Was My Father’s Abuse Tied to Undiagnosed Autism? A Survivor’s Reflection
I always knew something was wrong with my father. Now I understand just how deep it went.
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⚠️ Trigger Warning: This post contains discussions of childhood trauma, emotional and physical abuse, family dysfunction, gaslighting, and going No Contact with toxic family members. If these topics are sensitive or triggering for you, please take care while reading. Your well-being comes first. Feel free to skip this post or return to it when you’re in a safe and supported space. ❤️
There are stories we bury so deep within ourselves that unearthing them feels like digging up our very souls. And this is one of those personal stories.
For decades, I've carried the weight of my childhood like a stone in my pocket—something I constantly touch but rarely examine in the light. Today, I'm finally setting it on the table before us both, for everyone actually..
This isn't written to shock or to gather sympathy. Rather, it's a project of reclamation, a purposeful act of separating truth from the heavy layers of gaslighting that once convinced me my perceptions were flawed. My father's actions. His absence of a diagnosis that I genetically passed on. My mother's silent complicity and enablement. The family dynamics that taught me to doubt my own reality.
We all grow up believing our family's version of normal is universal until something cracks the foundation of that belief. For me, those cracks appeared early on, but I learned to patch them up with explanations that protected the adults around me while dismantling my own sense of trust.
Now, I'm allowing myself to trace those cracks back to their source to recognize and understand the generational patterns flowing through my family tree. And to acknowledge that my "crazy" perceptions were actually clarity trying to break through.
This old diary entry is my story of reclaiming what was always mine: the right to trust my own experience.
(Previously paid content below)
Diary Entry Posted to Social Media From 2022
I always knew that my household was different… it had an insidious secret that, as a child, I knew not to fully come to awareness of it--just for my survival. I knew it was wrong, that there was something wrong with Dad (and then Mom, too) when I mentioned that he rightfully deserved to die one day in junior high, and my friend in the seat next to me said that she would be ready to call the police on me if she found out that I did anything to him. To him… I laugh at this now that I’ve seen the other side.
Mom started slowly introducing me to the dysfunctional side of Dad well before I was in the double digits of age: I remember riding around on the front seat next to her driving… all while out searching to find her husband cheating on her again. Once she stopped his car along Florence-Byram Road, and I watched as traffic on both sides came to a halt as they both fought each other in the middle of the road there. One time when she caught him out at it, I made sure to write down his tag number in a note for the certainty of future use… I thought I was just helping Mom out by discovering another efficient way to identify his car when she would go out looking for him. She thought it was sort of cute and actually showed some appreciation at least. I’ve also been with her to see her bust up in some vague woman’s house while out looking for Dad once. My Weird-O-Meter noticed nothing yet. Men do cheat.
But it just got worse… Ugh, Mom found her way to a gas station to confront Dad where he was while he was out again. My brothers and I were in the car with a cousin of ours at that time. I was old enough to ride the front seat. We all watched them fight silently. And then Dad did something new! He actually got Mom, pinned her body down over the hood of his car, grabbed her by the hair in one of his fists... and just forcefully pulled it all directly out of her scalp. I shit you not. Mom still has this very large amount of her hair stored in a plastic bag tucked into a photo album somewhere. Or maybe it was lost to unpaid storage fees. I don’t know about that part. What I do know is that I now have a sister out of all of these years. She’s actually not too much younger than me. Her mother would call our home at nighttime to ask permission for Dad to come and repair parts of her house.
There were some good times sprinkled in sometimes too. But by then I knew that my Mom was the more viable parent, and that Dad was “mean.” I also knew better than to depend on him for much, and I always felt in danger around him alone. Up to this very day I make sure to take a look behind my back whenever he enters the room I'm in.
Once Dad was living with us. It was technically Mom’s house alone that she was providing for our family. Dad told me to get off of my cell phone and to go to bed on time one night. I told him sharply that my Mom was the one to actually buy me the cell phone, and that this was her house to make the decisions in. I had already learned to not appreciate his presence by then. I forget the immediate details, but Dad lunged at me to make contact, and Mom had already been there prepared to dive in and shield me from him at that same moment. So, Dad pushed her down in my place and just beat the shit out of her right there on the floor. My brothers, needing to say nothing, both intervened by literally leaping up onto his back to try to stop him from further hurting Mom, but I clearly saw him throwing their smaller bodies off of him several times with one arm, like they were dogs in the street, while he continued to attack Mom on the floor with the other arm. Mom's mouth was physically muffled when she said to me “Go get help,” but I did hear her fine. I ran across the street that night to the neighbors' house to ask for help, and after I explained my need at that time I remember the woman of the house saying, "Maybe he's just mad about something else." Well, Dad was arrested and we were referred to a shelter and other resources by the cop. Dad just returned home the very next day with a black eye, and everything went back to “normal” and it was never mentioned again. Also, my Dad was working for one of my uncles at this time, and the only reason my uncle didn't fire him was because Mom begged him not to--we needed his income too badly.
