My Life with a man who has Aspergers

"Who washed the dishes?" my husband asked last week.  I put up my hand and said wearily "I did, what did I do wrong?" he sighed, rolled his eyes and brought me through by the hand to show me that I had stacked the plates facing the right instead of his preferred left. I promptly fixed them as he stared at them closely to check they were done right. He gave me a lecture that I was putting 'the plates wrong, they could fall and break and the knives and forks need to be facing down" He still reminds me of this daily.

No, am not married to the bloke from Sleeping With The Enemy, though I do say that onstage. I am married to a man who has Aspergers and now has been recently told he may have low spectrum Autism.

I watched him as he stood in the kitchen with me, 33 years of marriage down the line, I recall the sixteen year old boy who put a diamond ring on my finger one month and pretty soon after that, he tried to commit suicide as he 'felt out of his skin'. Not something the doctors of Glasgow Royal Infirmary understood in 1980. Not something his hard -nosed gangster father who had six other sons could make sense of either -which is understandable.

I try hard not to think of the sleepless nights of the 80s where he ranted, raved and would develop violent rages that left me exhausted and terrified. I try hard to recall the young man who tenderly held his baby daughter moments after she was born and asked a bewildered midwife if he could 'now take the baby home and I could follow when am ready' (he was convinced Ashley would hate the feel of the hospital sheets).

The memories of the social awkwardness when he would ask the strangest questions of people like "Do you like boiled beef?" in the middle of a normal business conversation as that thought had just popped into his head, still make me shudder. Or the times when he would deliver a monologue on his favourite Roman Emperors as I am trying to tell him I have a lump in my breast. And then me laughing as he gave me space to explain the breast lump and the minute my mouth shut he explained Claudius in depth and ignored my concern, still make me giggle.

Loud sudden noises, velvet, courgettes, aubergines, lemon flavoured cakes, people being factually incorrect, Princess Diana, public displays of grief for celebrities, reality shows about talentless people, people who don't pick up litter, pets in small apartments, large cutlery, square plates, comedy oversized glasses, clowns, Michael Jackson, speaking to people, comedy where people have to join in and clap or stand up etc, people who cycle through traffic lights, audio libraries that release part 5 of a series of ten and not the previous four books are just some of the THINGS he HATES.

Black pens, lists, opera, poetry, buying five pairs of his favourite shoes, Roman history, audio books, history books, collections of elastic bands, soft fabrics, warm coffee cakes, mint tea, babies, doing anything with numbers, driving, photography, small cutlery, china cups- are just some of the things he loves.

His Aspergers can control his basic emotions, for example when my beloved step mum was dying in a hospital bed, he sat with her for hours and when she finally passed he was distraught as he couldn't feel the same sadness as everyone. We were deep in grief and he announced to the gathered family "I dont feel anything, what is wrong with me?" I ushered him away from the sad group to explain "that's not nice to say to people who do feel stricken" he nodded and walked away bewildered.

His need to walk to the right shop and buy the milk that is cheapest, the exhausting way he associates words I am saying into the line of a song he remembers, his compelling drive to wake up and move everything about in the cupboards as it has 'been bothering him all night' can be so frustrating to live with.

Imagine living with a man who had done so many hurtful things that are seared into your memory, yet you can't recriminate as the majority of them are due to a syndrome he lives with? There is no marriage guidance for a man who doesn't understand  what he did wrong and his only answer is "leave me then, am damaged".

This is the man in 1996, who demanded we all sit in a darkened hotel room at Disney Land Orlando and not turn the TV on as he wanted to sleep and me and his ten year old daughter weren't to move. I can still recall the tantrum he took when we walked into the sunshine and left him behind. I still recall the tears of confusion as he tried to explain why he behaved like that when we returned. Our daughter will have her own tale to tell and I can't speak for her here. She loves her dad.

