It’s never easy to say good-bye, particularly to a country that has become a home away from home, as Lithuania had for me over the past year. It was a warm July day as I walked up the avenue to the center for the last time. Inside, Liuda and the other volunteers had gathered in the classroom to see me off. I thanked each of them in Lithuanian for their help and kindness towards me. Liuda presented me with an illustrated leather-bound diary as a farewell gift and told me that she hoped I would fill it with new ideas and future adventures. A part of me was sad to be leaving, but I knew inside that I had achieved everything—personally as well as professionally—that I could here, and that it was time to move on.
The flight home to London felt as though it might never end. I passed some of the time by reading and rereading a letter sent a week before by my parents. Shortly after I had left for Lithuania, my father had received news of a large, newly built house available to rent in the local area. It was actually two houses that had been knocked into one, with six bedrooms and two bathrooms. The property was a godsend to my family, who moved there shortly afterwards. It was to this new address that I was now returning and the letter included a photo of the house and directions to it.
A familiar face, my friend Rehan, was waiting for me at the airport. We had stayed in touch by postcard throughout my time overseas, but even so it was good to see him in person after all this time. As he had done for me years before, Rehan acted as my guide through the labyrinthine Underground. While we sat together on the train, he listened patiently to my anecdotes about my time in the city of Kaunas and asked to see my photos of the different places and people I had seen and met. A little while later, he stood up quickly and told me that we were approaching my stop. There was just enough time to gather up my bags and thank him for his company. No sooner had I stepped off the platform and turned round than the train had pulled away, its outline rapidly disappearing into the darkness of an oncoming tunnel.
The street outside was completely foreign to me. I walked for a long time before realizing that I was stuck: the road’s name I’d arrived at wasn’t the same as the one in my parents’ letter. Perhaps I had taken a wrong turn somewhere. Nervously, I asked a passerby for help. “Walk straight on and go right at the next turn,” he said. As I passed the correct road name it suddenly occurred to me how strange it was that I had just had to ask where my own family’s street was.
The family were delighted to see me and we spent many happy hours catching up. Some of my brothers and sisters said that I had a slight accent, which was perhaps not surprising as I had been away for so long and had spoken more Lithuanian than English in that time. My mother showed me around the house and my new room, which was situated at the back, away from the road, and was the quietest of all the rooms. It was small, especially after all the space I’d had in Lithuania, though there was still enough space besides a bed for a table and chair and a small television set. I liked the newness of my room; it represented a tangible sense that my return to the U.K. was a step forward in my life and not back to my past. This was a fresh start.
There was a period of readjustment to my new surroundings. Living on my own had given me a real feeling of independence and I had liked the control I had been able to exert on my immediate environment, without the noise or unpredictability of other people to cope with. It was difficult at first to get used to the noise of my siblings running up and down the stairs or arguing with each other. My mother told each of them to try to respect my need for quiet and for the most part they did.
My experiences abroad had undoubtedly changed me. For one thing, I had learned a great deal about myself. I could see more clearly than ever before how my “differences” affected my day-to-day life, especially my interactions with other people. I had eventually come to understand that friendship was a delicate, gradual process that mustn’t be rushed or seized upon but allowed and encouraged to take its course over time. I pictured it as a butterfly, simultaneously beautiful and fragile, that once afloat belonged to the air and any attempt to grab at it would only destroy it. I recalled how in the past at school I had lost potential friendships because, lacking social instinct, I had tried too hard and made completely the wrong impression.
Lithuania had also allowed me to step back from myself and come to terms with my “differentness” by illustrating the fact that it needn’t be a negative thing. As a foreigner I had been able to teach English to my Lithuanian students and tell them all about life in Britain. Not being the same as everyone else had been a positive advantage to me in Kaunas, and an opportunity to help others.
