nature, art, singing in the car... it makes me sad in some ways. Because his dysfunction has created my dysfunction. It will no doubt be contributing to my childrens dysfunction too which devastates me.

There is guilt for staying and guilt for wanting to leave, but the absence of expectation has created space and freedom and I can seek my emotional needs through other avenues. I know that this absence of expectation won't sustain us in the long term, but it keeps us chugging along, whilst the children are young. 

For now, I have a new lease of life because my expectations are lower: quality time together probably isn't going to happen, sex isn't going to happen, him missing me provided I'm still there to take the kids to school and cook dinner isn't going to happen. Him looking me in the eye and listening intently to my dreams and making them become a reality together aill never happen. Him becoming vulnerable enough for me to fall in love with him again will never happen.

Sometimes, I worry that my new coping strategies, my new interests and hobbies are sticking plasters holding us together when we should be apart. Another thing to fill the void. I often wonder if I ought to erase all the joy I created and go cold turkey for a while, to show me my reality once again. I keep thinking of getting a puppy, but I know that part of it is a replacement for the love and conpanionship that is lacking.

I just hope that one day, when the time is right, I can rediscover the expectations I've had to learn to let go of so that I can feel what it's like to be desired, loved, understood and cherished once again. Because really, isn't that what relationships are about? 

A Dirty Little Secret...

Things improved with Peter after he supported me in erecting boundaries with his mother. I still look back and wonder why I stayed throughout that first year, when he was gaslighting me and condoning his mother's overbearing behaviour. I think that I was so exhausted that I had no energy to leave him and it's amazing how you can be living a totally different life than the life people believe you're living. If only someone had realised that I needed rescuing and helped me get out, but nobody could have known the intricacies of our lives like we did. 

On the face(book) of it, we were all smiles, our baby was beautiful and thriving, we went on plenty of days out (Peter likes to be busy) and we all looked well. 

People would tell me how lucky I was to be with a man like Peter:

"If I was your age again, I'd have definitely married a Peter."

"He adores you."

"He's such a family man."

"He's changed so much since being with you; you've made him a man- a gentleman!"

"He'd do anything for anyone."

"He's got a heart of gold." 

I believed that I was the bad guy for a long time; constantly thinking negatively of Peter when everyone else thought he was great! What I didn't realise was that Peter was great (towards everyone else), at home, he was able to be himself. He wasn't horrible to me, he didn't shout at me, he didn't control me outwardly, he just treated me with apathy, disinterest and took my energy, my thoughts and my needs all greatly, massively for granted. It was demoralising. I felt like a mere possession, a cleaner and a live-in nanny to his child.

I suspect that Peter also has ADHD and when I returned to work from maternity leave, I found myself unable to share a car with him to and from work. In his anxiety about going to work/thinking about work, he used to do what his mother did and talk at me all the way there. I never have been a morning person and always enjoyed collecting my thoughts on the way to work pre-Peter, but he was the opposite. Every thought needed a forum and sometimes there were streams of monotonous questions... 

"Who do you think wrote this song...?"

"What year do you think this song was released...?"

"What work have you got on today...?"

"What are you going to have for lunch..?"

And lots of "time" questions.

"What time is your meeting?"

"What time is your mum visiting?"

"What time is your fitness class?"

Our drive to work was 15-20 minutes long and one morning, I counted 17 questions. All before 8am. 

And it was this nervousness coming out of him as he fidgeted in his seat whilst driving erratically through windy country lanes. I used to arrive at work exhausted and sit silently working for the first hour or two. Being around Peter in the mornings always lowered my mood.

When I told a few people at work about Peter's incessant talking, nobody believed me, not quiet Peter. She's got it wrong. 

I spoke to my counsellor about it at the time, as I needed counselling to enable me to be with Peter, I always have. She told me to stop car sharing with him. Take both cars to work. Can you imagine the looks from our work colleagues when we started arriving to work in separate cars? But I was learning to give space to my needs and learning that other people's opinions just didn't matter. The social group we had been part of in the beginning had outed me by this point anyway. There was nothing to lose. 

When I spend long periods of time in Peter's company, like on holidays, I often come home a shadow of my usual self. I usually feel a sense of shame at having told Peter off, like a child, for not parenting safely, for leaving all the organisation to me, for doing things I've asked him not do, over and over again. 