I love this man and yet when I see other women sit round dinner tables at events I attend to do comedy or go to a night out, I feel a deep pang of jealousy. My husband will never dress in a dinner suit and pour me wine and chat idly to the guy on his left, neither did he see me collect any of the comedy awards that I won, as he can't cope with those events.

He sat in the car near a beach in Troon on the day his daughter graduated university as he was worried he would embarrass her in front of her peers. He listened to his favourite Roman book as she walked off the stage. I watched other proud parents hug each other and I felt alone, yet relieved he wasn't in a situation that would stress him.

My husband in his younger days was very sociable, he ran a bar and used to regularly take customers on European bus runs and host events in the pub. Having spoken to his psychologist it turns out he was 'role playing' the part. Is he 'role playing' being my husband? Is he 'pretending' to be a father?

I don't believe he is. I believe that his role playing was his 'coping mechanism'.

He faked to the world that he was regular member of society and inside waited for the world to catch him being the fake he always felt.

It is no surprise his mental health suffered, and explains his few suicide attempts and his struggle to make sense of a world where he doesn't feel he can fit in.

The upside's are he is completely accepting of every race, creed, colour and sexuality. He doesn't think lateral he thinks literal, and doesn't understand why anyone would discriminate against people for no good reason.

He was a feminist back in the early 80s when men in the East End of Glasgow were worse than radio sport commentators of today. He takes people as he finds them and doesn't have a single Daily Mail bone in his body, as that attitude doesn't make any sense to him.

He is also great when I need someone to run my comedy past, as he can immediately tell me if he doesn't understand the joke or what am trying to say, and makes me reword stories so they make more sense.

When asked to describe his Aspergers he said "Every day I fight with emotions and feelings I can't control, I suppose it's like being homosexual and trying to pretend am straight to the world, or I feel like my skin doesn't feel right and my brain wants to take me into a place I can't get out of. Sometimes there are so many things to cover up in one day, my dyslexia, my depression, my inability to make eye contact, my disdain of other people, my obvious disinterest when someone talks to me and I don't want them near me anymore...it's hard to hide all that inside....and the knowledge of all the things I did to you".

He just sounds like a grumpy old man, but he isn't he can be hilarious and loves that I joke about his syndrome on stage. He can be funny with people he trusts and they are very few, he can be a constant font of information as he retains screeds of facts and figures. His advice on relationships to my girlfriends is utterly genius "he doesn't call you because he doesn't like you enough, get over him now and find a man that isn't indifferent to your needs". (they prefer his advice over mine every time).

The array of nieces and nephews love their uncle and as they got older understood he was 'a bit different' but always found him loving and helpful.

Last year we had booked a Disney on Ice for our wee niece Abigail, I got ill and couldn't take her. Husband stepped in and sat through a giant arena of screaming kids and Disney caterwauling. She was over the moon and explained later "Uncle loved it and sung along with every song" he told us later it was utter hell, the seats were velvet and he faked the whole evening to keep her happy. That's one of the many reasons I love him.

Our daughter is very proud of her dad and her mates come to him for support and advice and even stay over when we are both out of the country on tour, as they enjoy his company and like to hang out with him.

If you are ever in need of someone to face a dilemma with my husband is the most practical, helpful and rational person you could find. He cuts through all emotion and sorts the problems.

When asked what he is happiest about, he often says "that my daughter can read, write and is educated"

I once asked him if he was relieved that Ashley doesn't have Aspergers and he replied "That's a stupid thing to say, she doesn't have it, why would you ask that stupid question, as if you would consider your kid being any other way than the way she is" and that is a brilliant Aspergers answer. 

It Happened To Me

"Let's go camping" my husband said. I didn't want to go, we bought the tent as I had been performing at Glastonbury and living in a cramped nylon box taught me this 'I don't like camping' So we compromised and we went camping.

 

Husband loves going up the highlands and I like it was well, especially when the sun shines and the tiny mosquitoes die and the wasps don't come near. But those are rare days. So we landed at this campsite near a loch. It had a small aviary, some boats and a shop that sold tablet (a Scottish sweet candy) so what's not to love?

