Who is Temple Grandin? And why is she following me?

No, no! I don't think she is really following me. That is a paraphrase of an old Grateful Dead Bumper sticker. But, it fits. A week ago, I decided to find out what all the buzz in the Asperger's community was about. Temple Grandin-- the books, the movies, the conferences and speeches. Intriguing to say the least. I borrowed a copy of Thinking in Pictures from the library. Within the first couple chapters, I got it. Not necessary the fame and notoriety, but the similarities. It was like reading the recipe for a batch of chocolate chip cookies you've baked over 100 times. When she ran through some comparison with visual thinkers "seeing" churches, I saw a flying buttress and remembered their historical significance. As much as we are all unique, the similiarities can be disturbing and comforting.

When I first starting working with someone about my own diagnosis, certain analogies started coming up for the way I think: a Rolodex or a filing cabinet. Every time I think of something or someone, there is a backlog of information that is quickly scanned before the new interaction can begin. However, it isn't just reading the files themselves. It is more like replaying the information, fast forwarding a video or DVD. I used to think this was some bizarre form of what people refer to has "holding grudges". Yet, I never really conjured any emotion out of the information. Just the facts, ma'am. One problem with seeing things in your life as a two dimensional slide show is this-- the context is often lost. If I am replaying a scene from a family reunion at the lake, I can see the insects hovering close to the ground on the bank of a muddy lagoon. But, I can't always remember what my father asked me while we were standing there. Or I can remember talking to my cousin from Delaware only because she was wearing an enormous hat. But, the face under the hat is like a smudge mark. And, if I think about her hat for too long (a matter of seconds) I start to think about straw and caning chairs and weaving and looms and...

This leads into another facet of my thought process. Everything is possibly connected in my mind. It is sometimes overwhelming because I have to be sure to keep myself directed. But, other times, it is a blessing because it allows my to have new and better ideas. When I was in "gifted" classes back in grade school, we were able to come up with our own projects. And, as long as they were approved by the teaching staff, you could muck about with them all day for days. One of my first projects was to redesign the cataloging system for the program's library. I understood the Dewey decimal system, having been a frequent visitor to my local library. But, I didn't think it was a enough. Sure, you can categorize a book by it's main topic and even list a couple cross referenced topics or each cited work on the paper card. But, there was no code. Nothing that actually tied the other subtopics to a grid. Mind you this was before the Internet even existed. And, I was just learning how to program a PC with DOS or monkeying with simple games on a MAC. I was given a room full of empty shelves and boxes full of books. I knew what I need to do. And, it was completely possible-- if I was given enough time to read every single book in its entirety. The project was abandon because the advisers got tired of coming in to see me just sitting and reading books. In my mind, I saw a very elaborate web of lines connecting books one to another. However, at age eight, I don't think I had the resources available to truly dig my heels in.

The web that existed in my mind for the project was three dimensional. I could spin it, looking at it from bottom to top, side to side, any angel, etc. But, another part of my visual thinking is being able to take 3-D objects and make them flat. When I was a child, my uncle lent me a copy of Flatland. I still consider that a very important book to my developing mind. I can see forms and outlines in everything. I like to look to the place where objects position themselves against the sky. Trees, birds, telephone poles, mechanical cranes, and on. I am also able to make my mind go from standing in one spot to repositioning itself above an object or any terrain to make it appear like a map. I still get very excited about dioramas (various flat fields positioned in a box to create depth) and salt maps (maps that show location and elevation). When I was a child trying to relax at bedtime, I would visualize myself flying above specific routes. I would see the landscape like you would if you viewed a miniature train display from up on a ladder. And, I would test myself by picking new places to "fly".

My ability to do these things has allowed me certain degree of marginal personal and professional success as an illustrator. When working on a piece, 90% of the project is executed in my mind. By the time I sit down in front of a piece of paper, I know exactly what I want the blank piece to become. And, by teaching myself the simple mechanics of drawing, I am able to make it appear. Usually, by the time the physical drawing begins, I have drawn and redrawn the piece numerous times in my head. When you do the work in your head, many negatively think you are procrastinating. I am able to do that to some degree with writing as well. But, the reigns need to be a little bit tighter. I can take a paragraph like the one you are reading and somehow, in my mind, rationalize why it would be okay to also discuss dip pens and ink with varnish. That type of fishnet thinking makes me create metaphors that may seem a little off the wall. If you think about it, or if I explain the train of thought-- most often others will reach a lighting bolt moment. And, those who know me well (for over decades) have acquainted themselves enough with my thinking to see the humor in what first appears like nonsense.

