Autism, Grief, and compartmentalizing
My history with death in the family is… complicated. On the Jewish side of my family, religious traditions dictate that things happen very quickly, so plans have usually been put in place long ahead of time, and we merely go through the motions. On the other side, there is a history of not even telling me right away that someone has passed, and of delaying memorial services, and thus the grieving process.
I thought, after losing my last grandparent in 2017, that I was generally prepared for death and the rites that go along with it in either case. I felt that, having experienced each extreme, that I could handle whatever future events the world might throw at me.
Then, on Tuesday, my mother unexpectedly passed away.
We hadn’t completed making our plans, and I was woefully underprepared for all of the calls and arrangements that I would (and continue to) have to make. And while I’ve definitely done my share of crying this week, I also carried on with my plans to attend the Renaissance Faire, cheering wildly at the joust and showing off my newest costume. It seems, to me at least, that there is only so much grief a body can handle.
I’ve always struggled to understand why I seemed to experience so much less emotion than my family members showed in these moments. Why I was able to get back to “normal” so quickly, which sometimes made me feel horribly guilty. When I was diagnosed with ASD two years ago, I started to get this answer. I have the gift/curse of all of my emotions being Big Emotions, and so I learned very early how to compartmentalize them. Since then, I have learned skills to process and unpack them. I like to make lists and give myself something to do; I like to have a clear actionable path that is separate from my Big Emotions. It’s gotten me through the last seven days, but let me tell you, that skill is being sorely tested right now.
In some ways, I’m writing this as therapy. I’m writing this to give myself that something to do while everything else is in a holding pattern, something that can help me on that journey back to normal. The idea that some effects of ASD and ADHD can be both hindrance and help was meant to be the next blog post here anyway. I didn’t expect it to take this form, and I will get back to the original at some point.
For now, if you’ve read this far and anything about my story has felt familiar, know that you are not alone. If compartmentalizing or returning to routines helps you to deal with grief and loss — or any other extreme emotion — it is not a crime, and it is not abnormal. If you seem to experience loss separately or later than the rest of your family, your experience is no less valid. If tradition and ceremony help you to process your emotions and move forward, even when you are not otherwise religious, you are not a fraud or a fake. You are simply… you. A human being attempting to do the most human thing of all, finding and understanding your place in a world that is constantly changing.
Change is inevitable. Sometimes, like right now in my case, it straight up sucks. All we can do in those instances is our best. I can’t count the number of times that someone this week has told me “I’m so proud of how you’re handling this, it’s so much,” and I’ve fought the urge to respond, “Thanks, it’s Autism.” I can’t always be disparaging. We have to take the good along with the bad.
And there is good still, if you look for it.