I also now had a database of widely varied experiences that I could reference in all manner of future situations. It gave me a greater confidence in my ability to cope with whatever life might bring to me. The future wasn’t anything for me to be afraid of anymore. In my tiny new bedroom at home I felt freer than ever before.
As a returned volunteer, I was eligible for an end-of-service grant for which I had to write about my experience in Lithuania and the things I had learned whilst there. I sent all the forms back and waited. In the meantime, I found work as a tutor helping local children with their reading, writing and arithmetic. Several months after first applying, I finally received the grant at the start of 2000. It was just enough money for a computer: a dream realized for me and the first my family had ever owned. Once arrived and unwrapped, it took some time for me, with the help of my brothers and father, to piece it all together and get it working. For the first time I was able to access the World Wide Web, and was delighted by the sheer wealth of information now available to me at the click of a mouse: online encyclopedias, dictionaries, lists of trivia, word and number puzzles—they were all there. So too were message boards and chat rooms.
There is something exciting and reassuring for individuals on the autistic spectrum about communicating with other people over the internet. For one thing, talking in chat rooms or by email does not require you to know how to initiate a conversation or when to smile or the numerous intricacies of body language, as in other social situations. There is no eye contact and it is possible to understand the other person’s every word because everything is written down. The use of “emoticons,” such as 
and 
, in chat room conversations also makes it easier to know how the other person is feeling, because he or she tells you in a simple, visual method.
I first met my partner, Neil, online in the autumn of 2000. He writes software programs for a living, so he uses computers on a daily basis. Like me, Neil is very shy and found the internet helped him to meet new people and make friends. Almost immediately we began to exchange emails every day, writing about everything from the names of our favorite songs to our hopes and dreams for the future. There was plenty that we had in common and it was not long before he suggested we swap photos and phone numbers. Neil was beautiful: tall with thick, dark hair and shining blue eyes, and when I spoke to him over the phone he was always extremely patient, polite and more than happy to do most of the talking. He was nearly the same age as me, twenty-four, and lived and worked in Kent, not far from my home in London. The more I learned about him, the more I remember thinking to myself: I have met my soul mate.
Falling in love is like nothing else; there isn’t a right or a wrong way to fall in love with another person, no mathematical equation for love and the perfect relationship. Emotions that I had not experienced in the years since my teenage crush I felt suddenly and strongly, for long and lingering moments, so profoundly that they hurt. I could not stop thinking about Neil, no matter what I did, and found it difficult even to eat or sleep properly as a result. When he asked me, in an email at the start of 2001, whether we could meet, I hesitated nonetheless. What if the meeting went badly? What if I were to do or say the wrong thing? Was I even someone who could be loved? I did not know.
Before I could answer Neil, I decided I needed to tell my parents about him, which meant I needed to confront them with the truth about myself. The house was quiet that afternoon; my brothers and sisters were all playing outside or upstairs in their rooms, while my mother and father were in the living room watching the television. I had rehearsed what I wanted to say many times over in my head, but entering the room I still felt a pang of sickness because I had no idea what their reaction would be and I do not like situations where anything could happen, because they make me feel dizzy and nauseous. Wanting their full attention, I walked over to the television set and switched it off. My father started to complain, but my mother simply looked up and waited for me to speak. Opening my lips, I heard my voice—quiet and cracking—tell them that I was gay and that I had met someone who I liked very much. There was a brief silence when both said nothing but just looked at me. Then my mother told me that it was not a problem and that she wanted me to be happy. My father’s reaction was positive too, telling me that he hoped I would find someone I would love and who could love me in return. I hoped so too.
The following week I agreed to meet Neil. It was a cold January morning as I waited for him outside the house, wrapped in a thick coat and wearing a hat and gloves. Just before ten o’clock he pulled up in his car and got out. His first words to me as we shook hands were: “Your photo doesn’t do you justice.” I smiled, though I did not understand the phrase. Neil suggested he drive me down to his home in Kent for the day, so I sat in the passenger seat and we set off. It was a peculiar journey. After a few minutes talking, he lapsed into silence and I did not know how to restart the conversation so I just sat there. I was feeling very nervous and thought to myself: He must not like me. We had driven for over an hour when we reached Neil’s home in Ashford, a market town in the center of Kent. Just then, he leaned behind his seat and lifted out a beautiful bouquet of flowers and gave them to me. So he did like me after all.
