When Krishna was first diagnosed as autistic, I thought I had accepted it—after I got over the disbelief and grief.
Yet, when someone spoke to him and he didn’t answer, or said a few words that seemed to have no connection, I would rush in to fill the gaps. To ask leading questions—and then answer them myself.
Why?
Because I didn’t want anyone to think less of Krishna.
But if I had truly accepted that Krishna is autistic, where was the question of feeling hurt by what others think?
Because the words of others hurt only when we suspect them of being true.
Acceptance is perceiving facts for what they are—and acting accordingly.
Acceptance doesn’t get hurt or angry.
Acceptance doesn’t apologise or excuse.
Acceptance doesn’t hide or cringe.
Acceptance just is.
The whole issue arises from thinking that autistic children are “less than” neurotypical children—more so when the child needs a lot of support and presents many differences.
“But Gayatri, when Krishna can’t take care of himself, he is less than a child who can. He is useless.”
Why?
And useless to whom?
He is more dependent, yes.
He needs more care, yes.
He needs more time from others, yes.
Difficult?
Oh yes. Very.
But why is this “less”?
When a person requires or demands more from others, are they less?
Or “useless”?
Here, I think of a catalyst.
A catalyst does not undergo change itself, but it sparks change in whatever it comes in contact with.
So is the catalyst less than the reactive element?
Or is there no comparison at all—because it is fundamentally different?
And is it “useless” by any definition?
I can choose to see Krishna as someone who, by his very inward focus, stimulates change in the people around him.
This understanding has helped me process my emotions.
It has brought acceptance.
And acceptance lets me look a stranger in the eye and say, easily, “Krishna is autistic and has high support needs.”
This acceptance lets me unreservedly encourage him to jump or clap in public, scream his joy on the road, and hug him when he demands it.
“You’re carrying such a big boy?”
“Yes,” I smile. “Though I get tired soon and have to put him down.”
“Why? Can’t he walk?”
“He walks very well,” I reply. “But now he wants to use Amma’s feet instead of his own.”
Today, my replies have no hesitation, awkwardness, cringe, or apology.
Of course, I encounter bias and prejudice too.
But who hasn’t? Autistic or not?
The people around him need to understand.
They ask questions.
I answer genuine questions as best I can.
And I meet prejudice too—with a smile, and a factual answer.
Would you like to share your own acceptance stories?
PS: How useful—or useless—is this particular leaf? This drop of rain?
