Recently, I’ve been having more heart-to-heart talks with my closest friends, which led to some important insights into myself and my relationships. 

One shared something that took me by surprise. She said she’s always seen me as an independent, successful woman who knows how to fend for herself. Yet, when it comes to romantic relationships, she observed that I tend to put my partner first and myself second. “It’s good that you seek to understand your partner and know how to compromise, but it can be problematic when you keep giving without knowing what you deserve to receive,” she said. 

Another friend asked, “Why does it take you so long to realize or admit that something upsets you? And why did you wait until you broke up to tell me all these things?” 

These were two separate conversations, but they both agreed on one thing: Had they been in my shoes, they would have immediately blown up at some of the things my exes pulled. 

It left me thinking. I’ve always had a complicated relationship with anger. I couldn’t let myself feel it. Anger, to me, has always felt like a weakness, a loss of control. And, until now, I’d never been quite sure why.

Back at home, as I was changing, a realization dawned on me. 

Those close to me would know that I can be extremely jumpy. I startle at sudden noises, whether it’s a slammed door or a fork someone at the next table has dropped. I’m also sensitive to raised voices; they can feel unbearably uncomfortable and send my neurons into overdrive. 

And, I  think, I could trace it all back to my childhood. 

I was raised by a single mother who wasn’t the best at regulating her emotions. She was easy to panic and easy to anger. She would raise her voice at even the tiniest trigger. Three memories left a particularly vivid impression on me:  

First, was when I broke her rule that I must never lock my bedroom door. One night before her birthday, I was making a handmade banner to surprise her in the morning. I didn’t want her to walk in on me and ruin the surprise, so I locked my room. Long story short, she saw my light still on, went to check in on me, and discovered that I’d done the unforgivable. She shouted and shouted, while I could only stand there, the banner hidden under my bed, unable to defend myself because I still didn’t want to ruin her birthday surprise. I simply took in all her anger. 

Second, was when I almost let our dog slip through the front door. She shouted at me to hurry and close the door, and when I couldn’t do it fast enough, she kicked me. I remember looking back at her in disbelief and, feeling hurt, asked her, “Why did you kick me? Am I a dog?” Still in her heightened state, she shouted, “Yes, you are!” My heart broke and I burst into tears. She would later apologize, but the damage was done. 

Third, was when I had to be hospitalized. All I wanted was comfort, but instead she shouted at me, “Why did you have to fall sick?!” She would then ramble on about having to drive me to the hospital (she wasn’t confident about driving), all the hospital paperworks (she wasn’t confident about navigating foreign environments and talking to strangers), and the bills to pay (we were always struggling financially). 

She was probably being eaten alive by worry and guilt, but the message I was getting was “never talk back”, “don’t be a burden”, “deal with your own shit”, and “you can’t ask for anything or rely on others”.  

I don’t hate her for her shortcomings, and our relationship today has improved tremendously (more on that later). I know that raising a child while suddenly having to go back to work, after years of relying solely on my dad before his passing, couldn’t have been easy on her. But it wasn’t easy for me either. It was especially intense because, as an only child of a volatile single mother, there was no one else I could turn to. No sibling to shield me. No other parental figure to confide in. 

To survive, I walked on eggshells, always waiting for her temper to explode. Anger didn’t feel safe. I was used to receiving it, but not feeling or expressing it.

When I left for university, I found the table turned. Whenever my mother showed helplessness – something I felt I couldn’t afford growing up – I would snipe at her. It never made me feel better. I felt awful for being mean, but I couldn’t break the cycle. So, instead, I kept my distance. It served a dual purpose: to avoid getting mad at her and to shield myself from the pain of losing her when one day she passes. (Again, more on this later.) 

Even when I was finally expressing my anger to my mom, anger still didn’t feel safe to me. It made me feel out of control, and I hated it. 

So, as an adult, I’m out of touch with my anger. 

I read somewhere that anger is meant to protect us; it signals that we aren’t being treated right. Yet, as it can take me a while to realize that something upsets me, I struggle with setting boundaries and standing up for myself. Even when I realize it, or feel anger in the moment, I will take great pains to subdue it. 

I created rules to make sure that I don’t hurt others the way I was hurt growing up: One, as much as I can, try not to take things personally. Two, when I determine that something warrants speaking up, try to communicate it in a clear, calm and kind manner. Three, no raising voices, sarcasm, or contempt – if I can feel myself losing patience, take deep breaths before replying, or take some time and space to regulate myself before coming back to the conversation. 

