One year ago, you asked me to marry you. It was a surprise. We had talked about it, but we were going through so much last summer with your Autistic Burnout. That you had gone through the process of securing a ring or that you would ask when you did, shocked me. On July 23, 2024, clients canceled and I had free time. The afternoon was sunny and warm, so I wanted to walk Green Lake. I was trying to walk more, a ritual I return to when I am overwhelmed. And our life had been overwhelming. You were in a cycle we were just beginning to understand, the burn out pattern of sensory overwhelm, meltdown, dissociation, and laying in dark rooms with no sound. We were both so desperate to figure it out. I threw as much resource as I could at it, found the right psychiatrist and a therapist who specialized in Autism. I read and researched everything I could find. It felt like something in your brain was short-circuiting. So, on a suddenly free and beautiful summer afternoon, I wanted to take a walk. I wanted to experience life outside our apartment, outside the space that had become an overwhelmed and depressed representation of yours and my mental health breakdown. And then, on the walk, you asked me to marry you. And I was surprised.

My parts are still confused on how to feel about all of this and they are yelling at me. My brain is in a constant argument about what happened to me. To you. To us.

One Part tells the story of our engagement, of how we talked about getting married, about wanting kids. This Part loves to focus on how at the location of our first date, you told me “I don’t know what the rest of my life holds, but I do know I want it to be with you.” It was so honest, and I felt seen. Everything you said acknowledged an appreciation of what I was navigating while trying to support you. I was excited and proud of how we were learning to balance the complexity of our life together. This Part of me, The Storyteller, was and is so proud to say yes to you. I knew we were figuring it out, that the metaphorical structure of support being built was the right one and would be strong.

And then a different Part of me says firmly and with her whole chest: “But I was not sure.” And then I change directions to the part of our engagement I am embarrassed and ashamed to feel. I focus on the things I knew were wrong with us. I remember how you yelled and called me names during your meltdown the weekend before and then again on Monday. How you threatened to kill yourself. How in the Fall a couple months later, I started finding bottles of vodka. This Part, lets call her Betty, kept tabs on how exhausted and overwhelmed I was, on my depleting and declining mental health. Betty is mad at The Storyteller. Betty is the one who knew I am struggling under the weight of your mental health and that I needed help. That I needed you to get more help. That I was drowning in a problem so massive I did not know how to talk about it. I did not tell my family about most of it. My friends and therapist knew flavors, but not the extent of what we were navigating.

I knew what was happening clinically. These episodes only happened when you were in sensory overload which, I learned, is something that happens to many Autistic folks because their brains go through synaptic pruning at a rate on average 40% less than neurotypical people. What does this mean? Autistic folks feel the world more. Your sensory sensitivity coupled with PTSD from your extensive trauma history caused you to dissociate when having a Meltdown. The pattern was predictable: after running an errand, after tutoring, always in the late afternoon. You would meltdown into a fit of rage before realizing you needed to lay down and go to sleep. In the beginning, I would have to convince you to rest, that maybe it was time to turn the lights out, put ear plugs in, and turn on rain sounds. Eventually you learned to do this for yourself. But there were times, you could not do it at all. The Meltdown was too deep and your body too overwhelmed to manage it. Those times are when you were cruel and I would leave the house with Dottie. We agreed to my doing that. We talked about what to do and created a safety plan verbally we both agreed to. We had a safe word. My leaving signaled you crossed the line and needed to go to bed. And that is always what happened. Within thirty minutes to an hour, I could come home to you asleep. Once asleep, you would sleep until the next day, your body exhausted from the overwhelm. Sometimes you needed two or three days to recover. Then something else would trigger you. This was the pattern all of 2024. But in summer we figured out the Autism of it. And some of the things we tried were working. Progress was being made.

We always talked about it the next day. I would fill you in on the gaps in your timeline. You would apologize and we would dissect what we learned for next time. There was always accountability from you and no two incidents were ever the same. But, I was exhausted. I am still exhausted. Even now, as I am writing this post, I grew tired remembering all of it and took a break. It was and still is so much. And yes, we were stuck in a what many people would quickly label as a Cycle of Abuse. The Storyteller really struggles with this assessment, the idea that what we were doing was unhealthy. That I did not deserve the way I was treated and lied to. That I deserved better. The Storyteller thinks I am smarter than to be in that love story, the one of delusion and harm. Betty is really not sure.

The Storyteller feels like I am betraying you to wonder about it. Because I love you more than I can imagine I ever loved anyone. I saw all of your Parts. All of the ones who were suffering and trying to get a space. The Genius who wanted a witness. The Part who was articulate, witty, intelligent, and charming. All of your Parts wanted more for you. So did All of Mine. We felt like we met because even with things being so hard, we were in that love story. The love story where all our Parts are witnessed and loved without condition, even the ones we felt shame about. The love story where our astrological charts said our souls were supposed to meet. Our Storytellers loved the narrative. I said yes because I believed in you. I believed in me. I believed in us.

Betty: But was the story real? Or were you stuck in a fantasy?

Fuck off, Betty.

I feel betrayed by how much you drank in secret because it led to you hurting me in so many ways. You bailed on healing every time you drank. You stopped being able to even try to get better, started drinking more and in secret. Your Meltdowns got more severe and meaner. When you drank, I felt scared of you and what you would do. It was never physical, but I was scared of what was happening and what could happen. I struggled under the weight of it all and Betty was getting louder. As the result the of cycle we were in, I became this person plagued with self-doubt in a deeper, more extraordinary way. I ping-ponged between Betty and The Storyteller. I could not talk about my doubt because I was so afraid of everyone telling me to leave you. Leaving you felt like giving up on The Storyteller. Whether I trust her or not, The Storyteller is a part of me who wants someone to love her. Who wants happily ever after. When we tell someone to leave their relationship before they are ready, when we tell them we do not approve or that we are disappointed in their choice to stay, we ignore the Part of the person who wants to stay. Who wants everything to be different. Who knows better and is afraid to confront knowing. Who knows it is not working and still loves them. Who is very good at seeing the potential of relationships and people because growing up in a home where conflict makes the body an unsafe place means you spend time dreaming more than you do learning how to love yourself.

One of the hardest parts of grieving you is you are not here to remind me of the Parts that felt good about us. The best part of loving you was feeling seen by you. And you are not here anymore to see me. Instead, I am alone with the experience of us to sort by myself. You are the only one that can answer my questions. Part of me wants to know why you asked to marry me when you did. Betty thinks it was manipulative. But the Storyteller is not sure. It is confusing. You died and our cycle broke. And as horrible as I felt within it, at least I knew what it was. This new place is a vast, empty dark hell. And I hate it here.

I said yes to you because I loved you that much. And if love could be this unique and strong, we could get through anything.

The Storyteller: You can even get through this.

Betty: But I’m taking the reigns for the time being.  

I think that is probably the way it is supposed to be, Betty a bit louder than the rest of my parts. And if the gift of us was I get to finally help Betty do that, The Storyteller thinks it was worth it.