Floating around the internet recently has been the Autism Quotient test, a series of questions quantifying experiences and placing individuals on the autism spectrum. Although never intended to be criteria for diagnosis, the quotient has become a tool for self-diagnosing Aspergers and high-functioning autism. It was originally popularized by Wired magazine alongside an article titled "The Geek Syndrome".
While the 90s was a time where children were excessively diagnosed with (and medicated for) ADHD, the 2000s saw an explosion of youth on the autism spectrum. Any social difficulty, exceptional passion, or mathematical talent was instantly blamed on autistic tendencies. Over-diagnosis is a complicated issue. Neuroatypical conditions are not and either-or, but rather, they lie on a spectrum, so a diagnosis means deciding where the line between "normal" and "disorder" lies. In medical terms, this line is usually defined as "clinically significant", or significant enough to impact the patient's life. Unfortunately, even this line is never clear.
As diagnosis of autism-spectrum conditions expanded, so did their popularity. The publishing of the quotient a magazine like Wired represents this perfectly. On the one hand, there is no doubt that people with autism-spectrum conditions would be naturally drawn to certain communities, such as "geek culture". Mathematical and scientific knowledge and understanding of complex formulas and numbers would be appealing to someone with these conditions, and things like programing are consequently likely to be both interesting and easier (compared to neurotypical folk) for someone with autistic tendencies. Additionally, social interaction via computers is significantly easier for folk with Autism-spectrum conditions, because it bypasses the difficult non-verbal and implicit emotional elements of face-to-face communication. Still, the popularity of having these (and other) conditions in geek (and other) communities is unwarranted and dangerous.
Turning an important medical finding into a facebook quiz or a survey in a geek magazine delegitimizes the experiences of folk with autism-spectrum disorders. Although I do not currently have Aspergers, I did when I was a child, and it has had a huge influence on my life since then. However, when I mention my experiences, I am typically met with a proclamation of self-diagnosed Aspergers, and how tough life is for us poor weird folk. I am always insulted by these comments: I am not weird, not do I think it's fair for me to appropriate the experiences adults with autism-spectrum conditions have. Instead, I am someone who had difficulties with normal social interaction as a child as a result of being a neuroatypical child.
Such an appropriation, as well as other appropriative comments such as "I'm having music ADD!" are rampant in our society. Constantly, people are appropriating conditions such as autism-spectrum disorders, ADD and ADHD, dyslexia, bipolar disorder, and even more severe conditions like dissociative identity disorder and schizophrenia. This is not ok. While it's easy to adopt a label of having neuroatypical characteristics for someone who is neurotypical, you don't actually know anything about the experiences of neuroatypical folk. It is wrong to appropriate such conditions while in no way supporting neurodiversity in society and continuing to marginalize neuroatypical folk.
Showing posts with label autism-spectrum. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autism-spectrum. Show all posts
29 October 2010
11 December 2009
Childhood
When I was in 9th grade, in English, I read Catcher in the Rye (one of my favorite books of all time). Our assignment was to psychologically diagnose Holden Caulfield. It was a very interesting assignment, and I learned a lot about psychology and coming of age. I would look up conditions on the internet, write down the ones I thought fit, and looked them up in my mom's plentiful medical texts. While doing this assignment, I discovered something I found especially interesting. The chapter on Asperger's syndrome was highlighted, with notes written in the margin. I didn't take me long to realize that the notes were about me. In fact, the highlighted regions described me perfectly, especially as a child.
I learned to speak, read, and write early and quickly, typical of Asperger's syndrome. I'd find little obsessions, passions, and I could amuse myself for hours reading and studying these things; then, I would talk, non-stop, about the things I found interesting, unable to understand that no one else really cared - another typical trait in children with Asperger's syndrom. I was intelligent, independent, quiet, and an overall good kid. But, at times, I would have intense temper tantrums, troubled by change in routine, a new situation, or anything that I didn't understand. Most notably, I struggled with social interaction and non-verbal communication.
It's not that I was a lonely child, but I was very much alone. I'd choose a book over a friend any day. In elementary school, I'd eat alone and spend recess alone, swinging on the swings or playing with my stuffed animals. I had a few friends, but we were never close, and I never really understood them. My teachers were worried. They'd call up my mom, tell her that I don't have any friends. At one point, my elementary school psychologist put me in a room with some girls my age. I played with them for a little while, and then went off to play on my own. She asked me why I wasn't playing with them, and I said that I simply didn't care, I liked to play on my own. My mom never got me diagnosed; she feared that it would interfere with my adult life. It wasn't until highschool that I first made friends who I would spend quality time with, who I hung out with outside of school.