Neil’s house was part of a modern development, surrounded by other identical-looking houses and a small nearby park with a pond and swings and merry-go-round. Inside, there was striped wallpaper, red carpet and a black-and-white cat called Jay. I kneeled down and stroked her head and she started to purr. Neil took me into the living room and we sat at opposite ends of the sofa and talked. After a while he asked whether I wanted to listen to some music. Gradually, unconsciously, we found ourselves sitting closer and closer together on the sofa, until Neil was holding me in his arms as I rested my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes, listening to the songs. Soon afterwards we kissed. We decided there and then that we were meant to be together. It was the start of something big.
Neil did not find it difficult to accept me for who I was. He too had been bullied at school and knew what it was like to be different from your peers. Being a homebody himself he didn’t mind that I preferred the quiet and security of home to the commotion of pubs and clubs. Most important of all, he—like me—had reached a crossroads in his life and wasn’t sure about the way forward. Through our chance meeting online we had both of us discovered, to our mutual surprise and joy, that thing that had been missing from both our lives: romantic love.
In the following weeks we continued to email each other daily and to talk regularly on the phone. Whenever he could, Neil would drive up to see me. Six months after we first met, following long discussions together, I made the decision to move to Kent to be with Neil. I walked into the kitchen one day and told my mother matter-of-factly “I’m moving out.” My parents were glad for me, but they were also concerned: how would I cope in a relationship with all of the ups and downs and responsibilities that come with it? What mattered at that time were the things that I knew to be absolutely true: that Neil was a very special person, that I had not ever felt about another person quite how I felt about him, that we loved each other very much and wanted to be together.
The first months after the move were not always easy. Living off a single salary meant that we had to be very careful with our spending. It would be more than two and a half years before we had our first holiday together. During the day, while Neil worked at his office in nearby Ramsgate, I did the chores and cooked in the evenings. I also wrote to all the libraries in the area asking if they had any vacancies, as I very much wanted to work and contribute as much as possible to the costs of running the home. One morning, I received a letter in the post telling me that I had been selected for an interview at a library office where new books were located, ordered and organized for display. On the day of the interview, Neil lent me one of his ties, put it on for me and gave me written instructions for the bus ride to the address given in the letter. Though I got lost walking around various buildings looking for the right one, I eventually made it to the interview with the help of a member of the staff who walked me to the correct door.
There was a panel of three interviewers. As one of them started to speak I noticed that she had an accent and asked her about it. When she said that she was originally from Finland, a country I had read a lot about in the library as a child, I began talking nonstop about the things I knew about her native country and even spoke a little Finnish with her. The interview did not last long (which I took as a good sign) and I was excited as I walked out afterwards; after all, I had remembered to maintain eye contact, dressed smartly and been friendly throughout. I was devastated when a few days later I received a phone call telling me that I had not been chosen for the position. Dozens of detailed, handwritten applications for other positions in libraries, schools and colleges over the following months were all rejected or went unanswered.
Unfortunately, my experience is commonplace. Research in 2001 by the U.K.’s National Autistic Society indicated that only 12 percent of those with high-functioning autism or Asperger’s syndrome had full-time jobs. In contrast, 49 percent of people with other disabilities and 81 percent of people who are not disabled were in employment in 2003, according to the U.K.’s Office for National Statistics. There are several important reasons for this disparity. Individuals with an autistic spectrum disorder often have problems finding out about job opportunities or understanding the confusing jargon that frequently appears in job adverts. Interviews for selection require communication and social interaction skills, which are particular areas of difficulty for someone with autism. The National Autistic Society’s Employment Information sheet suggests a work trial instead of a formal interview as a fairer alternative. Questions in an interview can also be hard to follow and answer adequately. Several of the questions I was asked in my interview related to hypothetical situations, which I found difficult to imagine and could only reply briefly to. It would be a lot better if questions instead focused on actual past experience to demonstrate what the person already knows.
