Across the Divide

When I'm deep in a visiting room conversation, seated at one of those little wooden coffee tables, my eyes dart and wander. Some say it makes me look dodgy, but my eyes always roam when I'm speaking. It's like there's a flowchart of my thoughts being projected over the world — a dynamic script for me to read and follow from point to point — and only when I've fixed on one idea do they come to rest on anything at length. And I do mean anything; it's gotten me into trouble here a couple of times. On visits, though, I sometimes end up staring at a person.

I have become pretty adept at noticing when someone locks sights with me through the flowchart. Their face comes into focus, then, like a whale breaching from the deep: eyes, nose, mouth, and all the components that resolve into a collective. A person. A consciousness separate (which never stops amazing me) from my own. I remind myself to look away — preferrably at my visitor, lest she or he mistakenly doubt my level of involvement in our exchange — even though my thoughts have synched in that instant with a total stranger's, rendering all that mess about lacking Theory of Mind momentarily meaningless... even if the shared thoughts is Quit staring at me, jerk.

On the Spectrum, in the Shadow of the Savant

Regular Pariah's Syntax readers know I'm an Aspergian — that is, someone with the autistic spectrum disorder called Asperger's syndrome. Asperger's is a neurological condition that makes itself most visible through the emotional internality, social disconnectedness, and narrow range of (typically geeky) interests of those who were born with it; although, constellations of other traits are necessary for a diagnosis. The characters Spock and Data, from the first two Star Trek series, pretty well represent the archetypal Aspergian — logical, unflinchingly honest, and decidedly alien among their peers.

Having been born with a brain wired a little differently than most, I've been assigned any number of labels in my life; "normal" (unless linked to the prefix "ab-") hasn't been one of them. For this reason, a recent conversation with a friend, after he expressed some puzzlement over my interest in autism awareness, was unusual.

I reminded him of our previous brief discussion of Asperger's. He said, "I guess I don't really see it, Byron. I mean, autism is a pretty serious disability and you don't... you aren't..." he trailed off. "Jeez, this sort of thing was so much easier to talk about in the days before political correctness. What I'm saying is that I'd expect you to be more — "

"More like Rain Man?" I cut in, predicting the usual reference point.

"I know this sort of thing exists on a spectrum, but yeah, I guess. Those savants have very pronounced abilities and you — you seem pretty normal."

And there it was. True, I don't recite ad nauseam the names, populations, and founding dates of every county in Ireland. I'm able to verbalize with some proficiency and occasional elan. I can take care of myself outside of an institutional environment. To one whose concept of autism was formed by Hollywood tropes, I suppose mine does seem far removed from Rain Man's myopic, closed-circuit mindset.

My friend, however, was right in part. Autism is comprised of a spectrum that encompasses a wide variety of conditions, many of them seemingly unconnected. People familiar with this spectrum generally recognize easily how, and where on it, I fit. What my friend's remark reminded me was that most people aren't familiar. Despite some inroads to the awareness of society at large — the minor film Adam, a character on the PBS children's cartoon Arthur, the bestselling memoir Look Me in the Eye: My Life with Asperger's — Asperger's remains largely misunderstood.

Why is hardly a wonder. First studied in the 1940s, the condition took fifty years to reach the revered pages of the psychiatric professional's bible, the DSM-IV. Even with that, it was not until work began on the DSM 5 (slated for release next year) that official acknowledgment was made of Asperger's syndrome as one of the many forms of autism, rather than it being a separate, unrelated disorder. In practice, AS has been regarded as an autistic spectrum disorder for decades; however, clinicians making diagnoses during that time have had to rely on sources beyond the DSM's hallowed pages, including the extensive research of AS specialist Doctor Tony Attwood and schools and medical centers worldwide. Publication of the new edition of the DSM will mean even greater understanding of Asperger's within the mental health community, which itself may well lead to a tipping point for widespread AS awareness.

The accepted figure is greater than one percent: one out of every eighty-six American children has an autistic spectrum disorder, and the overall national ratio of neurotypical to autistic citizens hovers near 110 to one. Of these spectrumites, it's accepted that roughly one in ten have any outstanding savantlike abilities, of which my friend spoke. Exceptional mental prowess in a narrow area is an appropriate characteristic for a fictional character to have, to make his condition easily recognizable. It makes a lousy benchmark in the real world, though. The vast majority of us on the spectrum have our tics, sensitivities, and obsessions writ large, while our displayed talents may be less than cinematic. Our challenges for this are no less real.