 

That night after we got the cramped nylon box erected, husband and I went a walk into the nearest village and got some fish and chips. We walked back beneath the twinkling stars as the loch lapped against the rocks and we snuggled down to sleep.

 

At about 5am I woke up soaked in sweat with deep advanced labour pains in my bowel, which is odd as I wasn't pregnant.

 

I knew what was about to happen, and I needed to get to toilet to let it happen. I had food poisoning and the fitful sweat soaked scramble from the tent was horrendous. I was wearing only a tee shirt and knickers, I didn't care who spotted me. I needed- really needed to get to the toilet block (anything described as 'block' isn't going to be welcoming).

 

As I emerged from the tent, the sweat running between my shoulder blades and the dawn chill throwing a patina of damp chill on top of it made me moan aloud. I couldn't find my shoes, so my sticky bare feet were thrust into my husband giant sneakers. I looked like a half naked sweaty clown running towards the toilets.

 

I ran across grass, stopped clutched my stomach as my bowels spasmed. I was sure I was about to evacuate right there on the grass, I sweated more, my vision swam and I ran with the clown shoes and made it to the white brick building. Out of the side of my eye, I saw a big bird....a swan...or something...but ignored whatever it was and focussed on getting into the cubicle. I was about explode.

 

My feet skittered across the damp tiles and I made it into the wee door, I kicked it open like a drug bust, got my knickers down and basically my entire skeleton came out of my bum, I sweated more and thought I was going to faint. The pain in my lower bowl reminded me of last stages of delivering a baby.

 

As I sat there exhausted and shivering, I heard a tiny tip tap on the tile floor. I couldn't make out what it was, I honestly didn't care, I was too busy trying not to faint.

 

The tip tapping got closer and there in front of my wide open toilet door was a huge colourful bird...like a big turkey or something.

 

It stared at me then made a noise and a HUGE fan of colour burst from its ass like an umbrella or giant fan being unfurled and the magnificent feathers full of amazing deep greens, blues and displaying an iridescent sheen that was startling. I sat there with giant shoes hanging off my feet, my knickers at my ankles, my tee shirt stuck to my back with shivering sweat as a beautiful peacock showed me it's full glory in a public toilet at 5am in the morning. 

 

I thought I was hallucinating until another peacock came in, pushed that peacock out the way and stared at me, and flung open its big ass fan of colour!

 

Finally, I managed to retain some body fluids, I got up shooed away the peacocks, washed my face and hands in the freezing cold toilet and clown walked my way back to the tent. The two peacocks followed me and strutted behind me like two old Victorian ladies shaking fans. Husband stuck his head out of the tent and saw me walk towards him half naked with my two new pals either side of me.

 

"Why do you have peacocks with you?" he asked.

 

"I had a really bad bout of food poisoning and they came in to keep me company" I replied.

 

The sun started to slash the sky and I huddled back into the tent, kicked off the giant shoes and snuggled under the sleeping bag. Through the tent I could see the silhouette of the peacocks as the stood guard outside.

 

I love camping now.

 

So thanks for reading, if you want follow me on twitter @JaneyGodley for updates.

 

 

 

 

 

Love and Lost Passport

You know that deep happy love feeling when you wake up and think your stomach will explode with excitement and you want to tell this person you love absolutely every thought, fear or desire but think it's best not to, because when the love fades and the shit hits the fan they might use it against you in a future argument?

 

That's not love, that's endorphins & a hormone cocktail making you insane and the very same chemicals that produce that feeling are an identical mix to that which make people angry and confused enough to pick up a samurai sword and attack people near a busy flower stall, because God told them to.

 

The reason I bring up hormones and love is, am sure am about to batter full force into my menopause and instead of getting the usual symptoms hot flushes and dried up womb/vagina (none of which has happened) I am pretty busy fucking up my life and just losing stuff (like my passport) and getting giddy about love.