People on the autistic spectrum can bring much of benefit to a job in a company or organization: reliability, honesty, a high level of accuracy, considerable attention to detail and a good knowledge of various facts and figures. Firms who employ individuals with autism/Asperger’s help to raise awareness of diversity among their staff, while managers with autistic employees often find that they learn to communicate with their whole team more effectively.
The lack of money was not an insurmountable problem for us. In particular, Neil always made every effort to be encouraging and supportive towards me, reassuring me when I felt frustrated or sad and gently pushing me to look constructively ahead to the future.
At Christmas 2001, I met Neil’s parents and family for the first time. I felt very nervous, but Neil kept telling me that I had nothing to worry about. We drove to his parents’ home, not far from our own, and were greeted at the door by his mother, who showed me around and introduced me to the other family members: Neil’s father, brother, sister-in-law and young niece. Everyone was smiling and I felt calm and happy. There was a very large and tasty meal, followed by an exchange of cards and presents. The following day, Neil drove us up to London to visit my family and it was Neil’s turn to be introduced to my parents and brothers and sisters, who were all excited to meet him. The support from both our families meant a great deal to both Neil and myself.
The following summer we moved to a small, quiet coastal town called Herne Bay, close to the historical city of Canterbury. Moving house is always a very stressful period in a person’s life and it was no different for me. The first weeks after we arrived at our new house were very disruptive, with furniture and paint and boxes spread all around the house and little opportunity to stop and relax. When Neil was busy with something practical, I helped by making food and tea and fetching things from around the house for him. This also helped me to forget about any anxiety I was experiencing by making me focus on the things that I could do, rather than worry about the things that I could not. It was exciting to watch the transformation as the house became a home.
I feel very fortunate to have the small band of close friends that I do. With email, I am able to stay in regular or irregular contact with distant friends, such as Rehan and Birutė. More recent friendships have all been accidental, in a way, like a wonderful surprise gift. For example, one of my closest friends today (his name is Ian) was a childhood neighbor of Neil’s. One day, shortly after the move to Herne Bay, we received a postcard from him forwarded from Neil’s parents. Ian and Neil had not seen each other for fifteen years, yet when we invited him over one evening it was as if they had never been apart. We soon learned that I had several things in common with Ian, such as a love of books and of history, and we have been good and close friends ever since.
It is great when I discover that I can put some of my abilities to good use in helping my friends. When Ian recently married a Romanian woman, he asked me if I would help him approach the matter of learning some of his new wife’s mother tongue. In return, Ian takes me to play golf with him at weekends. I am not a very good player, though my putting is pretty good. Sometimes Ian scratches his head when he sees me walking backwards on a putting green from my ball to the hole. What I’m doing is feeling the way that the ground moves through my feet; then I have a better idea of how the ball will move once I strike it with my putter. It works for me.
Our friends are aware of my Asperger’s and try, whenever possible, to ensure that I am comfortable in any social situation with them. Often they will arrange get-togethers that they know I will enjoy as much as they do. Every year, Neil and another friend called Ian organize a treasure hunt through their Mini car club and invite me to join in. Each team is given a list of clues and questions that are solved by driving to different locations marked on a map and finding the answers. For example, one clue might read: “Young equine’s accommodation,” the answer to which is revealed by driving past a pub with the name Colt’s House. As Ian drives, Neil gives directions while I help to find and figure out the answers to the questions. It feels good to do something that everyone can enjoy for different reasons.