I find myself unable to connect with others, knowing I'm not being my authentic self when I speak of our family unit and my relationship with Peter. I use the collective pronoun "we" during exchanges about family plans and ambitions, knowing full well that really, he's just a tag along. People assume that we share a bed, have sex, that we're intimately involved with each other and yet the relationship I have with Peter is not much different than the one he has with his sister.

But then friends will see Peter being a practical, hands on parent, they hear that he vacuums our house every weekend, gives the children breakfast before school,  that he can cook and even clean the bathroom. And because often, the bar is low where men are concerned, Peter really is "practically perfect" and yet, he is not mentally, actively involved in our lives at all. He is following years of routine which I've laid out before him, like his manager. 

Nobody would think that I have to reason with him the way we reason with our children, that I've learned to communicate every single miniscule expectation, that sometimes, I even wonder if he's changed his underwear or brushed his teeth. Most people don't know that we don't say "I love you."

If I find forums for verbalising my struggles online, people like me are often referred to as "ableist," the neurotypical partner does not deserve a voice. Our struggles are gaslighted away. We learn to dig our troubles deeper, we feel shame at our ableist thinking, for not being more understanding, for not meeting his needs better.

 Most people don't realise that the reason we're together is because not to be, would mean leaving him with our children for prolonged periods of time and I am scared for their health, safety and wellbeing based on his previous actions, or neglect. 

But when he's "so hands on" to the outside world, it seems the truth, my truth has to be kept inside, like a secret, because who'd believe me? 

A Family Disorder

As Peter's interest in me declined after moving in with him and having his baby, I became the special interest of somebody else: his mother. 

I remember the first time I met her, in the beginning, before I'd moved in with him. There was a barage of questions, one of them being about holidays, where had my parents taken me on holiday when I was younger? Well, being from a fairly low income family, I'd been to Spain a handful of times and then often on caravan holidays to Devon in the UK where we lived. This gave way to a hefty monologue about all of the countries they had visited as a family over the years. She was clearly very proud of their travel achievements. 

But I remember her making me feel very inferior. She talked about the location of my rented flat, she knew exactly where it was and what the outside of it looked like, despite her living nowhere near the flat- 8 miles away. Despite the flat being in a boring cul-de-sac with hardly anything around it. I wondered if she had driven to see where I lived before I'd met her, she wouldn't do that would she? It would be a strange thing to do given that I had no material wealth or sprawling mansion to impress her with. 

Peter was quiet around his parents and a little tense. His mother seemed to monologue persistently at me, whilst not really listening to any of my responses. His father was always straight-faced and serious, intermittently chirping in on his wife's monologues which were mostly about wealthy people who I didn't know. Peter had learned to be quiet whilst his parents talked, that was clear to see and he just accepted it. He didn't swoon in and save me with a joke about their boring scripts, he'd abandon me in their chatter in some sort of mindless obligation to them. I'd leave their company feeling totally drained.

After the baby was born, his mother's expectations of me became enormous. It was evident that she was to be a big part of my baby's life and that I had no say in it. At first, I found it endearing, particularly in the absence of my own mother who lived a few hundred miles away. But she had an opinion on everything, she didn't hold back. I'd get phone calls and messages everyday and through the night, requesting details on how she'd slept, how she'd eaten, in a very informational seeking way, rather than out of love or care. 

I also couldn't do anything right. I was always "making a rod" for my back, she was always suggesting different ways of doing things and I began feeling like my baby belonged to her. I felt like her childminder and became very mentally ill.

She would turn up unannounced and I began keeping the curtains closed during the day time. This woman knew no boundaries. My feelings began spilling out at the mother and baby unit and they reassured me that I did not owe this woman my maternity leave and precious time with my baby. 

They encouraged me to speak to Peter. 

Bravely, I began explaining my struggles with Peter's mother's behaviour on a walk together. He was visibly uncomfortable by what I had to say. This was the first time I remember him seriously gaslighting me. He told me that she "meant well" that I needed to "ignore her" "take no notice" "just don't take her comments on board" "it's just how she is with everyone, not just how she is with you." I had to learn to cope with it! (Like he had?).

No matter what I said or how I said it, he always minimised his mother's behaviour and found an excuse for it. This man was so deep in the normality and monotony of his mother's dysfunctional behaviour that he couldn't see objectively how it was affecting me or acknowledge that it was making me ill. He batted off my concerns for months. When she interferred in our finances and meddled in our appointment with the bank, I said enough was enough. I was leaving him.

