Such a timely discussion for me. A longtime friend - I hesitate to say "old" as we are in our mid 60s - was diagnosed with Asperger's/Autism a couple of years ago. Since then, it seems to me, she has changed, increasingly saying "you don't understand what it's like being autistic. I've been diagnosed".
The kind of jokes we once shared are now "triggers" and I feel like I'm walking on eggshells. Even the most innocuous negative comment (can we try another cafe?) results in an angry outburst, and I just don't want to spend a lot of time with her any more. Phone calls are fine, but I feel that the diagnosis has given her permission to abandon good behaviour.
Hanif, your response is so wise and compassionate , but raises my eternal dilemma of how much one just shuts up for the sake of peace.
It isn't as though I'm completely on the straight and narrow myself, being a very solitary and single soul who has never been on a date in her life, had reasonable levels of OCD (I'm a librarian, of course) and just don't conform to social requisites. We've always joked that my friend calls me "weird" - but say that to her and there would be an outburst and the inevitable "I'm autistic. You don't understand".
In case I don't get to say it again, thank you Hanif for all of your writing, from My Beautiful Laundrette to My Ear at His Heart, which was published not long after my own father's death, and Shattered should be required reading in every medical training course. You give heedless energy to unconventional themes which is comforting to those of us who don't conform.
Many people (I include myself here- ADHD) who are diagnosed later in life find that when masking is no longer needed, it is very hard to pop the mask back on. Hence the sense of one's differences being amplified. I'm living this and I sense it grates on those I love. I'm still me but I'm deffo no longer guarding myself to benefit others.
This is the most perfect agony uncle letter I have ever seen. And the answer is the perfect answer from an extremely wise agony uncle. It is the perfect advice anyone could possibly give concerning any relationship regardless of whether the sexual element is involved or not. People need thoughtful, wise and very perceptive answers to their most difficult perplexing questions. Thanks so much for this post!
The domestic situation described within this letter feels like a stalemate. In chess, when such a thing occurs, and it is obvious that the game can no longer advance, the players rise from the board. They shake hands and they go their separate ways. In real life, there are vague additional steps and no-one can agree on what they are exactly, or define them in a manner that is mutually acceptable. Chief among these steps is acknowledging that the 'game' is over. Then there is the quandary of how to leave the field of play. You may not want not to be with a particular person anymore, but you might still care about them or, at the very least, you might not want to cause them any more harm or distress beyond what is necessary to bring the relationship to a close.
When I was younger I was asked on two separate occasions (both times by parents of girlfriends) whether I was autistic. To the best of my knowledge, I am not on the spectrum. I have worked with people who have been formally diagnosed with Autism or Asperger's. The elements of social interaction that, through no fault of their own, they routinely struggle to grasp fall within my comprehension. From a very early age I chose not to engage in any social activity that I thought was ridiculous. As a consequence of this I have grown into a very odd person. Some might even call me an arsehole. I would advise these people to look inward.
Within the kind of off-kilter mindset that won't play ball, eccentricities crystallise and eventually form great nuggets of ore. During the first three months of 2025. I spoke to no-one and no-one spoke to me. It was my choice. I offset concerns that my voice might grow weak, by spending a couple of hours everyday reading fiction and poetry out loud. A few hours ago, I stood at the top of the stairs and recited a pair of poems by Douglas Dunn, both concerning his grief following the early death of his first wife. Then I read 20 pages of Elizabeth Ellen's 'American Thighs' in the worst Hoosier accent ever to be brought into the light of God's creation. I'm afraid I have become the embodiment of one the bloviating, low-talent buffoons who rode around on Jack Kerouac's coattails, forever on the verge of unsolicited performance. At least I have the decency to act out this part of my life in private. I spent yesterday afternoon creating a giant collage of a chameleon from off-cuts of cardboard and scraps of coloured paper. When it was done, I glued it to the side of an enormous box that once housed a large flat-screen TV. I hauled it off a neighbour's curb on bin day as I needed somewhere to store the large flat panels of a disassembled vivarium. Why do I do these things? I don't know. In an email, a friend described my present living situation as like being in an open prison. I prefer to think of it as a box fort whose walls are composed from things that interest me.
My contribution to close/romantic relationships is to fill a narrow and oblique set of intellectual needs. That is not a boast. It's a great personal failure on my part. There is a massive acreage of emotional and practical necessity to which I barely pay lip service. Self-awareness is a double-edged sword. I don't have a great of money but I don't want to be a financial drain either. So I will happily accompany someone to a cafe, but not to a restaurant where I would be unable to pay my way. This desire not to exploit someone ends up manifesting as a form of control where I hold people back from doing the things they want to do, and limit their ability to enjoy the resources they have at their disposal.
