In yesterday’s post, I talked more about the family dysfunction that papered over my neurospiciness for far too long. I mentioned how my mother struggled with my brother because he has the classic male symptoms of autism.
By the way, when I said to him a few months before my medical crisis (in early September of 2021) that something was because he was on the spectrum, and he went quiet. I said it that way because I assumed he knew. He’s a textbook case; he really is.
A few weeks later, he mentioned it to me. He had not known he was on the spectrum so my comment hit him hard. He’s like me in that once he hears of something, he researches it. He hit up the Googles and was shooketh at how accurate it was. he told me that it really helped him make sense out of–well his life.
Side note: I regret I did not tell him earlier. I know it’s not my job to tell him about himself, but I’ve known for decades that he’s on the spectrum. I could have said him so much grief had I told him earlier. Truth to be told, I thought it was so obvious, I did not need to bring it up.
And, yes, I was (and am) his younger sibling. Still. I can’t help feeling gulity because it’s been drummed into my head that I am responsible for the feelings of everyone around me. For example, when my brother got divorced almost two years ago, my mother asked if I was going over to clean and cook for my brother.
She said these words out loud. As if they were normal words. You have to know that if the situation was reversed, she would not have asked my brother the same thing. It was because she perceived me as a woman and of course it’s a woman’s duty to cook and clean for the men around her!
Here’s the funny part. My brother is a much better cook than I am–and he enjoys it. He has two older teenage boys in his house who are perfectly capable of coking and cleaning, too. I finally told her, “I don’t do either of those for myself; why would I do it for him?”
My mother did not appreciate that. At all. She actually snapped at me in a snide voice with a nasty tone that he was so busy and could do with the help especially since the divorce. My ex-SIL did not do much of the cooking or cleaning, anyway, for much of the marriage. And, again, there were two late-teen boys who were bodily able to cook and clean.
But, see, in my mother’s brain, there is only One True Way to woman, and what I was doing ain’t it. What I was doing was NEVER it.
If she weren’t my mother, I would have much more compassion for her. Because it’s very sad to be stuck in her head. First of all, she is very anxious. I would say diagnosable anxious. Like, put her on some meds anxious. With a side helping of germaphobia. No, that’s not a real word, but it describes perfectly what I mean.