He panicked and spoke to her, like a nervous child and she was of course horrified that he'd dared to challenge her behaviour after all these years. He was miserable for days after challenging his mother, like a scorned child. 

The time came for him to speak to her again, when I'd had enough of her behaviour and challenged her myself much to Peter's alarm. She clearly found it proposterous that I could ever be upset by her behaviour, and became a blubbering victim in the whole thing. The family- his father, sister all pandering to her mental distress. It was awful. This family was trained to partake and pander to this dysfunction. 

Peter visited his mother for a conversation which had to take place should our relationship be able to continue. He was reluctant but he knew now how serious I was, I needed boundaries and he needed to tell her. He spoke to her and from what he told me, she excused much of it, could not see the impact her behaviour was having on me and was highly unapologetic. I had several months of space from her afterwards and began to get better, I started bonding with our daughter and enjoying being a mum. Peter changed a little. He realised that I was not going to just slot into his life as it was and conform, he acknowledged this and saw me for who I was. But it changed the way he felt about me, that was for sure. I wasn't the good girl he'd met in the beginning, I was a rule breaker and a nonconformist. Our planned marriage never happened. I'd shouted at hime about his mum too much, I swore too much- swearing is bad. It's amazing how much you shout when they refuse to listen. Not that it works. I have learned that action works better though "if you don't do x, I will do Y." But he resents me for it I'm sure, for uprooting him from the comfortable dysfunction that he had grown up with.

Fast forward to now, two children and many improvements later and I am able to be in the company of his mother for short periods of time. I do not give her the stage for her monologues anymore and I walk away, speak over her or begin a conversation with someone else. She of course, doesn't like me, but with age comes wisdom and I've learned that being liked isn't everything. 

His father slipped my radar for a while, but I've learned that his impact on Peter is huge; how possessive he is with Peter and his sister (let's call her Sally). He needs them to need him. He likes to be in control and know everything they're doing. He bails Sally out all the time- she is like a child even at 38 years old. Peter's father is stuck in the habit of parenting his daughter as if she were a teenager. He has no friends. Peter and Sally are their Dad's special interests. As for his mother, her special interests are always changing- at the moment it's her new art class and the people within it. As for the grandchildren, the novelty of them wore off years ago.

I've known his parents for 12 years and they don't know me. They are rude. They are not interested in anything I have to say, they speak over me, they don't laugh when I tell a joke. Communication with them is highly strained, it doesn't flow. They speak at me and I'm supposed to nod and agree to all they say. I continue being me after discussing the relationship I have with them at length in counselling. Do I be polite to them? Don't I? His mother won't even say hello back when I say hello to her. We concluded that I should keep being me, despite their dysfunction. This has had some advantages as Peter has been able to see his mother's lack of friendly responses towards me when I continue my smiley, friendly but unreciprocated greetings. Peter is now made uncomfortable by her because of how she is with me, rather than the other way around and that's progress. 

I've wasted so much time over these last 12 years, weighing up what is wrong with Peter's family. Even now, I find myself pondering over his mother- is she ASD, or is she a narcissist? If I'm honest, I still don't know, but there is something and regardless of label, the impact on me is the same and that is what matters. And this dysfunction, inherited or learned spreads through families. 

If I'm honest with myself and with you- I see ASD in all of Peter's family, from his grandmother, to all three of her children, to Peter's cousins, his sister and now, I am seeing traits in our eldest daughter. Being neurotypical in a life where you're surrounded by neurodivergence is tough, that is if I'm even NT myself. Who knows.

There's something about Peter...

I met Peter 12 years ago. 

We worked together, kind of, more alongside each other in different departments which met in the middle from time to time to discuss and compare non-related findings. The two departments were extremely sociable outside of work and, although I'd felt an element of needing to prove my worthiness to the group, I soon became accepted (but not quite welcomed) into the tight-knit fold. 

Peter was by far, the friendliest of the group: reserved, stoic and yet warm and accepting. He was very quiet in my company for a long time and I wondered if he disliked me; from a distance and from stories I'd heard of him, he had a much more outgoing side, though I was yet to be acquainted with this version of him. He was still the nicest of the bunch somehow. I remember thinking that he was a bit different; a bit of a loner, yet socially welcomed by many who knew him in a mildly pitiful way, I couldn't quite put my finger on Peter; I thought he'd potentially make a good friend, should he peep through his shyness. 