This thinking translate over to other senses as well. Someone once told me that odor carries weight. Imagine "seeing" the particles of everything you smell if you were to let yourself. Each scent having distinct shape, size, and color. I have to stop myself from doing this or some things become less enjoyable. And, with sound, there are two ways I see it. Each sound has a shape that I can see either as a wave of varying height and density or as a different shaped and colored wooden building block. One moment I can see a Stockhausen piece coming together with varying levels of colorful blocks, stacking into 3-D shapes, becoming longer and longer as the song progresses. And, other days, I can see a song by Brian Eno come together in waves like looking at many oscilloscopes running all at the same time. It looks like scribbles on top of scribbles, but each waves remains separate and easy to identify. This is what I think composers and song writers "see" when orchestrating. And, some touch has color and sound. A lot of the senses move back and forth between each other, but all can be visualized.

Sometimes, my visual thinking can be like trying to contain a tornado inside a house. But, then, I am grateful I can visually every album cover and book cover I own. I appreciate my personal internal clip art collection. I may not be able to draw your portrait without making it look somewhat like me, but I can draw a hundred different hands from memory. I am lucky that simple things like looking at old advertising logos and icons bring me enjoyment which can be saved for later reference in the library I keep in my head. I like taking conversations or ideas and applying symbolic logic to them. If (p) then (q) but greater than (r). Although, it may contribute to my black and white thinking, it is engaging. I love that I can walk into some one's home, knowing I could recognize the handle to their front door in a line up (here's where I recommend the book Poetics of Space). I am never overwhelmed by my brain's perpetual motion... just grateful.

The Gates

Every Saturday, my daughters do an exercise called "The Gates" during their pre-school dance class. If I don't sit in my car to avoid talking to all the other mothers, I am sitting in the back dressing room (hopefully alone)-- knitting and answering any questions posed to me from people trying to make conversation. If inside the building, I can hear the music and the instructor calling for the tiny dancers to make their way through "The Gates". What do I think about when I hear this? My mother saying, "What!?! Do I look like I'm wearing skates!? Slow down!"

My mother has a pretty decent sense of humor when I know she is joking. Unfortunately, I don't always realize when people are joking. However, this comment is only one of the many things I remember being said to me. One that may not have been said to me if others and myself had known about Asperger's in the Seventies, Eighties, and most of the Nineties. Another thing commonly heard about my walking was being referred to as "Stompy". Both of those things are true. But now, I kinda of think of it like this: would you poke fun at a blind man about how he bumps into things he can't see? Or on a less dramatic note, would you mock someone for being right or left handed? Sadly, seeing what I have seen of the human race, I think both of those things have happened. The way I walk is not an affliction! It is the way I walk. I walk really fast, with scissor-like glides. Although most of my life has been spent long and lean, I am far from graceful. And, I walk really hard on my heels. Just look at any one of my many pairs of sneakers. Forensics would pin me in a second.

I have trouble telling how hard I am doing something. This is also evident when I write. I usually end up with a divot in my finger from holding the pen. And, you can easily read what I wrote on at least five to ten pages under the original document. As an illustrator, I tried to use dip pens as recommended to me by a favorite comic artist, Peter Bagge. But, my hand is so heavy that it was almost impossible. So back to Sharpies. Thanks god, somewhere along the line graffiti artist made those cool. If you wait long enough, whatever you are doing will come into fashion (if only for a second). And, watercolor? Forget it! I tear through the paper in five minutes flat. I guess that is one of the reasons why I like the early works of Jean DeBuffet. He painted with sand and dirt.

I am sure somewhere someone would like to say all the little comments had an effect on me. Maybe that person should be me. Maybe a lot of those feeling I can't recognize yet. But, in the beginning of this journey, I declared to myself I would not play a blame game. Some people can be nice, some people can be not-so-nice. Some nice people can be not-so-nice without really knowing it. I don't really remember these things because they hurt me. I remember a lot of things that happened many, many years ago for what seems to be no good reason. I guess that could reek of denial. But, I'm not sure it smells of anything but old newspapers.

For every ten to one hundred things that are said to me and fall off me like water on a rain slicker, there are one or two things that did/do hurt. I stopped keeping track of how many times I'd heard, "You are so smart but you have no common sense!" That hurt. Not only did it hurt me, it made me a little confused and scared. Most of the time, I couldn't figure out why someone (usually my mother) would get upset enough to say something like that to me, because it really just translates to, "You're smart but you're dumb!" And, I would be scared because most people who lack common sense do things like get hit by buses when they bend over to tie their shoe in the middle of the street. I may bend over to tie my shoe in the middle of you telling me something very revealing about yourself. But, I would never do that on the train tracks with a whistle blowing in the distance.

