Romance and developmental disabilities.
This is not a topic often discussed in Japan.
While you occasionally see posts from women with developmental disabilities, posts from men are extremely rare.
Today, I want to put into words my perspective on love as someone with a developmental disability, while reflecting on my past relationships.
Why is romance difficult for Japanese men to talk about?
Developmental disorders,
male.
When these keywords come together, it’s hard not to think,
“Someone who’s far removed from romance,”
and I suspect many people hold this image.
I believe the background to this is that in Japan, not just for those with developmental disorders, there’s a prevailing atmosphere where men are discouraged from talking about romance.
Being met with skepticism—“What, are you bragging?”—has been common for a long time.
Additionally, a recent trend is that depending on the content of the story shared,
the man is increasingly likely to be seen as the sole perpetrator.
Furthermore, I feel there exists a backdrop in Japanese society where when men share stories about “not doing well” or failures,
it’s easily reinterpreted as “a man making excuses” and becomes a target for ridicule.
Moreover, when it comes to men with developmental disabilities, this becomes even more complex.
They might face an unspoken line drawn: “If you can manage romance, you’re a strong one. You’re not one of us.” This can worsen their standing within the community of those with developmental disabilities.
Alternatively, talking about romance might make their own struggles to live feel invisible. It seems like this kind of atmosphere exists.
Incidentally, the reason I feel skeptical about, or can’t fully embrace, the space of the community for those with developmental disabilities is precisely because of these structural issues inherent in such communities.
As a preface to this article, I’d like to point out that Japan has this kind of “a social structure in which men have little to gain by talking about romance.”
ASD, ADHD, Romance
Now, speaking for myself, I must admit I’m not exactly skilled at romance either.
This might sound a bit too dry, but I can’t deny that I personally feel romance is an interaction that demands an extremely high cognitive cost—constant monitoring, adjustment, and interpretation.
Still, despite my innate limitations, I think I can say I’ve committed to romance to a degree that could probably be called “average” up until now.
As mentioned in another article,
I believe this stems largely from being someone with developmental disabilities characterized by coexisting ASD traits and ADHD traits,
combined with growing up under so-called “toxic parents.”
Let me elaborate on these points a bit more carefully.
Observing various individuals with developmental disabilities, I often notice that those who feel particularly uncomfortable with romance tend to be those with more pronounced ASD traits.
Engaging in romantic relationships requires adjusting communication styles based on the era’s trends, the specific time, place, and occasion (TPO), and the individual partner.
Romantic situations often demand anticipating these unspoken social contexts and then behaving in a way that’s as close to optimal as possible. For those with pronounced ASD traits, such social activities can trigger profound discomfort. As someone with ASD traits myself, I understand this well.
In short, for those with ASD traits, romance feels like performing a play without a script, constantly improvising while reading the room.
On the other hand, I notice quite a few people with stronger ADHD traits say they enjoy jobs involving interaction with others. These individuals also tend to have less difficulty with romance. Of course, this doesn’t apply to everyone with ADHD traits.
Regardless, this is certainly not a matter of superiority or inferiority.
Someone who seems adept in one situation might completely fall apart in another.
Moreover, being able to “manage” or “navigate” romance is distinct from doing so without becoming exhausted.
Next, I’ll articulate the relationship between growing up with “toxic parents” and acquiring the communication skills necessary for romance.
In my case, developing the ability to read the moods of those around me, including my parents, and give the optimal reaction was a condition for survival. At first glance, this might seem like a good skill. However, acquiring this ability—or rather, being forced to acquire it—and living by exercising it would later become a source of suffering for me.
Perhaps such experiences are no longer possible in an era where developmental disorders are socially recognized, “reasonable accommodations” are expected by society, and understanding of these traits has advanced at a general level.
In any case, I never received that exemption label in society: “That kid has a developmental disorder, so it’s no wonder they can’t read the room.” I think that’s precisely why, ironically, it became internalized within me as a kind of “communication skill”—one that, in quotes, even made romance possible.
My Failures in Romance
Thus, from a background that might be considered somewhat unusual for someone with developmental disabilities, I acquired an extraordinary ability to over-adapt to society—one that came at the cost of severe exhaustion, what the world calls communication skills.
However, this doesn’t change the fact that romance remains an incredibly difficult form of interaction for me. My romantic failures are too numerous to list, but I’ll give one example.