Once while Mom was out working, he threw one of his big, heavy work boots at my head, and it connected. I told Mom. To this day, it didn’t happen according to her… She wasn't there to know anything for certain however.
Once while Mom was out working again, Dad was left with the duty to make me take some medicine for my sickness. That’s how young I was. Anyway, the medicine tasted disgusting, I hated him, and I defiantly held the syrup in my mouth instead of swallowing it. Dad pinched my nose while I had my mouth closed… I looked up, and remember seeing some big shit-eating grin on his face while he watched me eventually swallow. I’m sorry if you’re uncomfortable. I don’t even bother telling Mom about this anymore. She wouldn’t “get it” as there was no actual assault. And the one time I did tell her, she told me it didn’t happen.
He’s stolen $700 dollars from me, and never said anything other than "I was gonna pay it back..." when Mom discovered it missing. I doubt it, being how he felt the need to do it behind my back. and Mom never acknowledged that this was actually petit larceny. She just made him pay it back, slowly, to make the disrespect and crime "right".
Recently, I happened to owe Dad some money from a loan. I go with my husband to repay him, but I was explaining that I couldn’t part with the whole amount at once, or I’d be broke. All he managed to hear was that I "wasn’t paying him back". He calmly just says “Ok” to my husband and stomps off to his bedroom. I already knew to run far out of the house before he could make his return. All I heard was Mom yelling to my husband and I “Run!” as I booked it outside across the street. I can only imagine specifically how he assaulted my husband at gunpoint while he slammed his back against their tool shed. I called the cops, and Mom lied to keep Dad out of jail.
He had managed to take my cell phone and stomped it to pieces during a fight. He kept looking up at my face to make sure that I understood that he wanted me to be in the cell phone's place. Mom did make him pay me back for the phone eventually.
Dad once slapped me across the face so hard in the presence of Mom that the inside of my mouth cut along my teeth and bled, and my face was left significantly swollen. One of my brother's, grown by this time, told Dad to stop so that I could run outside to report my assault. Emergency dispatch stayed on the phone coaching me on how to not further provoke my Dad and to leave the area. Mom lets him get away with it all, of course. After I called the cops to the address, I have no idea what lie Mom told to keep Dad out of jail--again. The cop looked uncomfortable with leaving me after just making us separate for the night (me being the one to have to make arrangements to leave, of course). In fact, his partner reminded the officer to regard how obviously swollen my face was on one side. I also made sure to tell the officer that I was bleeding inside of my mouth, but it was nighttime and the officer "didn't see it". So, I took a tricky picture of my inner lip the next day before work where I told my boss what happened. She was disgusted by having me working in public that day.
Another time, Dad chuckled to the police while he explained that I was “off my medication” when I had called them for help, in attempt to immediately discredit me. It's probably one of the same lies my Mom would tell law enforcement, now that I think about it.
I’m sure I’m missing something. I remember in pieces. Anyways, I’m alive to see the other end of this. Like I said, this is for ME.
All I mean to say is that: I’m the “crazy” one when I’ve literally survived living with a (probable) psychopathic man with unchecked autism. I’m in therapy (ya think?) to learn how to live a life with a past like this, and he still demands my respect (and Mom enables that dynamic today).
I once went No Contact with Mom, and she turned so cold. She said “IF your (autistic) son gets any better… I pray to God he does…” I kicked her out of my home before she could finish. I just managed to tell her, “You’ll never know.” I got in return a “Kiss my ass, Bitch.” I actually laughed! Leave my boy out of this! How disgusting.
Don’t be surprised if flying monkeys come here with bullcrap. Like my drug use (that I’ve now also seen the other side of). I’ve done enough drugs to chemically escape to probably give me permanent brain damage. So, we’re not just talking about marijuana here. I joke about it now. They eventually couldn’t stop me from feeling the pain, so I decided on my own to clean myself up after a very long time. Now, I don’t even drink socially… I’ve learned to face my issues after learning that I can apparently accomplish anything.
Thank you for reading this unfinished journal entry from a few years ago. I don’t know what my future holds, but I do know this—as an older and wiser woman, I will never again contort myself to make other people comfortable in their dysfunction. I will never again silently accept abuse disguised as loyalty. And I will certainly never allow anyone to weaponize my past, my healing, or my neurodivergence against me.
I’m still standing. I’m still healing. And I am still here.
If you’ve ever felt trapped in a web of family dysfunction, know that you are not alone. You are not crazy and you do deserve peace. And choosing yourself is survival. It’s freedom.
Until the next time I see you,
Cheniece ♡
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I survived sexual abuse from my father ages 2-13. My memories of this were suppressed until after my second daughter was born. So I have been working through healing and re-parenting myself all while raising an autistic son. Both kids are neurodivergent and have sensory processing disorder and ADHD and bad anxiety. My PTSD and depression have been pretty severe throughout their youth. I'm coming out the other end. I identify with your story. You are not alone. Thank you for being vulnerable and sharing your truth. This stuff is not easy. We are alive when we very likely coukd have not made it. We are changing our kids lives and generational trauma. But it sure is draining.