After a year or so, our two departments were set a very rare joint assignment and they requested a member from each department attend a five day training event in the south of England. Living alone at the time and having distanced myself from the club loving, alcohol guzzling, carelessness of my mid-twenties and looking for other activities, energies and interests to fill my time, I was first to volunteer. Nobody volunteered from Peter's department, until it was announced that I would be attending and Peter immediately nominated himself. At this point, I think I started to suspect why Peter had been so warmly shy around me. 

We traveled together on the train and in the absence of ego, banter and the dry, immature comedy warfare of the social group, Peter revealed himself to me as chatty, warm, interested and stable. There was a comforting mundanaity about him; no charm or charisma, just pleasant chatter about everyday, dull things which contrasted to the exciting, egotistical men I had been used to in my earlier years. Not only this, but Peter was a true, old fashioned gentleman. 

We spent the five days mostly together, ate our meals together and talked intensely during this time. 

On our final evening, we decided not to get the train home at 5pm and instead, paid for an extra night together at the hotel in a shared room to follow an evening of cocktails. Peter kissed me all night, held me, caressed me but did not try to have sex with me. This, after many years of shallow relationships and men only ever looking for one thing, warmed me to Peter even more. 

I decided that Peter was wonderful.

In the months that followed our blossoming relationship, I found myself becoming somewhat confused by Peter. At times, he seemed totally into me and yet in his absence, I wouldn't hear from him, he would never speak to me on the phone and he avoided me at work. I was sure that Peter was going to dump me on a few occasions, even on the night he asked me not to renew the lease on my rented flat and move in with him- all addressed in a very pragmatic and practical way. I couldn't weight him up, but decided to accept it. Peter was a gentleman and there was a lot to be said for that. 

Six months after the first night Peter and I had spent together in the hotel room, I moved in with him and days later, in a very sudden and surprising twist, I discovered that we were pregnant. Peter took the news in a very humble, stable and mature way, said that all would be fine, but it was like he hadn't got to grips with the news properly. He wasn't shocked enough. Not concerned enough. He didn't appear to think about it enough. He also didn't comfort me enough. 

I had all of these worries, plans, questions, things to discuss with him and he just kept repeating that everything was fine, everything would be fine. I needed to work things out with him, plan with him, look ahead with him, but it was like the information, the news wasn't really penetrating. Abortion was discussed, but we agreed it wouldn't be necessary owing to us both being in stable jobs, living in a stable home with fairly stable lives. We admitted that we both wanted children one day, but that it had happened a little sooner, that's all. He did wobble a week later and asked me to consider an abortion again, it was like the news had finally set in for him, but my mind was already made up. I offered him a ticket to freedom, but he declined it and vowed to stay by my side, like the gentleman I knew he was.

So within the following weeks, our lives became more entwined, my tummy grew, his house filled with my things, baby things, our calendar became littered with appointments, scans and intense family gatherings (on Peter's side).

And I was desperately lonely. 

Peter had special interests which devoured his time and energy where he'd barely communicate with me deeper than surface level for days. I remember spending hours and hours lying in the bath most evenings, staring at the art-ex on the bathroom ceiling, stroking my growing bump as winter set in and everything got darker. I'd moved away from my rented flat, away from my party-loving friends and their parties and had fallen into a new existence. He kept his friends for himself, our social group at work continued socializing with him and the others and without me because I felt so lost and low and unsociable. Peter didn't notice. I remember the rejection- my wonderful Peter, my attentive, warm and caring Peter. Where was he? Getting on with his life as it was before me. 

Only I was still there, in his home like a neglected pet. 

Our baby girl was born early and practically speaking, he was perfect from the moment she entered the world. Her bottles were ready before I asked for them, the washing machine was always on, he jumped to attention when she cried. But there was no connection, no feeling between us, it was like we were not only housemates, but work colleagues in raising this human being between us. I was struggling mentally, but he didn't notice and his special interests continued, he carried on meeting up with the social group at work who had long forgotten me by this point, he carried on and I didn't. I was totally lost, until eventually, I was referred to the mother and baby unit for mental health support by a healthcare professional. 

I couldn't understand why I was struggling with Peter, why wasn't I happy with him? He was so hands on for heaven's sake, what more could I want or need?! 

And then I picked a book up in the library one day called "The Rose Project" about a man with Aspergers and slowly, but surely as I made my way through the pages, I started joining the dots. I wasn't mad, I wasn't ungrateful, I wasn't even an angry, raging lunatic.

Because really it was Peter, there was something about Peter.