Whenever we visit our friends we usually play a game after supper, such as cards or Trivial Pursuit. Neil says it is good manners to let your hosts win, but I don’t understand that because if you know the answer to a question, then why not go for it?
I love doing quizzes and enjoy watching programs such as Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? on the television. I usually know the answer to most of the questions, but I do have my weak points, such as pop music and fiction. My favorite questions are those involving dates (“What year did the World Snooker Championship first take place at the Crucible Theater?” Answer: 1977) or chronology (“Put these four historical events in the order in which they occurred”).
• • •
Not long after the move to Herne Bay, Neil and I decided to work together on an idea that I had had to create an educational website with online courses for language learners. Neil, with his job in computers, would be responsible for all the technical details, while I would write the site’s content and the courses. After some thought, I chose the name Optimnem for the site, from Mnemosyne, the inventor of words and language in Greek mythology. The students receive each lesson by email and these come with audio clips recorded by native speakers, lots of written examples of the language, and exercises to help practice and revise at each step of the course. In creating each of the courses, I was able to draw on the experience that I had had as a teacher in Lithuania and as a tutor to help me focus on the parts of language learning that people often find most difficult. I also wanted to write courses that reflected my own personal experiences as a learner on the autistic spectrum. For these reasons, each course is broken down into easily digested chunks of information. The lessons avoid jargon such as “nominative” and “genitive” or “verb conjugation” and instead try to explain how words change, depending, for example, on their position in a sentence, in simple and clear language. Using lots of written examples also means students can see the language at work in many different situations and it is easier to remember new vocabulary when it is presented visually and in context. The website was launched in September 2002 and proved a success, with thousands of students of all ages and from all over the world using it, and millions of hits (page views). Optimnem is now in its fourth year and is an approved member of the U.K.’s National Grid for Learning, a government-funded portal that provides “a gateway to educationally valuable content on the internet.”
The success of the website meant that I was working and earning money, something that I felt proud and excited about. There was also the benefit of working from home, which is definitely an advantage for me because of the anxiety I can feel when I am in an environment that I cannot control and do not feel comfortable in. I’m happy to be self-employed, though of course it is not an easy choice and it can be much harder to achieve financial independence this way.
Neil too now works from home, only needing to commute to and from his office in Ramsgate once a week. On an average weekday, I sit with my computer at the kitchen table at the back of the house with a beautiful view over the garden, while Neil works in the office (a converted bedroom) we have upstairs. If I need advice over something relating to the website, it is only a short walk up the stairs to ask him. Seeing so much of each other is a good thing for us, though I know it would not work for every relationship. For lunch, we sit together and talk over sandwiches or soup, which I prepare. Neil is happy to occasionally share in my obsessive daily routines: drinking tea with me at the same times each day, for example. After work, we prepare supper in the kitchen together, which gives us both a chance to relax and think about other things.
• • •
I have always loved animals, from my childhood fascination with ladybirds to avidly watching wildlife programs on television. I think one reason is that animals are often more patient and accepting than many people. After I first moved in with Neil, I spent a lot of time with his cat, Jay. She was then a little less than two years old and very aloof, preferring to spend all her time out alone wandering around the neighborhood gardens and growling whenever Neil tried to pat or hold her. At that time, Neil was working regularly at his office and was away from the house for ten or more hours each day. Before my arrival, Jay had therefore spent her first and formative years alone for much of the time. It must have been a surprise, then—and a shock—for her to suddenly find that she now had company throughout the day. At first I kept my distance, knowing that she was unused to having someone around regularly. Instead, I waited for her natural curiosity to start to work and indeed it wasn’t long before she would walk up to me as I was sitting in the living room, and sniff at my feet and hands if I lowered them for her to rub with her nose. Over time, Jay started to spend more and more time indoors. Whenever she came in, I would kneel down until my face was level with hers and slowly extend my hand around her head and stroke her in the same way that I had watched her stroke the fur on her back with her tongue. Then she would purr and open and close her eyes sleepily and I knew that I had won her affection.
