A LETTER TO MY GRANDMOTHER.

Dear Nana,

I remember when I was 10, you saying that you didn’t see me very often. That was a shame, and for this reason. You didn’t get to know the real me. Remember that plastic toy gun that you bought me for Christmas, 1982? Well, I was seven going on eight, at the time, and if you had known me better, you would have realized that I would have played with that for all of two minutes. What happened the day that you gave it to me? My pesky little brother grabbed his toy gun and said, “Come on, Pete!” my mother sent me outside while she made you a cup of coffee and tea for Grandad, and not long after you left, I discarded the toy gun. I only played with it while you were there to appease my pesky little brother. It brought me no joy. I would have preferred two Roald Dahl books. The truth was you were prevented from knowing the real me by my mother.

Was my mother a protective mother? Well, yes and no. She didn’t protect me where I didn’t it, and she held you at arm’s length. I really needed someone who got me, and what would have been lovely would have been if you could have allowed play dates at your place for my soul sister cousin and me. That way, you could have seen the real me. I wasn’t sports mad, like my brother. I was forced to be like him, by my mother.

Remember how my mask cracked on April 24, 1988? My brother brought his football out and the day before, I told my mother that it wasn’t fair that I had to do everything my brother wanted when I came to see you. My mother told me that I shouldn’t be inside with you but outside with him. I now know that for many of my autistic tribe, adolescence is the pits, and for some of us, we find solace with older people. We don’t enjoy being forced to meet neurotypical standards by our parents to suit a sibling. That afternoon, not long before we left, I snapped, “I’ve had a gutful of this!” Mum wasn’t happy.

My aunty quite correctly said that my mother loved my brother more (well, he was more like her, and they fought because they were so much alike) and he was needier than I was and that it was easier to give in to him than say no. That meant that I was the unwilling victim. I wasn’t getting the understanding that I needed from mum, and dad worked long hours and was away frequently.

My father and I had a stronger bond. Had I had my coeliac disease diagnosis, and my autism identification, I would have loved it if once a month dad had rung up and asked if just he and I could have come to see you and Grandad, without mum and my brother, and maybe picked up Uncle Fred on the way through. Or my aunty and cousin.

Love Peter.