How my Husband Meets my Autistic Support Needs

In college, I entered knowing I wanted to be a religion major. I read the course catalogue, which was an actual printed book in those days, and fell in love with the titles of religion classes: “Women in ancient Israel,” “Judaism at the time of Jesus,” “The origins of the Palestinian-Israeli conflict.” I knew this department would be my academic home. At Duke University, where I was an undergraduate, students had two years to declare a major, giving time to explore many different departments. I did not waiver. I loved the old, tiny classrooms where our intimate classes met. I loved the way the classes allowed for personal integration and required rigorous study. I felt comfortable there, in a small department, in a small building, in small classes.

As the end of my second year came, I knew I needed to file the paperwork to declare my major. But something about the process scared me, and I couldn’t figure out how to complete it. I didn’t know where to find the form, where it needed to go, and by when. When I missed the deadline, a whole new process kicked in, with more paperwork and conversations. To hide the reality that executive functioning issues were at the root, I pretended to be still considering other majors. No one questioned me. This was a pattern throughout my life. Whenever my struggles and needs caught up to me, I lied to cover it up. I was so deeply ashamed of this part of me that could never figure out the next step, never complete the right form. I adopted a persona of an extraordinarily responsible and respectable person.

So how come things around me were always falling apart?

I began dating my husband our junior year of college. I still don’t know what part of his gentle acceptance, goofy humor, and dashing good looks hooked me, but I began to show him my real self. We gave my struggles silly names: “being all fumbly” when I couldn’t find the right thing to say and missed simple deadlines, “shell shock” when I got so overwhelmed that I shut down mentally, and “dropping it” when I forgot to keep up with important details. Right from the start, he began to support me in these struggle spots. He accompanied me to parties, smoothing over my difficulty entering and making conversation. He completed paperwork for me and went with me to the post office and the Bursar’s office. He discovered that my sensory system gets highly dysregulated in the cold, and he began prompting me to bring a sweatshirt, a scarf, or an extra coat on even slightly chilly days. 

It turned out that having an emotional support person made a major difference for alleviating my distress.

He didn’t give me new skills to manage the situation, but he helped me access the skills I did already have. He didn’t need to talk much and loved to listen to me, so my hour-long monologues and deep passion for particular subjects fit nicely into our evolving bond. He celebrated my depth, passion, and convictions, even though he was what my mom lovingly called “vanilla.” Without my husband by my side, my un-met needs would have gotten me in a lot more trouble. With his steady support, I thrived. 10 years into our marriage, I still managed to subscribe to a childcare website that I never used. I couldn’t figure out how to cancel the monthly subscription and couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone. We ended up paying them thousands of dollars over several years, and when my husband finally discovered it and fixed it, he didn’t shame me. This is a thing that happens to me. He accepts this. 

Finding the right person and receiving the right support set me free to share my bright light with the world. Before I was diagnosed, I often wished I could be all the time, everywhere, the person I am with my husband.

I didn’t know I was wishing for the freedom to be fully autistic and fully supported, the definition of thriving authenticity.