Throughout my childhood, I viewed my family as average: four kids, stay-at-home Mom, ranch house in the Villages, public schools. The drama of my youth was equally banal: broken arm, awkward teen years, best friend moved away. Utterly typical, except for the elephant in the room. I was so used to living with it that I didn’t see it.
My older brother has autism. Not Asperger’s, not mild autism, but the head-banging, knuckle-biting sort. He cracked the plasterboard wall of his room with his head. He’d whack it so hard I was convinced that the front of the forehead has no feeling. I’d touch mine sometimes, but I could feel my fingers. Maybe the senses there are only superficial? I did a few test bangs, which barely hurt (and barely hit) but I never had enough conviction to slam my head full force against the wall and test my theory. Besides, what if I didn’t hit the sweet spot?
I need to say that my brother’s eruptions of frustration never hurt anyone. On the rare occasions when my sister or I provoked him beyond endurance, he’d pound the wall, holding me (or her) with the other hand so I could feel his anger in every wham, wham, wham against the wall next to my head. Most of the time, we avoided getting cornered, so we scampered off while he lashed out his frustration on the wall. We had spats over the usual stuff, who empties the dishwasher or gets the bathroom next. No kid is going to let their brother get away with always having his way because of a label that no one understood.
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