The following is a creative prose study examining the intersection of childhood neurodivergence and hostile domestic environments. This scene utilizes vivid imagery from an autistic child's perspective to explore how autistic individuals' distinct way of experiencing their environment can elevate misunderstandings across neurotypes and, in an emotionally dysregulated parent, invite aggression towards the child.
My father paced up and down the kitchen, bringing a hand to his lips in thought. His heavy breathing was all I could hear as I gazed out the window in an attempt to calm myself.
“What are we to do with ya, boy?” My father sighed, with an unexpected trace of sympathy grazing his tone.
For a moment, he stopped pacing to look down at me. His tone returned to his usual bark-like growl, however, as he noticed my attempts to ground myself. “There ain’t anything interesting out that window, boy, so I suggest you look at me before I have to make ya!”
My head snapped forward in practiced obedience, fearfully glancing around the room. A peculiar sound that I couldn’t quite place puzzled me, the sound coming out in muffled bursts.
My father continued to lecture me on nothing in particular as I attempted to place the sound. A flash of movement across my peripheral startled me and caused me to investigate the living room, my eyes darting around skillfully to avoid further remarks from my father. What started as an indiscernible blob of blonde and pastel pink quickly became known as my mother, her shoulders shaking in time with each burst of sound.
Oh.
My mother was crying.
I had never seen her do that before.
My father continued, “Despite your mother and my continual attempts to raise a well-disciplined son, you have failed us, Maxwell. Congratulations on being a parasite in our life, boy. How does that make ya feel?”
I felt confused, mostly, because I wasn’t sure why being a problem child prompted congratulations.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to have a talk with your mother.”
As his footsteps decreased in volume upon his advancement into the living room, my curious soul dragged me forward to peek around the doorway. My mother’s sobs were met with no sympathy from my father, not surprisingly.
“Oh, would you stop that obnoxious blubbering already? I don’t have time for this!” My father complained.
“B-but-” my mother began to stutter, “What will- will we do with the- the boy?”
Upon a moment of contemplation, my father replied calmly, “We will simply take him to the doctor. Maybe they can knock some sense into him.”
It didn’t come as a surprise to me that I still recalled each detail of that day, for the events of that particular day would shape much of the rest of my life.
Because that day was the day when my parents would drag me to the doctor only to find out that their once salvageable “normal” son may not have been normal at all.
I began the process of being diagnosed with autism that day, and every day since, I was no longer treated the same.