Jay was a smart and sensitive cat. Sometimes I lay down on the floor for her to sit on my chest or tummy and snooze. Just before she sat down, she would pummel me gently with her paws. This is a common behavior in cats, known as treading or padding, and is thought to indicate contentment. The reasons for it are not clear, though the action mimics the way a kitten uses its paws to stimulate the flow of milk from its mother’s teat. Once Jay was sitting on me, I would close my eyes and slow down my breathing so that she thought I was dozing too. She would then feel reassured, because she knew that I would not be making any sudden movements, and relax and stay close to me. Often I wore one of my thick, coarse sweaters, even in warm weather, because I knew that Jay preferred their texture to smooth T-shirts or other clothes.
For all her affection, at various times Jay could still be remote and indifferent towards us and especially towards Neil, something that I knew upset him very much. I suggested to him that what she needed was a companion, another cat to interact regularly with. I hoped that she would learn social skills in the process and become more approachable. We read the ads in the local newspaper and saw one from someone with a cat that had recently borne a litter of kittens. We telephoned and made an appointment to go and view them. When we arrived at the house the next day we were told that several had been sold already and only a few remained. I pointed to one, a tiny, shy black kitten, and was told that nobody had shown any interest in her because she was black all over. We agreed straightaway to take her home with us and gave her the name Moomin. At first, unsurprisingly, Jay was not sure of her new sister and hissed and growled at her at every opportunity. Over time, however, she stopped and began to at least tolerate her presence. What became even more heartening, though, was the gradual but definite change in her overall behavior: she became much more affectionate, willing to be picked up and held, and much happier, with long, loud periods of purring and bouts of playfulness with Moomin and with us. She would make a wonderful brrrp sound whenever she saw us, to which I would respond by crouching down and rubbing my face against the fur on hers.
In the summer of 2004, we celebrated Jay’s fifth birthday, giving her extra food and toys to play with. However, her appetite seemed smaller and her energy lower than usual, which we thought might be due to the very hot weather. She often sat or slept under something: a bed, or a table, or the towel rack in the bathroom. I understood this behavior very well, because as a child I too had climbed under my bed or a table to help me feel calm and secure. But then Jay was doing it more and more, becoming withdrawn from us in the process. Then came the sickness. She would vomit repeatedly, but only liquid would come out. At first it was a nuisance, but then as it went on we began to worry. By now she was also losing weight and walking more slowly around the house. Neil took her to the vet and she was kept in for tests and observation. We soon heard that she had a kidney infection, rare in a cat so young, and that she would need several days of treatment on site. We phoned every day for an update on her condition and were told that she was stable. Then, a week after we took her in, we received a call telling us that Jay was not responding to the treatment and that it might be a good idea for us both to come in and see her.
We drove over immediately. A woman at reception walked us through a narrow corridor to a quiet, gray room at the back of the building, then said she would leave us alone for a few minutes and disappeared. Even at that moment, I do not think the seriousness of the situation had really occurred to me. As Neil and I stood there in the middle of the room in mutual silence, I saw her. Jay was lying still on a white mattress surrounded by plastic tubes, growling weakly and repeatedly. Hesitantly, I reached out my arm and stroked her; her fur felt greasy and underneath she was thin and bony. Suddenly, like a wave hitting a rock from out of sight, I felt an emotion inside too big for me to contain and my face was wet and I knew that I was crying. Neil walked over and stared at her, then he too began to weep softly. A nurse came in and told us that they were doing everything they could, but that Jay’s condition was rare and very serious. We drove home and cried again on each other’s shoulders. The next day Neil received a call telling him that Jay had passed away. There were many more tears in the days that followed, as well as the abiding shock over losing a companion so deeply loved so suddenly and unexpectedly. She was cremated and we buried her ashes in the garden with a stone monument dedicated to her memory. It reads: “Jay, 1999–2004. Always in our hearts.”