Another comment that stung was being called "clumsy". Being the tallest girl in the class usually set me up for playing forward on the basketball team not gliding across the balance beam. But, it was more than that. I had trouble navigating doorways and pieces of furniture that hadn't been moved in years. Watching me get out of a school desk was more like watching a mountain man wrestle a bear. I couldn't figure out how to rollerskate at skating parties. I tripped over my tennis racket and skinned my knee the first time I ever played. I was well-known for disappearing during highschool gym class. Not to go catch a smoke in the locker room or eat candy bars in the auditorium, but to avoid the sheer panic of having to coordinate my arms and legs into whatever red bouncy ball game of the day was being played.

Now, I see my daughter walk around the house on her tippy-toes sometimes. And, I let her, because I know it makes her comfortable. I will never make her feel bad for doing it. And, I will teach her how to deal with it when someone does. And, when I see on school evaluations that she hasn't quite figured out how to do a somersault yet-- I know she will eventually. I can work with her on that.

And, as of today, I am proud to be a minister of silly walks.

Spontaneous Combustion

For years, I have tried to find others who would understand a time in my life when I was fascinated by the idea of spontaneous combustion. About ten years ago, I saw an article in the Onion that I thought was absolutely hilarious. As I showed it to friends, they didn't think it was as great as I did. "8yr. Old Boy Knows Everything about Squirrels," it read (or close to it). Get it, I'd say, get it? While working on a degree in Psychology at Penn State, I thought of a perfect thesis. It would explore why so many kids in my "Gifted" classes were a little different, a little odd, a little obsessed. This was back in 1992. And, I hadn't heard of Asperger's. I could never figure out why teachers would always tell us to brain storm... to turn things over in our minds OVER and OVER and OVER. Especially when the majority of us were already thinking about things (we were interested in) WAY more then what the average person would consider normal or healthy. It is like asking a gentle, summer breeze to work itself up into a hurricane.

The other day while trying to relax, knitting while watching the Science channel, I tripped over a program about "dark" science. The theme of the episode was spontaneous combustion. Although my interest was peaked, my reply was, "Tell me something I don't already know." I watched it and learned nothing new. It is amazing how little had changed over the past thirty years.

I can't remember exactly how old I was, maybe about 8yrs old like the Squirrel Boy. At that time, I had received a book about various phenomena. It included stories about mysterious footprints on rooftops, rainstorms of frogs falling from the sky, moving photographs of ghostly women, and a whole section on spontaneous combustion. I became entranced. I suddenly needed to find out everything I could about it. Those were the days before PCs in libraries and internet search engines. So, I spent many hours in the library digging through books, magazine articles, and microfiche. I found photographs like of man charred beyond recognition, except for the bit of tattered bathrobe and bedroom slippers filled with what appeared to be hamburger. I found scientific studies about pig carcasses wrapped tightly in blankets and then set on fire. But, more importantly, I formulated my own theory. It took a bit of geology, a bit of Roman Catholicism, and a bit of Looney Tunes. I ultimately figured spontaneous combustion had to be the work of the Devil. I just couldn't believe a being of his power and cunning would settle for sitting in a red hot throne while his minions poked people with pitch forks. Simple chemical reactions didn't cut it. And, it couldn't always be a misplaced cigarette butt. In an almost cartoonish way, I could see Satan himself lifting a fingertip to the outer most crust of the Earth's surface (because hell had to be in a solid center of the Earth's core surrounded by molten rock). He would then randomly set people ablaze like matchsticks for kicks.

I could deal with this theory for a while. It made sense but it was pretty innocuous. But, it still made its way to the forefront of my thoughts OFTEN. Sometimes, I would stop my mother while we were performing mundane tasks, like shopping at the Mall. I'd come to a halt and ask her, "What if I spontaneously combust RIGHT NOW!?!?!" She initially seemed a little disturbed. But, eventually, she would just ignore me. Every time I asked her, I would picture her covered in hot, steaming fleshy bits. Everything, in spite of my obsessive thoughts of flaming flesh, seemed to be moving along nicely in my world-- until the day my mother asked me to do the unthinkable. Go down to the basement and change the laundry from the washer to the dryer. We lived in an older flat with a dark, unwelcoming, Lovercraftian basement. I could handle the shadows and the dank, damp air. What I could not handle was the thought of how much my mother must have disliked me to send me to a certain death. Because, if Hell is in the center of the Earth like many Christians would have had me believe... and it is Satan who is causing humans to go off like fireworks... and the basement is the closest part of the house to the center of the Earth!?!?! I wouldn't return from my task smelling unpleasantly like fabric softener (see previous entry). I wouldn't return AT ALL! I would get so wound up that I couldn't even begin to explain myself. And, what did come out sounded like gibberish to my mother, I am sure. An act of manslaughter, I'd think. In her mind, I was once again being uncooperative, difficult, defiant, overly dramatic, and even lazy. Once again, she'd note that her daughter was incapable of completing even the most simple chore.

