I had been in a relationship with my ex-husband for 15 years when he asked me for a divorce. He later claimed that it should not have come as too much of a surprise, but let me tell you I really think he is the only one who wasn’t astounded, myself included. I understand that he had decided that the 16 months apart while I attended school in California- barely 30 days after we had moved out of our apartment we had made our home for the past 7 years and into my mother’s home- was not something he could handle, especially after his father passed away shortly after I started my program (I know, right?). To me this was something we just needed to push through. 16 months was nothing against 15 years, and I knew plenty of successful couples who had done multiple years of being long distance. To me it would be difficult, but I trusted our love could carry us through this to the other side. I had done this for our future anyway, so that I could contribute more financially and stop feeling like a burden. An adult job that was one step closer to justify wanting kids. This sacrifice was worth that, right?
“This is all very sudden,” my family quickly jumped in to say, “He will come to his senses. And then you can try couple’s counseling.” But I knew him better than anyone, the side of him I kept hidden and secret for him, and as soon as he said the word “divorce” I knew it was over. He was always very careful not to say anything he didn’t mean. If he said “I want a divorce.” then that is what he meant. Not an issue that he deemed solvable through counseling, and not a sudden spur of the moment angry blurt. It meant that after 15 years, from high school sweethearts at 18 to D.I.N.K.W.A.D.s at 33, he was done. At the time, I handled the worst phone call of my life with what I considered a saint-like level of decorum. I had been attempting to self-therapize for the past few weeks through books about attachment style, and learning effective techniques on how to regulate my nervous system. I was also smoking a lot of weed. I found myself in the long stretches of moment after he said the words to end our future together, at the same time I felt my body and soul being ripped in half slowly, painfully, without my consent, feeling an actual sense of relief.
“What is wrong with me?” That was what I asked myself at first in the days and weeks following. I felt like some sick psychopath for finding the silver lining so easily, staying so positive and well-regulated that everyone thinks you’re in therapy, when really you’ve just been taking THC gummies and meditating. A sociopathic freak for having little-to-no urge to text him during no contact and even feeling a little lighter without the responsibility of having a partner that needed constant contact. Family and friends wouldn’t believe me when they attempted commiseration and I shut it down by saying I didn’t want to talk about it. I know they thought it was because I was too sad, but it felt more like exhaustion- I hated attempting to form whatever this was I was feeling into words that they could accept. My mother and my brothers wanted to dissect my ex’s every word and action and use this as a weapon against his character, and when I didn’t want to engage, I’m sure they thought I was attempting to stay a good and loyal wife in case he changed his mind. Like I said, I knew that would never happen, so that was never what bothered me about those conversations- I simply would rather discuss and look forward to the future that I was still on track to have. And this future was my own, and had nothing to do with my ex. And I actually enjoyed that idea. I felt a sense of freedom that quickly brought me a sense of shame. I should be broken beyond repair, utterly frightened and lonely, stuck in a vicious whirlpool of self-doubt, shouldn’t I?
I’ve been joking about being autistic for many years now. I am embarrassed to say I haven’t been saying it seriously for that long at all. I still don’t know how I feel about getting a formal diagnosis- there are times when I manically research the quickest and cheapest ways to go about this, and there are times when I convince myself I don’t need one to feel confident that is what I am. However, these feelings I experienced since the day I marked on my desk calendar as “The worst day of my LIFE!!” all those months ago, this period that I can dramatically but accurately describe as a spiritual and emotional rebirth, have worked as a crash course in identity, and pride, and understanding. And I understand now that the sense of relief I felt in those seconds that felt like hours is not anything to be ashamed of. I can now say with confidence that as an autistic woman that was in a relationship with a neurotypical man, I had been forcing a square peg into a round hole every day, for 15 years. And in all honesty, having the weight of that feeling lifted from my shoulders felt really good. And now I find myself wanting this thing, this first thing I can have completely to myself since I was a teenager, a child really: a diagnosis. Therapy that will actually help me. Validation that I’m not a psychopath. And a perfect start to the next chapter of my life, one in which I will never again try to be something that I’m not.
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