Shortly after starting to date a girl at the time,
we had an opportunity to go to karaoke.
I’m not naturally good at singing, and the songs I can sing are limited.
On top of that, for reasons I find puzzling even to myself, many of the songs I like are all about “men and women parting ways.”
A guy singing nothing but breakup songs at the very beginning of a relationship—before its contours have even taken shape.
For me, it was simply singing songs I liked; I had absolutely no intention of conveying any hidden feelings through them.
But it wouldn’t be surprising if a typical woman felt something like this:
“Are you trying to say you’re still hung up on your ex?”
“Are you pessimistic about our future together?”
“If you have something to say, just say it clearly.”
Whether I meant anything by it or not,
in the context of romance, “the song chosen = the message”
is how it tends to be interpreted.
From there, it’s not unreasonable for feelings to develop into:
“We just don’t click.”
“Maybe he’s not cut out for relationships?”
Incidentally, the observation that I’m not cut out for relationships is remarkably accurate.
Anyway, situations like this are genuinely difficult for me.
That said,
even if I preface it with,
“I sing breakup songs all the time, but they don’t mean anything,”
it doesn’t really solve anything.
Trying to read every hidden meaning, anticipate every possible interpretation, and act accordingly makes my brain feel like it’s overloaded and about to short-circuit. And when I’m utterly exhausted, I find myself singing Billy Joel’s “Honesty” alone.
In romance, “unintended messages” often get interpreted most strongly.
Plus, accountability rarely applies. Personally, I appreciate it when someone asks, “Hey, what did you mean by that?” and I might even think of them as “honest,” but that’s rare. Even if misunderstood, you basically never get a chance to explain or correct yourself. In romance, even silence often becomes a “message.”
For individuals with developmental disabilities, this often feels like an unfairly demanding system—one that requires extremely advanced skills.
Through these repeated experiences, I gradually began to let go of the very act of trying to “do it well.”
Having put this into words, one thought occurs to me.
Not limited to men with developmental disabilities, after accumulating numerous failures in romance, some men tend to develop feelings of fear like:
“Women are scary.”
“Women are incomprehensible.”
And when that fear turns into a drive for self-armor and reinforcement, it can easily take the form of misogyny.
But that wasn’t the case for me.
Wondering why, I realized it was because my upbringing, as described earlier, led me to grasp early in life that
“People cannot understand each other” – even before considering gender differences.
Dating Challenges Due to Neurodevelopmental Characteristics
The difficulties individuals with developmental disabilities face in navigating romantic relationships, as discussed thus far, stem primarily from the challenge of interpreting social context.
Japan is often described as a “high-context culture.”
Simply put, a high-context culture is one where
the context, atmosphere, situation, and relationships behind words
are valued more than explicitly stated rules.
It strongly demands an “ability to read the air” –
an understanding of unspoken rules and an expectation that “you should understand without being told.”
It goes without saying that adapting to such a high-context culture is often difficult for individuals with developmental disabilities.
However, I believe the difficulties individuals with developmental disabilities often face in romantic relationships stem not solely from the challenge of adapting to high-context cultures, but are also deeply connected to the variability of their traits—or, to put it another way, the difficulties arising from the unevenness of their neurodevelopmental characteristics.
This chapter leans a bit toward my personal traits and may lack universal applicability. It does not apply to all individuals with developmental disabilities.
For example, I’ve heard stories like this:
“The FBI recruitment process in the US includes a test like this:
Candidates are instructed to stay in a room filled with random objects—empty beer cans, a sofa, a guitar, and so on—for only a very short time.
After leaving the room, they are asked:
‘What was in the room? Answer as detailed as possible.’”
I don’t know if this test is actually part of the FBI’s selection process, but it sounds plausible.
If I were to take such a test, the results would be disastrous.
From the perspective of uneven developmental traits, I have an extremely poor ability to “memorize things that catch my eye.”
Incidentally, on the opposite end of this spectrum—which could be called a weakness—there are people with savant-like abilities, like the character in the movie Rain Man, who can accurately count hundreds of matches after just a glance.
Anyway, at this point, some of you might be wondering,
“What on earth does the FBI recruitment exam have to do with romance?”
In romance,
noticing subtle changes in your partner’s appearance—
“You got a haircut,”
“Your outfit looks great today”—
and conveying that through words of affection, joy, or gratitude
is also important.