Anyone who is decent withholds parts of themselves that might cause upset or harm to a partner. I have been chronic pain since 2007. I don't take medication for it, as I have no desire to become a medical junkie. Sometimes the pain is a low hum in the background. Other times I will regain consciousness on the floor and will be in agony. When my father is miserable he likes to spread it around. Everyone else has to be miserable too for his misery to be validated. I went in the opposite direction. From the outset I didn't want to make anyone else suffer because my gut hurt. That withdrawal, to spare others, only works when you communicate the reasons behind it. It took me decades to realise that you have to tell the other person, I am not shutting you out. I am withdrawing from you out of love and as an act of kindness.
The successful relationships that I know of, are either based around very well-defined roles, or are a result of two people growing together in ways they probably never anticipated. Doing the latter becomes harder the older you get, after previous attempts at growing together with someone died on the vine, and when you no longer have the energy that you used to have. It is very easy for one or both of you to dig in their heels. I suppose naked honesty is the best policy; telling someone: this is what I am. There are things I may be able to change but there are all these other things that are deeply entrenched that may make me hard to live with. I am telling you about them now, in advance.
When a relationship ends, you might feel some responsibility for the well-being of the other person and harbour concerns regarding how they will manage certain aspects of their life. That speaks of kindness and empathy, and is admirable. However, you do have to draw a line. In separating from this person, you are hoping to regain control over your life, perhaps with an eye on redefining it. That cannot happen until there has been a decisive break.
There is another truth that some may find unpalatable. People who cannot or who, like me, will not integrate into some kind of socially conventional structure are on a slow downward spiral. Their endings are often tragic, bored through with pathos, prone to unfolding offstage somewhere in the gloomy areas of the wings. You can help these people, but you cannot save them. If you give too much of yourself, they may pull you down with them.
I won a poet once in a game of cards. He was totally unable to live a practical life. I was a research scientist and he rang me once at work to say he couldn't finish his definitive literary masterpiece because one of the keys on his typewriter was wonky. He demanded that I come home for lunch and fix it. So I delegated at my work, said there was an emergency at home and drove there to find the typewriter completely dismantled, each key and its spring lying neatly in qwertyuiop order on his (my) desk and requiring reassembly. Not being a typewriter re-assembler I took the typewriter to someone who was a professional, who laughed heartily and said. 'Just buy another one.' So I did and took it back to the poet who was wringing his hands, quite unable to finish his masterpiece because it had to be typed in the same type face as his dismantled typewriter so that the editor of the periodical he was sending it to could appreciate its beauty in full. When I returned to work, someone remarked on my black eye. I would not have forgiven it had it not been for the apologetic bunches of hand-picked blooms from other people's gardens that festooned my vases when I arrived home, so I wouldn't go sending him in search of other accommodation. The word 'Sorry,' was a bit much for me to ask, me being an Australian and Australians having difficulty with that word themselves. Besides that, he really was a good poet with a growing reputation. So he stayed. When his father died a decade later and he, as an only child, inherited, I rather hoped that I might be recompensed for the years of unassisted keeping of the roof over our heads and food in our mouths. When it didn't look promising, I suggested, in context, that we marry - and that was the clincher - off he went, carrying a bunch of stolen blooms. to a girl who owned a bookshop and featured his work. I broke out the champagne.
Such an empathetic piece. Many of us live lives of quiet desperation, domestically institutionalised, discontented, but reluctant to leave the now-lukewarm frying pan for the dangers of the fire…
While I don’t share these exact same concerns in my relationship, reading this does cause me to thoughtfully reflect on the dynamics I experience in the one I am invested in.
Thank you for publishing this piece. You are saying things which need to be said. And I think that, eventually, people are going to realise that the autism spectrum is really better understood as part of the human spectrum.
I need to chime in here. Now I appreciate the intent behind the Agony Uncle concept - however in all fairness I feel uneasy about a high profile writer giving relationship advice to people which could effectively be life altering. No doubt it’s well intended advice - but with great power comes great responsibility.
Providing writing advice on the other hand is fine - you’re a writer and a subject matter expert. No ethical issues there.