As time passed, I though I had outgrown it. An idea lost under the bed like an old sock. Until years later, a boyfriend of mine who worked for a local printer compiled a half dozen pages into a chapbook about spontaneous combustion for me. I suddenly felt like it was a mistake to confide in him. Because didn't he know? The more you think about something the closer it gets to you! Suddenly, the ground seemed warmer under my feet.

I am now able to think of things without thinking I am forming thoughts into matter. I have moved beyond that mode of thinking-- kinda.

Just a little bit

This will begin like many other posts in the future with, "Before I knew I had Asperger's..." In many of my previous posts, someone familiar with the signs and symptoms of AS would see it. I was only familiar with myself, not any form of autism. I didn't see it until I "saw" it in my daughter. But, now, it all makes sense. That sense is a relief. Although, I do not in ANY way view myself as a freak (or any other person with Asperger's), I like to think of the wedding banquet scene from Browning's movie, "One of us! One of us! Gooble-gobble!" There are others like me. Well, kinda. Not JUST like me, similar. More importantly, there are other who understand. Whew.

Before I knew I had Asperger's, little things would bother me a lot. They still bother me a lot. Now, I know why. Today, I don't have to feel awkward, feel defensive, or worse, hide my agitations with shame. The little things are mostly sensory. Like the taste of a spice or herb or seed like caraway causing gag reflexes. The odor of some one's cheap perfume coating the inside of my nostrils and mouth like wax for hours. A school uniform turtleneck choking me and causing a panic like being buried alive. The sound of someone chewing across the table from me creating images of a food bolus being broken down with saliva between molars-- louder and louder and louder. Every night, my husband still wonders how I can read by such dim light. Because, I tell him, the light reflects off the pages and makes me snow blind. It hurts.

When I would tell someone it hurt or caused discomfort, often they would think I was being overly dramatic. Simply trying to cause diversion or to be disruptive. I couldn't understand why they didn't understand. I took it personally. It was depressing to think people didn't believe. It came across as a bizarre punishment when people would tell me to "just deal with it".

Today, many of those things still bother me. However, I can somewhat control my responses or at least control what I share with others about it. I learned how to avoid the "what's the big deal" shrug of the others' shoulders. I can still taste a teensy piece of celery as if eating a head of garlic. But, I don't wince and verbalize my displeasure. I push it to the rim of the dish. I learned where to place my shopping bags in my car so I don't need to listen to them rustle around in the wind coming through a rear window. A sound that amplifies in my head to the sound of water roaring over Niagara Falls. Even the word rustle bothers me because of this association. It makes me shudder if I let myself go with it. But, then I think of a word I like, snacks. That's a funny word. It makes me smile. But, my relationship with words is a another blog entirely.

I sat down with my husband and my psychologist to have a 3rd party person tell him I wasn't just trying to be a pain in the ass. Most of the time, he is understanding about it. But, when we are out to dinner and I order a nice filet only to realize it was grilled with a rub containing caraway seeds (or just one caraway seed or cooked near caraway seeds) making it inedible? Well, that's one time when I can read some one's expression pretty clearly. I am okay with it. I can sleep at night, knowing I married a man that can move past all the things I can't.

Conversely, little things make me love certain things more than others. And, by more-- I mean, A LOT more. There is something so subtle about a walnut lentil burger. I can taste the walnuts, the lentils, the cumin, the garlic, et al. This same sensitivity makes me a good cook. I love the flavor so much, I wish I could eat one (or three) every day. I'd eat them for every meal if I could. Yet, through over forty years of past experience, I learned it is neither practical nor fun to eat the same thing every day. Although, it is comforting. Eventually what happens is: I eat something so often, for so long that I get to a point where I can't even look at the food-- like with Pad Thai. Saying the name of the dish would bring the taste to my mouth. I try not to do that so much anymore. I rotate between certain dishes-- and sure, I'm nutritional more sound for it. Not to sound like an wild animal, I can taste the difference between a grass-fed steak and your run of the mill injected variety. They are two different planets on completely different arms of the Milky Way. With the grass-fed, the taste of the iron in the blood takes the lead in the list of flavors in the steak. Mmmm... irony.

I'll save the list of things I like to look at, listen to, and touch for a later day, too. However, seeing the little things has made me a better illustrator and designer. Listening (I "see" a lot of what I hear) to the little things has made me a better musician. And, the touch part usually comes to the rescue when I need to zone out or relax-- this usually doubles as what I've heard called stimming.

Since being diagnosed with Asperger's, I decided it is all differences of degree. Like changing the font on a document. The rest of the world reads a phrase in 12pt, but to me it appears as 48pt. These little actualizations help me become more comfortable with the big me (which I like to believe is as large as a Macy's day parade float crammed into a slightly above average height human shell).