More than just manners or consideration,
these actions give the other person the feeling of being noticed,
or to put it somewhat bluntly, the very sensation of having their need for recognition fulfilled. Personally, I believe people possess this need, regardless of gender.
These things are also incredibly important in romance.
And in my case, my ability to handle these things well is extremely limited.
However, on the other hand, one of my traits is
a “high capacity for understanding words that enter through my ears,”
which is probably above average for neurotypical individuals.
It’s fair to say this trait has helped me.
While this explanation has focused on my extremely personal traits, I hope it serves as a starting point for understanding the difficulties people with developmental disabilities face in romantic relationships.
Romantic Relationships Between Individuals with Developmental Disabilities
“How compatible are individuals with developmental disabilities in romantic relationships?”
This is a theme that often surfaces.
However, I believe it’s a question that’s difficult to answer simply.
Certainly, a connection where a couple understands each other’s traits, shares difficulties, senses when help is needed with near-telepathic timing, and supports each other—that might be a good relationship for both.
I’ll share a page from my own life experience by putting it into words.
The term “hoarding house” has become fairly common in Japan, and I once dated a woman who lived in what you might call a mildly cluttered home.
For readers outside Japan, a brief clarification may help.
The average size of a one-person apartment in Japan is around 20 square meters (about 215 square feet).
Depending on where you live, you might say it’s a bit too spacious for a rabbit, but still uncomfortably tight for a human life.
Because living spaces are often this compact, it’s not uncommon for clutter to accumulate more quickly in Japanese homes.
When people hear the term “hoarding house,” they often imagine a dangerous situation where random items are stacked almost to the ceiling, posing serious safety risks.
In her case, however, the items generally remained at around ankle height.
Just to be clear, this woman was by no means a social failure. During the day, she worked at a company probably familiar to many people – one with a level of recognition where most would think, “Oh, I’ve heard of that.”
She had one cat.
The cat seemed to choose stable spots near her feet to spend time.
But little by little, things were placed on the floor, gradually obscuring it.
As this happened, the places where the cat could linger for long periods naturally became more limited.
I don’t know if it’s due to my own ASD traits, but I’m the type who feels calmer when the room is reasonably tidy. Placing things directly on the floor just feels unsettling. So, every time I visited her place, I’d tidy up the piles of stuff. The floor would become visible again, and the cat would be overjoyed. But before long, things would pile up to ankle height. And I’d tidy up again.
That ankle height was probably the limit of what something inside her could tolerate.
Looking back fondly, I remember how we had a mutually comfortable coexistence: me, not exactly a cleaning whiz but possessing a certain fastidiousness that found things placed directly on the floor a bit uncomfortable, and her.
What I gained from our relationship,
perhaps,
was the realization that relationships can exist while embracing each other’s flaws.
But this probably isn’t unique to our case.
Conversely, if both partners in a couple have developmental disabilities,
it might often become structurally difficult to support each other
by compensating for each other’s weaknesses.
Communication is an area where people with developmental disabilities often struggle.
When it comes to finding someone who can compensate for such weaknesses, act as a bridge to society, and possess traits that ease the difficulties of living,
might it be better to look for someone neurotypical? That hypothesis might hold water.
I see romance as a complex fantasy woven from elements that defy easy articulation:
emotions and impulses that might even be called primitive,
the social roles we project onto our partners,
their physical appearance.
However,
many people likely feel uneasy about this, thinking:
“Choosing a romantic partner based on social roles from the start feels too cold and calculated,”
or “A romantic partner isn’t the same as a work colleague or ‘comrade-in-arms’.”
Thinking this way, it becomes unclear what the right answer is.
The one thing I can say is this:
While I understand that some people consider the fact of whether the other person “has a developmental disability” to be an important indicator for those with developmental disabilities, my view is that ultimately, it all comes down to “what kind of person they are.”
In conclusion
Looking back,
many of the events I thought were “romantic failures”
might have simply been me trying to value people, but going about it the wrong way.
People with developmental disabilities often struggle with romance.
This tendency might indeed exist.
Even if you’re not good at romance, you can still value people.
There’s no need to force yourself to become someone who is “romantically suited.”
By understanding your own traits, you can choose your distance, your expectations, and how you engage with others.
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