The Power of Understanding in Neurodivergent Marriage

EDITOR’S NOTE: We deliberately maintain British spellings for writers who write in British English

Since realising we’re both neurodivergent, my partner and I have become each other’s safe places to be our full selves.

It wasn’t always this way. Some of the things we did—or couldn’t do—didn’t make sense to us pre-knowing. Ignorance of ourselves spiralled into wondering if we made sense together. Learning about our neurodivergence revealed what we always had, beyond neurotypical standards of love, romance, and marriage.

I’m not a romantic person, not in words and gestures. I don’t always know what to say to reassure her when she’s down. During a depression, she rarely wants to be loved up anyway, preferring her space and solitude to work through it.

We’re still there for each other when it matters. We have long conversations deep into the night when we’ve had some time to process thoughts and emotions on our own. Those marathon talks often lead to shared epiphanies that bring us closer, help us help each other. I first shared my suspicion that I was autistic in one of these moments.

We have our own love language, one of intuiting what the other is about to say from sharing a script of memes and intense interests. We mirror and match each other, our strengths complementing each other’s weaknesses. She’s the practical one who pulls me back to ground level when I’m floating away with impulsive excitement. But, though this might sound contradictory, I can keep my cool in a crisis if she’s falling apart from panic.

There’s structure to how we connect in joy and hardship. It might seem illogical, or just plain weird, outside of autistic love. But it nourishes us in ways we’re just learning the terminology for.

Differences in how we see and remember details means I don’t have many vivid memories of our life considering our almost 12 years together. Luckily, she holds and reminds me of them, like our various boxes of tickets, letters, and other memorabilia that get buried and resurface in cycles.

What works for us in our own bubble gets tough when outside life does. Money, work, and dealing with neurotypical people all dig up our separate pains and frustrations. Fear, anxiety, and self-loathing make us lash out at each other still.

But that’s okay. We know the feelings of not fitting together come from social norms that say that the ways we love, function, work, and exist are wrong and unacceptable. We know each other well enough to realise that now, and we let the anger and sadness be when that’s all we can do.

In his article discussing Black autistic visibility in Boots Riley’s I’m a Virgo, poet Cyrée Jarelle Johnson writes that “Being with another exceptional person removes the need to hide.” Coming out of hiding from ourselves was a step taken towards that comfortable freedom.

There’s no map for neurodivergent marriage; our love is its own landscape. We’re filling it in as we go. But it’s been much easier since we’ve known how to traverse that together. We are exceptional, because we’ve figured out our own ways to care for each other.

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W.E. Cuthbert (they/he) is a queer, AuDHD, Pagan witch who writes because it’s magic. A regular name and podcast guest at Metro UK, they’ve appeared in The Nation, and featured in the first ever Trans+ History Week. He’s also a dorky softie who loves music, mythology, and making friends with trees.