Such a timely discussion for me. A longtime friend - I hesitate to say "old" as we are in our mid 60s - was diagnosed with Asperger's/Autism a couple of years ago. Since then, it seems to me, she has changed, increasingly saying "you don't understand what it's like being autistic. I've been diagnosed".
The kind of jokes we once shared are now "triggers" and I feel like I'm walking on eggshells. Even the most innocuous negative comment (can we try another cafe?) results in an angry outburst, and I just don't want to spend a lot of time with her any more. Phone calls are fine, but I feel that the diagnosis has given her permission to abandon good behaviour.
Hanif, your response is so wise and compassionate , but raises my eternal dilemma of how much one just shuts up for the sake of peace.
It isn't as though I'm completely on the straight and narrow myself, being a very solitary and single soul who has never been on a date in her life, had reasonable levels of OCD (I'm a librarian, of course) and just don't conform to social requisites. We've always joked that my friend calls me "weird" - but say that to her and there would be an outburst and the inevitable "I'm autistic. You don't understand".
In case I don't get to say it again, thank you Hanif for all of your writing, from My Beautiful Laundrette to My Ear at His Heart, which was published not long after my own father's death, and Shattered should be required reading in every medical training course. You give heedless energy to unconventional themes which is comforting to those of us who don't conform.
Many people (I include myself here- ADHD) who are diagnosed later in life find that when masking is no longer needed, it is very hard to pop the mask back on. Hence the sense of one's differences being amplified. I'm living this and I sense it grates on those I love. I'm still me but I'm deffo no longer guarding myself to benefit others.
This is the most perfect agony uncle letter I have ever seen. And the answer is the perfect answer from an extremely wise agony uncle. It is the perfect advice anyone could possibly give concerning any relationship regardless of whether the sexual element is involved or not. People need thoughtful, wise and very perceptive answers to their most difficult perplexing questions. Thanks so much for this post!
The domestic situation described within this letter feels like a stalemate. In chess, when such a thing occurs, and it is obvious that the game can no longer advance, the players rise from the board. They shake hands and they go their separate ways. In real life, there are vague additional steps and no-one can agree on what they are exactly, or define them in a manner that is mutually acceptable. Chief among these steps is acknowledging that the 'game' is over. Then there is the quandary of how to leave the field of play. You may not want not to be with a particular person anymore, but you might still care about them or, at the very least, you might not want to cause them any more harm or distress beyond what is necessary to bring the relationship to a close.
When I was younger I was asked on two separate occasions (both times by parents of girlfriends) whether I was autistic. To the best of my knowledge, I am not on the spectrum. I have worked with people who have been formally diagnosed with Autism or Asperger's. The elements of social interaction that, through no fault of their own, they routinely struggle to grasp fall within my comprehension. From a very early age I chose not to engage in any social activity that I thought was ridiculous. As a consequence of this I have grown into a very odd person. Some might even call me an arsehole. I would advise these people to look inward.
Within the kind of off-kilter mindset that won't play ball, eccentricities crystallise and eventually form great nuggets of ore. During the first three months of 2025. I spoke to no-one and no-one spoke to me. It was my choice. I offset concerns that my voice might grow weak, by spending a couple of hours everyday reading fiction and poetry out loud. A few hours ago, I stood at the top of the stairs and recited a pair of poems by Douglas Dunn, both concerning his grief following the early death of his first wife. Then I read 20 pages of Elizabeth Ellen's 'American Thighs' in the worst Hoosier accent ever to be brought into the light of God's creation. I'm afraid I have become the embodiment of one the bloviating, low-talent buffoons who rode around on Jack Kerouac's coattails, forever on the verge of unsolicited performance. At least I have the decency to act out this part of my life in private. I spent yesterday afternoon creating a giant collage of a chameleon from off-cuts of cardboard and scraps of coloured paper. When it was done, I glued it to the side of an enormous box that once housed a large flat-screen TV. I hauled it off a neighbour's curb on bin day as I needed somewhere to store the large flat panels of a disassembled vivarium. Why do I do these things? I don't know. In an email, a friend described my present living situation as like being in an open prison. I prefer to think of it as a box fort whose walls are composed from things that interest me.
My contribution to close/romantic relationships is to fill a narrow and oblique set of intellectual needs. That is not a boast. It's a great personal failure on my part. There is a massive acreage of emotional and practical necessity to which I barely pay lip service. Self-awareness is a double-edged sword. I don't have a great of money but I don't want to be a financial drain either. So I will happily accompany someone to a cafe, but not to a restaurant where I would be unable to pay my way. This desire not to exploit someone ends up manifesting as a form of control where I hold people back from doing the things they want to do, and limit their ability to enjoy the resources they have at their disposal.
