The Neurodivergent's Way of Facing Grief

CONTENT WARNING: The following post discusses the death of a loved one and the grieving process associated with it. While I think the lessons from my experiences could be useful for my fellow neurodivergent folk, feel free to skip this post if you feel either uncomfortable or unprepared.

I miss my dog a lot. His name is--was--Tiger.

Early in 2022, he had come down with Cushing Syndrome, and due to his age, his condition was so severe that recovery was impossible. We resisted putting him to sleep for a while until the 5^th of October. I requested to take that week off from my volunteer job, to truly steel myself for what was to come. We'd known something like this was coming for a while, but the months leading up to it weren’t enough… and neither was that extra time.

The night before that fated day, I was giving Tiger some hugs, when he suddenly rolled onto his back for belly rubs. It was the first time he had done that in weeks, and he even managed to do it twice before he tiredly laid back on his side. It seemed he knew his time was running short, but he mustered enough strength for some final, likely uncomfortable expressions of love and trust…. I sobbed.

When I met Tiger in an adoption event as a child, he crawled right into my lap, and the friendship, and thus his part of my family, was cemented. I made a point to say my final goodbyes to him in a very similar way the next afternoon. As the medicine kicked in and he gradually slumped to the floor, I held him in my arms and made sure his passing was as smooth as possible. I know it’s been two years since then, but I still tear up thinking about it, just as I did in the moment.

Life had to move on; time did not stop for my damaged feelings, even though my neurodivergent brain made it difficult to think of anything but Tiger’s death. That was a prominent reason why I was forced to leave my volunteer job. I won’t go into detail about what exactly happened, but my supervisor thought I was managing my grief and my conditions—especially my diabetes—poorly. I no longer felt safe there, and I needed to move on and find a proper, paying job elsewhere.

I devoted nearly all of my mental bandwidth towards setting up help from my state-sponsored vocational rehabilitation services. It was probably more than what it deserved, considering how poorly it went when I finally received it several months later. There was a lot of waiting and poor communication, due to my state’s DHHS being severely understaffed, and even sometimes underpowered thanks to the numerous system outages they experienced. I was forced to, more or less, manage my employment issues on my own the following year. Those are stories for another time.

Throughout all this, I wanted to commit to hobbies to help with my anxiety, but I regarded them as distractions that would lead me down an unsuccessful path. Even though I continued drawing, I kept all of my art after a certain point private, as most were warm-up exercises to test my rendering that didn’t look like anything in particular. Despite this, I still felt passionate about illustration, and keeping it all to myself—not even bothering to share anything with my friends—left me feeling incapable of following my dreams despite shooting for the stars.

Eventually, December arrived, and I still hadn’t improved. In fact, in some ways, it felt like I had gotten worse. By the time Christmas Eve came around, some of my extended family dropped by to catch up and exchange gifts. I kept mostly quiet, knowing that I couldn’t hide how depressed I was but trying to make myself feel better within my family’s presence…

But it didn’t work. If there was ever a time my autism was at its most prominent, it was then. When asked by my uncle about what I was up to these days, I dropped all social pretenses and readily admitted I felt broken. It would’ve hurt to be dishonest, but paradoxically, so did being truthful. All the same, my uncle was understanding, as were the rest of my relatives there.

As I headed home that evening, one thing was clear in my head: I couldn’t even bring myself to be happy during the most wonderful time of the year, as many call it. Night came, and I sat alone with my thoughts for a few long hours, trying to pinpoint why this family meetup didn’t help me. I played the year’s events back and forth in my mind… And I realized that a lot of them seemed to be building up to what happened in October. I’d put some old story ideas to rest, I’d lost touch with an online community and a job, neither of which were what I thought they were, and my aforementioned father’s dementia was getting worse… These losses seemed to be priming me for the biggest one of all.

It finally hit me: I hadn’t properly grieved for my dog.