 

If my menopause was an interpretive dance movement it would resemble 'trees swaying in the wind, whilst screaming and searching bags frantically as people scattered in different directions then very hard hugging that scares the frail and small animals in my life".

 

Don't expect to see it at the National Theatre is all am saying.

 

All of this has somewhat disconcerted my husband who is used to my brand of 'love' which is basically me trying to be nice and with moments of touching affection. Now he gets undying declarations and long winded stories about all my hopes and dreams and he stares at me with the hollowed eyes of a man who has been in this relationship since he was 16yrs old and utters "we are not getting the bathroom tiled" or "please don't tell me anymore am bored with your mouth moving fast and your hair is bushy did you know that?" He has Aspergers syndrome which makes flowing conversation with perfect segues something that only happens in an episode of 'Friends'.

 

I have also taken to suddenly gripping him tightly in the night making him scream as he thinks the house might be on fire or a hostage situation is in play. Normally I don't like being touched when am sleeping, now I wake up and have an urge to cuddle hard. And I mean cuddle. Husband is worried sick. We have a language that no longer needs proper constructed words, we say sentences to each other that if in public sound innocuous but to the long married trained ear, you will not the coded passive/aggressive hatred and barbed verbal stabbing. That's love isn't it? That we bothered to understand each other's codes and underlying hatred we share?

 

So the losing stuff is getting worse, recently when I was in Canada I managed to drop my passport out of my bag on the very last weekend of the 5 week tour. I was in St John's Newfoundland and it was a bank holiday weekend.

 

On the Thursday after flying from Toronto on Porter Airlines (which are amazing) I managed to let my passport fall out of my bag onto aeroplane floor. I was so flooded by hormones and needing a hug that I never checked my bag. So by time I got into St John's I was hysterical.

 

The manager of the Yuk Yuk's comedy club must have been so happy so deal with a slightly smelly, screamy, tufty haired emotional woman who can yell "I have lost my passport" constantly. Then I went onstage and did an hour show, every night for three nights ..not once did I let it upset me but inside my thoughts were interspersed with "I have lost my passport" it made me sweat funny. Yuk Yuks were so helpful they gave me a landline and an office and the time to call all necessary people as there is no reason that the officials from the British Consulate didn't get to hear me scream "I have lost my passport" and hear a woman who I swear to god was Mary Poppins answer me back "press one if you have lost your passport". I pressed 'one' quite a lot.

 

One of the women in the club looked me right in the eye and said "have you ever lost a breast to cancer? No? then chill the fuck out its just admin"

 

She clearly hadn't been suffering from an emotional pre menopause had she? And her brand of reality bites just made me weepy and needing hard hugs...she wasn't helping is all am saying.

 

The Yuk Yuk's comedy club in Newfoundland is absolutely stunning, it has a natural slate wall as a back drop and as I stood onstage saying funny words but in my head I was screaming "I have lost my passport" and I leaned against the wall and for some reason I cannot explain, I wiggled a finger in between the bricks and got my finger stuck. I had the option of doing a whole hour as I stood in the one spot with my finger stuck, or stand forward and show the 200 odd people exactly what I was doing as I was supposed to be entertaining them.

 

I showed them "I have stuck my finger in the wall, please tell me that Holland isn't behind that wall and when I pull my finger out I flood a nation?"

 

They laughed and I got my finger free.

 

Good news is- Porter airlines found my passport and all the screaming and sweating was for nothing. So now that drama was over I went onto lose house keys, my oyster card and a curly headed toddler called Bernard, (not a good name for a consummate floor licker).

 

Ok calm down the toddler was found quickly. It ran away from me in a shopping mall in London, he wanted his mum, who had asked me to keep an eye on him for a few minutes so she could go to the loo. I would have chased him, but he wasn't mine and I didn't know her well enough to worry about a missing screamer called Bernard. And I was slightly emotional and needed a hard hug.

 

It all worked out in the end.

 

 

So thanks for reading, if you want follow me on twitter @JaneyGodley for updates.