Anyone who is decent withholds parts of themselves that might cause upset or harm to a partner. I have been chronic pain since 2007. I don't take medication for it, as I have no desire to become a medical junkie. Sometimes the pain is a low hum in the background. Other times I will regain consciousness on the floor and will be in agony. When my father is miserable he likes to spread it around. Everyone else has to be miserable too for his misery to be validated. I went in the opposite direction. From the outset I didn't want to make anyone else suffer because my gut hurt. That withdrawal, to spare others, only works when you communicate the reasons behind it. It took me decades to realise that you have to tell the other person, I am not shutting you out. I am withdrawing from you out of love and as an act of kindness.
The successful relationships that I know of, are either based around very well-defined roles, or are a result of two people growing together in ways they probably never anticipated. Doing the latter becomes harder the older you get, after previous attempts at growing together with someone died on the vine, and when you no longer have the energy that you used to have. It is very easy for one or both of you to dig in their heels. I suppose naked honesty is the best policy; telling someone: this is what I am. There are things I may be able to change but there are all these other things that are deeply entrenched that may make me hard to live with. I am telling you about them now, in advance.
When a relationship ends, you might feel some responsibility for the well-being of the other person and harbour concerns regarding how they will manage certain aspects of their life. That speaks of kindness and empathy, and is admirable. However, you do have to draw a line. In separating from this person, you are hoping to regain control over your life, perhaps with an eye on redefining it. That cannot happen until there has been a decisive break.
There is another truth that some may find unpalatable. People who cannot or who, like me, will not integrate into some kind of socially conventional structure are on a slow downward spiral. Their endings are often tragic, bored through with pathos, prone to unfolding offstage somewhere in the gloomy areas of the wings. You can help these people, but you cannot save them. If you give too much of yourself, they may pull you down with them.
Thank you for these thoughts.
I won a poet once in a game of cards. He was totally unable to live a practical life. I was a research scientist and he rang me once at work to say he couldn't finish his definitive literary masterpiece because one of the keys on his typewriter was wonky. He demanded that I come home for lunch and fix it. So I delegated at my work, said there was an emergency at home and drove there to find the typewriter completely dismantled, each key and its spring lying neatly in qwertyuiop order on his (my) desk and requiring reassembly. Not being a typewriter re-assembler I took the typewriter to someone who was a professional, who laughed heartily and said. 'Just buy another one.' So I did and took it back to the poet who was wringing his hands, quite unable to finish his masterpiece because it had to be typed in the same type face as his dismantled typewriter so that the editor of the periodical he was sending it to could appreciate its beauty in full. When I returned to work, someone remarked on my black eye. I would not have forgiven it had it not been for the apologetic bunches of hand-picked blooms from other people's gardens that festooned my vases when I arrived home, so I wouldn't go sending him in search of other accommodation. The word 'Sorry,' was a bit much for me to ask, me being an Australian and Australians having difficulty with that word themselves. Besides that, he really was a good poet with a growing reputation. So he stayed. When his father died a decade later and he, as an only child, inherited, I rather hoped that I might be recompensed for the years of unassisted keeping of the roof over our heads and food in our mouths. When it didn't look promising, I suggested, in context, that we marry - and that was the clincher - off he went, carrying a bunch of stolen blooms. to a girl who owned a bookshop and featured his work. I broke out the champagne.
Wowza!
Such an empathetic piece. Many of us live lives of quiet desperation, domestically institutionalised, discontented, but reluctant to leave the now-lukewarm frying pan for the dangers of the fire…
While I don’t share these exact same concerns in my relationship, reading this does cause me to thoughtfully reflect on the dynamics I experience in the one I am invested in.
Thank you for publishing this piece. You are saying things which need to be said. And I think that, eventually, people are going to realise that the autism spectrum is really better understood as part of the human spectrum.
Great 🥰😍
I need to chime in here. Now I appreciate the intent behind the Agony Uncle concept - however in all fairness I feel uneasy about a high profile writer giving relationship advice to people which could effectively be life altering. No doubt it’s well intended advice - but with great power comes great responsibility.
Providing writing advice on the other hand is fine - you’re a writer and a subject matter expert. No ethical issues there.
The story poses an interesting dilemma; is it art imitating life or life imitating art? And what prompted you to write it?
You show such compassion and understanding. And your analysis of the problems expressed are realistic and practical.
Thank you for sharing.