The most frightening movie I’ve ever seen was “Artificial Intelligence,” when I was 10. The movie followed a robot programmed to act like a child near my age. While no horror movie by usual standards, for months afterward I was terrified I, too, was a robot.
Every action the boy-robot made, dictated by programmed logic, an imitation of what a “real boy” was supposed to do, think and feel, was exactly what I would have done.
A decade later, I heard the term “Asperger syndrome” for the first time during a therapy session. I was already leery of “syndromes,” having dealt with the awkwardness of Tourette syndrome as a young child, and completely balked when my therapist informed me Asperger’s is a form of autism. Sure, I had problems, but nothing that far gone.
Still, I began researching the disorder. Autism seemed a piece that didn’t match my jigsaw puzzle, and my therapist’s analysis confused me more than anything.
Asperger syndrome is one of several developmental disorders under the umbrella term of autism spectrum disorder (ASD). The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5), determines the severity of autism by how it affects a person’s ability to be self-sufficient and interact with others.
While informative, the clinical diagnostic criteria didn’t solve my puzzlement.
It was the personal accounts of Asperger’s that finally made it click for me. Many people, accustomed to the previous edition of the DSM that catalogued forms of autism separately, refer to themselves as “Aspies.” Two common threads emerged from stories Aspies told about their lives: having a logical – not emotional – frame of mind, and a lack of understanding social cues.
The puzzle piece shifted, fitting into place – and with it, a cascade of pieces fell into sequence, all the way back to my childhood fear.
I had worried my emotions were facades for my “robotic” nature. But in discovering Asperger’s, this mind-frame finally made sense. Instead of inventing reasons for my differences, the fact remained: I don’t have the same emotional pathways as most people.
I turned to the second side of the puzzle piece: misinterpreting social cues. Further therapist-guided self-examination revealed motives behind conversation tactics I used. I became an attentive listener because I had no idea what other people said with their body language or tone of voice.
Sarcasm, hostility and apathy: I didn’t come into this world with the natural intuition to interpret meanings in raised voices or shrugging shoulders. I need to analyze the other person enough to gauge the – again, logical – response. Over time, I developed a bank of knowledge about how things work, but there are still conversations I don’t follow or a joke I tell that doesn’t quite translate.
It’s been about three years since I first discovered my Asperger’s, and those years have been quite the wild ride. Realizing that I’d mostly self-taught workarounds for an unknown issue was both astonishing and empowering. Furthermore, understanding how I operate has enabled me to continue developing those workarounds and build more.
I lived more than two decades not knowing why I function the way I do, and learning about it made things easier. Being an Aspie brings its challenges, and most recent was the choice to publicly state I consider myself one. I’m not a “bleeding-heart-on-my-sleeve” guy by nature, but I also don’t regard myself as someone to hold back secrets.
It came down to this: the term for people without ASD is “neurotypical.” Given the choice, would I rather claim the “disorder” that exorcised my childhood demons, and empowered my sense of self? Or would I rather pretend at being “typical”?
I’m many things, but typical isn’t one of them.
