I never wanted to be Jane Eyre. I wanted to be Jane Eyre. Was I Jane Eyre? Couldn’t be possible, could it? Writing this post, I immediately contradict myself as I try to remember what I felt when I was a young teenager and reading the Brontë sisters. The passion of Wuthering Heights confused me and the poetical prose intrigued me. I found the rigid social expectations, careful structure and convincing options of bravery present in Charlotte and Anne’s novels quite reassuring.

*

“Looking back, can anyone here tell me with which female character from a book they identified?” The presenter asked the question to a fully packed hall. I was attending a literary evening about the representation of women in fiction at De Balie in Amsterdam. We had just listened to a young novelist read from her latest book. The author’s protagonist was a modern woman making modern choices and freely expressing herself and her desires. Was the protagonist a projection of the author? Was the world her oyster? 

*

Upon the presenter’s question the room fell still. The audience was ninety percent female. The silence continued until a hand stuck up above the heads at the back.

The presenter tilted the microphone towards the mouth of the audience member

“Jane Eyre.” 

Others in the audience nodded in agreement.

*

In my skull, my autistic brain was spinning. I had recently read that the character of Jane Eyre could be considered to be “autistic” and that Jane Eyre was an “autistic novel”.  Therefore my immediate thought, black and white thinking, was that this woman offering the information must be autistic. But then, were all the other women agreeing with her also on the spectrum? 

Very unlikely and proof that neurotypical and neuroatypical people relating to similar situations was more than plausible.

“Why?” the presenter prompted the woman.

“Because she made a way for herself,” the woman replied.

*

I sat there thinking, “How extraordinary.” The woman who offered this option had undoubtedly benefited from contraceptive options, higher education and so many more advantages than Jane Eyre. Yet despite the restrictions of her era and sex, Jane Eyre herself had landed securely on a patch of land that ultimately provided her autonomy. She was married to a blind man and in charge of her destiny. The end. Was it the happy sacrifice of the “unfortunate” that spoke to this audience member? 

*

Casting an eye over the opening chapter of Jane Eyre, I inhaled the familiar smell of Charlotte Brontë. There are certain books that I read as a teenager that retain a flavor, a taste, an odor. I read Jane’s retreat behind the curtain to read, the cruelty of the aunt, and Jane’s battered and destructive reaction to free herself, like a fox chewing off its own foot to escape a trap.

I stopped reading because I didn’t want to read any further. “Some things may bring back the trauma,” I was recently warned.

*

Shame, it’s the shame of it all, I thought after the first meeting of an eight week course tailored to assist children of parents afflicted with psychological problems. The course is offered as an offshoot by the governmental health care system that specializes in the treatment and care of people needing considerable mental health support. I think it’s safe to say that after the six weeks in which I spoke with family and friends in the states last year, I can assert that the bubble that I was instructed as a child to protect and defend has burst. Something akin to the concept of the letter from “Uncle Eyre” finally reaching its destination, validation and testimony.