Thicker Than Water By Hannah Maerowitz

​Thicker ​Than​ Water​

   Six ​​years ​​ago—I ​am​ ​ ​twelve​ ​and​ ​I ​​hate ​grocery​ ​stores.​ I​​ ​associate​ ​them ​​with​ apologies.​ “I’m​ ​sorry,​ ​she ​​doesn’t​ ​know​ ​any​ ​better,”​ ​I​ say​ ​​to​ ​the​ ​suburban​ ​mom​ ​with​ ​the​ ​baby​ ​bjorn. ​I​ bite​ my​ ​nails​ on​​ ​the​ ​car​ ​ride​ ​home.​ ​Moving ​​day—my​ ​parents​ ​cry,​ ​she​ ​leaves.​ ​I​ go​ ​​to ​​gymnastics practice​ ​for​ four​ ​hours.​ ​Tears​ ​​roll ​down​ ​ ​their ​​cheeks, ​sweat​ ​ ​droplets​ ​roll​ ​down​ ​mine.​ ​Three​ years​ ago—I​ ​wonder ​​why​ ​I​ ​don’t​ ​miss​ ​her​ ​yet.​ An​ ​​entry​ ​from​ ​my​ ​journal:​ “I​ ​worry​ ​that ​my​ ​empathy​ is fundamentally​ stunted,”​ ​​I​ write.​ ​“I​ ​do​ ​not ​identify​ ​​with​ ​the​ ​experience​ ​of​ ​unconditional​ ​love​ that​ her ​​autism ​​is​ supposed​ ​​to​ ​incite​ ​in​ ​me.”​ Two​ ​months​ ​ ​ago—she​ ​throws​ ​me​ ​to ​​the ​​ground​ with​​ ​a carelessness ​​that ​​terrifies​ me.​ ​​The​ ​tile ​​brands​ ​my​ ​cheek.​ ​“Does​ she​ ​love​ ​ ​me?” ​​I​ ​wonder. ​​Her​ eyes​ are​ ​bright​ ​blue​ ​and​ ​empty. ​​I​ ​stand ​​up.​ ​I ​​am ​scared.​ ​I ​hug​ ​ ​her.

   There ​are​ ​two​ ​narratives​ ​​that​ ​I​ ​have​ ​heard ​​that ​describe​ ​the​ ​experience​ ​​of ​having​ ​​an immediate ​family​ ​member ​​with ​autism.​ ​Narrative ​​one—your ​​family member ​​is ​diagnosed​ ​and​ since ​​you ​​are​ ​human, ​​you​ ​mourn.​ ​You​ ​blame ​​yourself,​ you​ ​try​ ​to​ ​​fix ​it,​​ ​then​ you ​​learn acceptance.​ You​ ​ ​share ​your​ ​ ​story, ​exhibit​ ​ ​resilience,​ and​ ​​become​ ​a​ ​bigger​ person.​ ​​In​ my​ experience, ​this​ ​ ​narrative​ is​​ ​a​ damaging​ ​illusion.​ ​​I​ ​feel ​​guilt​ ​eat ​​at ​​me ​​every​ ​time​ ​I​ watch​ siblings​ share ​​a​ ​meal​ ​or​ ​a​ ​laugh ​because​ ​​I​ start​ ​inventing ​​new ​​personalities ​​for​ ​her—personalities​ ​that aren’t ​​obscured ​by​ ​violence​ ​ and​ ​ ​disconnect. ​​I​ ​do ​​not​ ​feel ​that​ ​I​​ ​became​ ​someone​ with​ ​a​ superhuman ​capability​ ​​to​ ​accept. ​​Narrative​ ​two—your​ ​family​ member​ ​is​​ ​diagnosed ​​and ​you​ never​ ​get​ over​ ​it.​​ ​Your​ life​ ​becomes​ ​filled ​up​​ ​with​ ​the ​speech​ ​therapy,​ ​IEPs, ​averted​​ eyes,​ ​ ​blatant stares, ​and​ ​apologies​ ​that​ ​a​ ​child​ with​ ​severe​ ​​autism ​spectrum​ ​​disorder​ ​tends​ ​to​ provoke.​ ​​You learn​ ​to​ hate​ ​ ​the​ ​pity​ ​of​ ​others.​ ​You ​​cease ​​to​ ​be​ ​yourself​ ​and​ ​you​ ​become ​a​​ ​caregiver—someone who​ does​ ​​not​ ​think ​about​ ​​their​ ​own ​​future ​because​ ​​there​ are​ ​​too ​many​ ​“right​ ​now”​ ​problems ​that​ divert​ ​your ​​attention. ​​This​ is​​ ​not​ ​my​ ​narrative​ ​either.​ I​​ ​do​ ​not​ ​feel​ ​as​ ​though​ ​I​ ​was​ immersed​ in​ autism.​ If​ ​​anything, ​I​​ ​tended​ towards​ ​​escapism. ​Gymnastics,​ ​swimming,​ writing,​ ​reading,​ ​​even chores—anything​ to​​ avoid​ ​living​ ​in​ ​the​ ​suffocating​ bubble​ ​​of ​all​​ ​things​ ​autism.