After a few weeks, I assumed I had already healed from the emotional wounds, but I had simply started to ignore them as other matters came up. I still had time to challenge those emotions, work through them, and fully embrace them. From there, I began reevaluating how I had been spending my free time up to this point. Despite never publishing some of those practice sketches I did, that did not discount their value. It was thanks to them that I had my style and rules for illustration down to a science…

… And then, I remembered the last finished piece I ever shared with anybody:

This grotesque beast, the Tapewyrm, was something I drew as a piece of vent art, just before October ended. I wanted a representation of my feelings throughout that month, complete with all sorts of body horror to emphasize how utterly wrong this thing is. Past the fact it was based on a parasite, how it subtly referenced one reason I left my volunteer job, and some diabetes-related imagery—which, as you may recall from this post, was something I had been struggling with at the time—there was no rhyme or reason behind this design. It flew out onto the canvas in all its terrifying, stream-of-consciousness glory. I wanted to finish it up past the linework, but I couldn’t bring myself to. It made me uncomfortable to look at it for too long.

There I sat that December night, staring the beast dead in the eyes as I recalled why I drew it. I imagined it restricting my mind and body, taunting me every second of the way as it siphoned what strength I had left. And that was when I remembered a very interesting coping mechanism: the idea of putting a face to your troubles, personifying them into a foe to overcome.

Suddenly, I pictured a nightmarish battlefield. The creature and I were not the only occupants, however; Tiger’s spirit had joined in—as an unwilling meal for the beast… And all of my discomfort with the creature disappeared. With a primal, paternal fury I never felt before, I roared that I was going to teach this thing fear, and that, one way or another, I was going to tear it apart. This thing needed to die if it meant making peace with my dog’s death.

I pulled up my art program of choice, put together some of the most intense music I could find—especially songs from video games and other media that resonated with me at the time—and began creating a tribute to my dog. Every stroke of my tablet pen was another strike on the beast, and every song I played was another chapter of the battle in my head. I made a point to only stop at logical points throughout the process—sketching, lining, coloring, and shading—to maintain that powerful forward momentum.

I could picture the beast’s reaction to my attacks transforming from amusement, to confusion, and concern, before finally settling into a sheer, unadulterated, incoherent panic. In turn, I envisioned myself—battered, beaten, and more than a little unhinged, but continuously manhandling the beast. Each development milestone embodied a vicious assault, ending with a critical blow.

I wanted this piece to be the best it possibly could be within my skill set at the time, and I was not going to let my negative emotions get in the way of that. I didn’t keep all the fantasy within my mind; I continued doing whatever I could to hype myself up for this piece’s completion. I walked my neighborhood while listening to that intense music, and I released speeches and war cries as I worked on the project alone in my bedroom. I was going to be damn sure that this project’s completion would mean ending 2022 on the highest note possible.

As I began wrapping up the piece, I played Cryoshell’s “Bye Bye Babylon”—an extremely formative song from my childhood that was used to promote LEGO’s Bionicle franchise. I hadn’t touched the song in a long time, but this was the best possible time to play it again. Not only was this a way for me to indulge in one of my old hyperfixations, but it was also released the same year as when Tiger came into my life: 2009. The lyrics tell the tale of a falling empire—for the betterment of its occupants—which couldn’t be more appropriate as I finally broke free of the Tapewyrm’s hold over me, completing the single most important illustration I’ve ever made in my life:

It’s not a perfect illustration; the line weight is all over the place, the brindle fur isn’t the best, the colors could be a little better, and the collar isn’t perfect. I’m also certain that this bizarre coping mechanism is rather crazy. But even still, I couldn’t have chosen a better way for my neurodivergent brain to overcome my grief, and the result was meaningful. By that metric, it’s safe to say that I emerged victorious, solidifying my worth as not just an artist, not just as an adult, but as a human being.

The night the piece was completed, I couldn’t help but dream of myself and Tiger’s spirit, watching as the monster crumbled away into nothing as the setting became something more peaceful. I got to say my goodbyes to my dog one last time, and like on the night before we put him down, I went to bed crying—this time, out of joy.

Sleep well, Tiger. It may be too anthropomorphic a description to say as much, but I hope this piece makes you proud. I hope that I continue to make you proud as I continue fighting the good fight and doing what I love.

Goodbye. I shall continue loving you forever.