• • •
No relationship is without its difficulties and this is certainly true when one or both of the persons involved has an autistic spectrum disorder. Even so, I believe what is truly essential to the success of any relationship is not so much compatibility, but love. When you love someone, virtually anything is possible.
There are seemingly trivial situations at home, such as suddenly dropping a spoon while doing the washing up, when I will have a meltdown and need time to stop and calm down before I can continue. Even a small, unexpected loss of control can feel overwhelming to me, particularly when it interferes with the rhythm of one of my routines. Neil has learned not to intervene but to let it pass, which does not normally take very long, and his patience helps a lot. With his support and understanding, such meltdowns have become less frequent over time.
Other situations can cause me high levels of anxiety, if, for example, a friend or neighbor spontaneously decides to come over to see us. Although I am happy to see him or her, I can feel myself go tense and become flustered, because it means I have to change the schedule I had already mapped out in my head for that day, and having to alter my plans is unsettling for me. Again Neil reassures me and helps me to stay calm.
Social situations can be a big problem for me. If we eat in a restaurant, I prefer to sit at a table in the corner or against a wall so other diners do not surround me. During one visit to a local restaurant, we were talking and eating happily when suddenly I smelled cigarette smoke. I could not see where it was coming from, had not anticipated it, and became very anxious. Neil notices when this happens because he has seen it many times before: I drop my eye contact and become monosyllabic. There was nothing to do but to eat up and leave as soon as possible. I am fortunate that we both enjoy spending a lot of time together at home and do not need to go out very much. When we do, it is usually to a cinema or a quiet restaurant.
Conversations can be problematic between us because of the auditory processing difficulties I sometimes experience. Neil will say something to me, to which I will nod or say yes or okay, but then later I will realize that I have not understood what he said. It can be very frustrating for him to spend time explaining or recounting something important to me, only to find afterwards that I have not taken it in. The problem is that I do not realize that I am not hearing what he is saying; I very often hear fragments of each sentence, which my brain automatically pulls together to try to make sense of. By missing key words, however, I quite often do not get the real content of what is being said. Nodding and saying things like “okay” when someone is speaking to me has evolved over time as my way of allowing communication between me and someone else to flow normally, without the other person needing to stop and repeat continuously. Though the tactic works for me most of the time, I have learned that it is not appropriate within a relationship. Instead, Neil and I have learned to persevere when we talk together: I give my fullest attention to him while he is speaking to me and signal if there is a word or words that need to be repeated. That way, we can both be sure that each of us understands the other fully.
• • •
As a teenager, I hated having to shave. The blades would rub against my face and cut me as I struggled to hold the razor securely with one hand while holding my head still with the other. It would often take longer than an hour at a time to finish shaving, after which my skin would feel hot and itchy. It was so uncomfortable that I shaved as infrequently as possible, sometimes going for months until my beard—as the stubble became—pulled on the skin and irritated it so much that I had to shave it off. In the end, I shaved around twice a month, often annoying my brothers and sisters because I would take so long in the bathroom. Nowadays, Neil shaves me every week with an electric razor that trims the stubble and is quick and not painful to me.
Being extra sensitive to certain physical sensations affects the ways in which Neil and I express affection and intimacy towards each other. For example, I find light touching—such as a finger stroking my arm—uncomfortable, and I had to explain this to Neil because of the way I would squirm when all he was trying to do was demonstrate his love for me. Fortunately, it is no problem for me to hold hands or to have Neil put his arm lightly around me.
I have learned a huge amount from Neil in the years that we have been together and from the experience of loving him and sharing our lives with one another. Love has definitely changed me by making me more open to others and more aware of the world around me. It has also made me more confident in myself and in my ability to grow and make new progress day by day. Neil is a part of my world, part of what makes me “me,” and I could not for one moment imagine my life without him.