I always get a rush of anxiety before a phone call. The only way I can describe it is it’s like being sat on a dinghy, out on the ocean, swaying back and forth. The swish sensation moving your organs in a rhythm that causes nausea. However, the nausea doesn’t come, but the uncomfortable swish remains as I pick up my phone and dial his number.
John had agreed to speak with me beforehand the night before. His lack of ability to read and write impacts his confidence. Despite this he tries his best to understand the messages I sent him by relaying them to his mum, so she can explain to him what it means, before replying with a text message that she wrote for him. All this effort so he could talk to me about being in an autistic relationship.
My nerves subside a little when I hear the enthusiasm in his voice and we chat happily about the next season of the Disability Super League that we both attended back before Covid had begun. His laughter is contagious and I remember why he’s my friend, and promised myself that I would call more often (I’ve never been consistent with communication in friendships).
“How long have you and Scarlett been together?” I ask, biting my lip and doodling nervously in my notebook. The swish of nerves return as I worry about his reaction to my probing questions.
“Four years,” his reply is quick and calm. This surprises me and makes me think about the reasons why I’m so nervous to ask John these questions. I’d interviewed numerous people for past research projects, why did this time feel different?
Is it because it’s closer to home? I thought, or was it because I was conscious of his autism and concerned about upsetting him?
“How long have you lived together?” I ask, beginning to tap my pen against the paper to soothe my nerves.
“We don’t live together.” He states, and that catches me off guard.
“I thought you two lived together, I’m sorry.” I reply, internally kicking myself for assuming.
“Oh, no, it’s fine!” His enthusiasm never wavers. His voice soothes the moment of dread and returns me to homeostasis. He continues by explaining, “we fell out all the time.” A moment of disappointment grips my chest and my heart sinks. Oh no. I thought. Does that mean Ki and me shouldn’t live together either?
“Do you see her often?” I ask hopefully.
“I live by myself, but she sleeps over sometimes. Mostly weekends. Due to covid though I haven’t been able to see her because of shielding.” His voice seems to go flat. I can’t imagine how isolating that is for him, I thought. Living alone, not being able to read or write, depending on someone to communicate but whom you can’t interact with on a daily basis?
Autistics are seen as anti-social when, in reality, some are as much a social butterfly as an American cheerleader at a football game. Routines keep us focused, happy and helps us to manage our time effectively and being social can be a part of that routine.
“So, do you ever have conflict?”
“What do you mean?” He asks, his voice lighter now, and curious.
“For example, if Scarlett won’t do the washing up and you don’t feel like washing up - would you argue?” I try to think of something simple and to the point which seems to do the trick.
“No” He says firmly. “We just get on with it. There’s negatives and positives to everything but we just get on with it. I like living alone because I like my own space.”
“I do too,” I say, smiling into the phone. “I think that’s one of the things I worry about.”
“She does what she wants to do and I do what I want to do.”
The conversation moves on from serious relationship stuff and back to rugby. Until he pops in with “does he treat you right?”
“He does,” I say with a giggle after a moment of trying to think of who he meant.
“Good, he better do.”
Eventually I hang up after we say goodbye, and I’m in awe at how relaxed he is in his relationship. He sounded content with living alone and seeing his partner on weekends or sometimes through the week.
I contemplate this for a while afterwards, and wonder whether Ki would be satisfied with a