   Although​ ​accused​ ​of​ ​being ​​a ​​platitude,​ ​it ​​remains ​​true: ​​if​ ​you​ ​know ​​one ​​autistic ​​person, you​ ​know ​one​ ​autistic ​​person.​ ​I ​​know​ ​my​ sister,​ ​ ​Sarah.​ ​She​ ​laughs​ ​loud​ ​at​ ​things​ I​​ ​don’t understand.​ ​She ​​is ​​violent​ when​ ​she​ ​​is​ ​frustrated; ​sometimes​ ​​very ​​violent.​ ​She​ ​is​ the​ ​reason​ ​​I​ ​love the ​movie​ Lilo​​ and Stitch ​​and​ ​know ​the​ ​​ ​words​ ​to​ ​most​ ​Ke$ha​ ​songs.​​ ​She​ is​ ​autistic.​

   This​ is​​ my​ ​narrative:​ ​I​ remember​ ​​all ​​of ​​the ​​moments ​when​ ​Sarah​ ​​and​ ​I ​have ​laughed​ together​ ​because​ ​they​ are​ ​​scarce​ ​and​ ​precious. ​I​​ ​learned​ ​my ​parents’​​ ​limits ​when​ ​I​ ​was ​very​ young​ ​because​ ​the​ ​care​ ​Sarah​ ​demands​ ​stretched​ ​them ​​thin​ and​ ​​wound ​them​ tight. ​I​​ ​have​ ​felt ​the​ need​ to​​ ​shoulder​ ​jobs,​ ​responsibilities,​ ​and​ classes​ ​with​ ​​the​ ​misplaced​ ​intention​ ​of​ ​doubling ​my​ accomplishments​ in​​ an​​ ​effort​ ​to​ ​compensate​ ​for​ ​my​ ​parents’ ​​pain.​ ​I​ ​still​ ​struggle​ ​to​ ​accept​ help​ when​ I​​ ​need​ ​it ​​because​ ​some ​​part​ ​of ​​me ​​still​ ​believes​ ​that​ ​my​ ​needs​ ​are​ ​secondary.​ ​I​ have​ resented​ Sarah.​​ I​​ ​have​ cried​ ​over​ her.​ ​I​​ ​have​ ​claimed​ ​that ​growing​ ​ ​up ​​as ​​her ​​sister​ ​did ​​not ​​affect me​ because​ ​​doing ​​so​ ​felt​ ​like​ defining​ ​myself​ ​in ​​context​ ​of​ ​her. ​However,​ ​ I​ ​​now ​​realize​ ​that​ ​her impact​ ​on ​me​​ is​​ undeniable.​

   There​ ​is ​​a​ taboo​ ​around​ ​expressing ​complicated​ ​feelings​ ​​(in ​​my​ ​case,​ ​many​ ​of​ ​them negative) ​​surrounding​ someone​ ​​that​ ​you​ are​ ​ supposed​ ​to​​ ​unconditionally​ love.​ ​​Admissions ​​of ​​a struggle​ to​ ​​love​ in​​ ​the​ ​midst​ ​of​ ​jarring​ pain​ ​were​ ​never ​made​ ​at​ ​the​ ​​Autism ​Society​ ​ ​events​ ​I attended​ ​or​ ​in​ ​my​ ​own​ home.​ ​​To​ ​a​ ​certain​ ​extent,​ I​ ​understand​​ ​why—such​ ​admissions​ ​can​ ​feel ​as​ if​ ​they​ imply​ ​​a​ ​failure​ ​to ​be​ ​​a​ ​good​ ​person. ​​For​ ​years,​ ​I ​​believed​ ​that​ ​I​ ​was​ ​somehow​ ​defunct​ ​in humanity ​because​ ​ ​the​ ​lack​ ​of​ ​narratives​ ​that​ ​resembled ​​my ​own​​ ​led​ ​me​ ​to​ ​think​ ​that​ my​ experience ​​was​ somehow​ ​​“wrong”.​ ​My ​​feelings​ felt​ ​ugly​ ​​compared​ to​ ​​the​ ​familiar ​​stories​ of​ families​ ​united​ by​ ​​autism​ ​or​ ​families​ ​paralyzed​ by​​ ​grief.​ ​With ​time,​ ​I​ ​have​ ​ ​become ​willing​ ​to admit​ that​ ​my​ ​feelings ​towards​ ​my​​ ​sister​ ​are ​not​ ​​always ​​certain​ ​or​ ​loving.​ ​Unconditional​ love​ ​for​ her​ ​will​ ​always​ ​be​ something​ ​that​ ​I​ ​am​ ​working ​towards;​ ​but​ ​that​ ​is ​​okay—my​ ​willingness​ ​to continue​ ​working​ ​towards​ ​love​ ​despite​ ​pain ​​makes​ ​me​ ​nothing​ ​if​ ​not​ ​human.

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Bio: Hannah Maerowitz is an economics student at UC Santa Barbara that is fond of writing, discussing nuanced problems, and all types of visual art. She is currently working on a conceptual photography series about conservation, as well as various writing projects.

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