While these are generally good rules to have, there have been times when they ended up undermining my real emotions or getting in the way of having healthy conflicts, which are key to pave better understanding and true intimacy. I can be so focused on doing the right thing, exercising empathy, and conducting myself perfectly that, in the process, my feelings and my meanings get distorted.

Anger aside, the context of how I grew up also explains why I tend to be overly self-reliant and very private when it comes to things I’m struggling with.

Going back to my friend’s other question of why I never told her about my relationship problems until after the breakup, as mentioned I have a few rules that I live by. One of them is to ‘never speak ill of your partner to your family and friends’. 

She was so baffled by this that I couldn’t help but laugh at her expression. 

“Marsha, if you can’t tell your friends about your relationship struggles, what are your friends for?” she asked, exasperated. 

She then proceeded to tell me about the dynamics in her marriage. “In our marriage, I’m the hot-headed one. I get annoyed easily and I would have mini outbursts, which I then get over very quickly. My husband, on the other hand, is a lot like you. He takes three business days to process his feelings, then after I’ve forgotten all about it, he will tell me that he was upset.” 

“Without my friends, I don’t think we’d be where we are now. I rely on them to tell me when I’m being stupid and getting mad at my husband for the wrong reason. Likewise, they will also tell me when my partner isn’t treating me fairly and that I’m right to be angry,” she said. 

“I believe that it takes a village not only to raise a child, but also to build a marriage. Your friends can help keep yourself and your partner accountable, especially because sometimes you’re too close to the problem and can’t see clearly. So, use us, okay? That’s your new rule,” she concluded.

When talking to my therapist about all these, she said that, on top of my historical family context, my autism had a role to play. Because of our neurological makeup, we can sometimes struggle to understand meanings in a given situation (for instance, whether the seemingly mean thing your partner said to you was a joke), and need some time to identify and process our emotions. 

“Anger can be complex because it doesn’t usually come alone. Most of the time, it comes with an underlying emotion, like sadness or hurt. I think, in your most recent relationship, you did a good job identifying these underlying emotions and speaking up about what caused them, even as you struggled to feel the anger. Sure, it could sometimes take you a while to process, like when it took you two months to realize that the big fight you had about time management made you really scared and walk on eggshells. But, the important thing is, you did speak up,” she said.

While this is not exclusive to autistic folks, my therapist said that we also have a tendency to internalize things, which comes at a cost, and take rule-following to the extreme due to our black-and-white thinking. 

“The rule ‘never speak ill of your partner’ was made for people who would only complain about the bad stuff, and thus poisoning their partner in their loved ones’ minds. But you don’t do that, do you? I think a better rule for you is to share about your relationship with your friends, ask them for insights and support, but tell them the whole story. Tell them the bad stuff and the good stuff,” she said. 

“Most importantly, remember, rules can always be changed,” she said.

So, from now on, here are my new rules so I can have healthy conflicts and fight well: One, if I feel any dissent or signs of anger, instead of immediately trying to shut it down, I will pause and check in with myself in the moment. Two, if I need more time to process, I will tell whoever it is I’m talking to that I’m not sure how I feel about this, but I will sit with it and get back to them within a specific timeline. Three, while I will still try my best to communicate calmly and kindly, I will not do so at the cost of clarity – I’d rather give a heads up that what I’m about to say may not be entirely polished, it may even upset them, and say what I truly mean regardless. (This was something an ex, The Tree Grower, started to apply towards the end of our relationship as well.) Finally, I will enlist my friends to share their insights, giving them the whole picture, the good and the bad.   

As this video said, honest conflict builds intimacy, while people-pleasing kills it. I am committed to nurturing the skills necessary to have true intimacy, which is what I’ve always said I desire out of life.

Intimacy requires us to be known, to be privy to their internal world, what they truly think and believe. It means also sharing the ways in which we disagree with them or have dissent inside of the relationship. 

This doesn’t mean being brutal, harsh or malicious in our honesty, but giving ourselves a fighting chance at true intimacy by not pretending to agree with them when we don’t. 

For it to work, both parties need not only to share conflicting perspectives, but also to take them seriously. If one, or both, is more attached to the idea that they’re right and the other is wrong, than they are to entertaining the other person’s worldview as true to them and figuring out where the wires are getting crossed, it is impossible to arrive at true intimacy.  

To stay in true connection with others, we need to be able to share what’s true and alive with ourselves. We need to risk abandonment, risk rejection, risk conflicts. 

Intimacy cannot exist where self-abandonment exists.

Credits:

Images by Wen Photos, Anemone123, Dawid Zawila, Surprising Snapshots, Abbat1, Brodie Vissers