It so happens that I'm exceedingly good with computers — hardware and software alike. I have a knack for the mechanical, and think little of tackling car- and appliance-repair jobs that would intimidate many ordinary people. Given a bit of time to discern its ins and outs, I can quickly conjure a pleasing tune on a previously unfamiliar musical instrument. But are my abilities in these areas savantlike? Absolutely not; they're proficiencies, not superhuman powers. At some point, though, "human calculator/calendar/encyclopedia," Hollywood's shorthand for "autistic," got itself enmeshed in the collective consciousness, thereby minimizing, if not outright discrediting, us non-savants. The fact that I don't think solely in, say, algebraic equations doesn't negate my sometimes debilitating sensitivity to sound, smell, and touch. Not being able to tell you the day of the week on which any given historical date fell doesn't make it any easier for me to understand the look you just gave me. I can't flawlessly reproduce a musical arrangement after a single hearing, but this doesn't make me less apt to get nauseous whenever something unforeseen disrupts my preplanned schedule.

For most of my life I was thought of as an egotist, a weirdo, an antisocial jerk. To some extent, I guess I am all of these things. They often go with the territory of being an Aspergian. Telling people this lends my sincere apologies more apparent legitimacy, on the occasions when my obtuseness, abrasiveness, and reclusiveness are misconstrued and cause offense. It is in such instances that my status as an Aspergian most often comes to light. Otherwise, I don't really see the point of bringing it up: "Pass me the salt, please. And, incidentally, my brain prohibits me from being instinctively empathetic." There's a time and a place.

First-person accounts of Aspergians "coming out" to friends and family are full of reactions like my friend's. Dismissiveness like that can be frustrating, but I know that his intention wasn't to belittle what my differences have forced me to contend with throughout my life, which is why I thanked him. To reach a point at which anyone could say, for better or worse, that I bore some resemblance to "normal" has been a long, fraught journey. Personally, I often see only how far I remain from that point. It's reassuring to know I've succeeded in convincing at least one person.

So Let It Be Written

Months later than planned, the 312-page manuscript for my memoir is finally complete. Followers of The Pariah's Syntax will be glad to know my recent stretches of inactivity, blog-wise, should be a thing of the past. The book really did take all of my time, save for the month-and-a-half stretch when my typewriter was in the shop. Friends who've barely heard a peep out of me these past nine months can attest to this. I hope, when they read what I've written, they'll understand and forgive.

In some ways, I needed to write an account of my life. There was a profound yearning in me to reconcile the different epochs (which I guess I'll have to start calling chapters) that predated the now. I suspect that most people are like me in this way, breaking their personal histories down into manageable segments, each with its own self-contained narrative. Interconnecting these as one cohesive arc takes a good memory and no small amount of commitment. Making that account interesting takes storytelling ability. I hope I've succeeded on both counts.

Introspection was another factor driving me to write this book. Know yourself — it's harder than it sounds. I thought I knew myself well enough, but it's one thing to understand underlying motivations and driving needs, quite another to be shown another layer below even those. The rabbit hole goes deep. When I learned, three and a half years ago, that I have an autistic spectrum disorder (the neurological condition Asperger's syndrome) it was a revelation. Before that, I'd been aware and accepting of who I was; now I keenly understand why I am that way. This awareness cast everything in a new light — from my beginnings as a "gifted" child prodigy who ate paper, through a troubled adolescence of cocaine addiction and confinement in a mental facility, to an awkward adulthood on the fringe. It's the exploration of this newly illuminated history, and present day, that my book follows.

Who knows, maybe someone else with the condition will read it someday and benefit from my mistakes. Or the parent of an Aspergian teen. Or a clinician who studies Asperger's syndrome. Or a person who's married to someone on the spectrum. There's a whole world out there. If this memoir makes a difference in the lives of just two people, I will feel rewarded. I'll count myself as the first.

As my journey down the road to publication progresses, I'll share the news here. For now, though, I'm taking a breather, gathering my thoughts, and catching up on some reading. That stack of magazines and books isn't getting any smaller.