Most of this I learned from my mom, when I asked her about the book. It wasn't really a shock, more like an answer. I quickly became comfortable with the idea, and I felt that the disease explained my personality, childhood, and entire life. Of course, by that time, I had changed a lot since I was a child. My mom explained that she thought I mostly grew out of the disease - that, rarely, children even grow out of autism, and that growing out of Asperger's wasn't particularly shocking.
Armed with the new understanding of who I was, I set out on the social journey known as highschool. Of course, I hadn't changed entirely. I became sensitive to change and to the unknown, and prone to long periods of Adjustment Depression; I still had temper tantrums, as if I was a baby, overwhelmed by things I didn't understand. I remained obsessive, reading about things or fixating on ideas, and would go on rants about them, unable to tell that others weren't interested. I struggled with non-verbal communication, and my mom would often have to point out what was going on, when I simply couldn't know. Mostly, I struggled with social interaction. A lot of it, I blamed on what remained of the disease: difficulty for non-verbal communication, the constant need for verbal feedback to know that people cared about me or the things I was saying. A lot of it, though, I blamed on what the disease did to my childhood. You see, it's when we're young that we learn about people, that we learn what it means to make friends and to love and to care. It's when we're young that we're socialized by our peers, that we become who we'll always be. I grew into myself intellectually, physically, mentally, emotionally as a child. But I never grew into the world socially, and I never learned all those things that now seem like common-sense. Yes, I don't have common sense.
I'd go through stages in highschool, first feeling proud of the independence and non-conformity and maturity I had achieved. Then, I was overcome by the challenge of learning how to make and stay friends. After a while, as I succeeded in some respects but not in others, I grew sad, upset that I couldn't understand others, certain that I would always be lonely.
Highschool was easier than college is. In that social bubble, I could act a role, any role I wanted, and people would accept me as such. College is more difficult. Outside the bubble, people are truly themselves. They're older, more mature, and I simply don't feel like I can keep up. Friendships are closer, more intimate, but based less on day-to-day interaction and superfuntime and more on overcoming life's plentiful challenges and the occasional adult relationship.
And I feel lonely. And I feel scared. And I feel young. And I feel incapable of knowing what's going on, incapable of being close to others. I'm afraid I'll never have friends, though I try. And, if I can't make friends, how can I ever care for someone romantically? I am craving a deeper connection, that I just can't seem to find.
I learned to speak, read, and write early and quickly, typical of Asperger's syndrome. I'd find little obsessions, passions, and I could amuse myself for hours reading and studying these things; then, I would talk, non-stop, about the things I found interesting, unable to understand that no one else really cared - another typical trait in children with Asperger's syndrom. I was intelligent, independent, quiet, and an overall good kid. But, at times, I would have intense temper tantrums, troubled by change in routine, a new situation, or anything that I didn't understand. Most notably, I struggled with social interaction and non-verbal communication.
It's not that I was a lonely child, but I was very much alone. I'd choose a book over a friend any day. In elementary school, I'd eat alone and spend recess alone, swinging on the swings or playing with my stuffed animals. I had a few friends, but we were never close, and I never really understood them. My teachers were worried. They'd call up my mom, tell her that I don't have any friends. At one point, my elementary school psychologist put me in a room with some girls my age. I played with them for a little while, and then went off to play on my own. She asked me why I wasn't playing with them, and I said that I simply didn't care, I liked to play on my own. My mom never got me diagnosed; she feared that it would interfere with my adult life. It wasn't until highschool that I first made friends who I would spend quality time with, who I hung out with outside of school.
Most of this I learned from my mom, when I asked her about the book. It wasn't really a shock, more like an answer. I quickly became comfortable with the idea, and I felt that the disease explained my personality, childhood, and entire life. Of course, by that time, I had changed a lot since I was a child. My mom explained that she thought I mostly grew out of the disease - that, rarely, children even grow out of autism, and that growing out of Asperger's wasn't particularly shocking.
Armed with the new understanding of who I was, I set out on the social journey known as highschool. Of course, I hadn't changed entirely. I became sensitive to change and to the unknown, and prone to long periods of Adjustment Depression; I still had temper tantrums, as if I was a baby, overwhelmed by things I didn't understand. I remained obsessive, reading about things or fixating on ideas, and would go on rants about them, unable to tell that others weren't interested. I struggled with non-verbal communication, and my mom would often have to point out what was going on, when I simply couldn't know. Mostly, I struggled with social interaction. A lot of it, I blamed on what remained of the disease: difficulty for non-verbal communication, the constant need for verbal feedback to know that people cared about me or the things I was saying. A lot of it, though, I blamed on what the disease did to my childhood. You see, it's when we're young that we learn about people, that we learn what it means to make friends and to love and to care. It's when we're young that we're socialized by our peers, that we become who we'll always be. I grew into myself intellectually, physically, mentally, emotionally as a child. But I never grew into the world socially, and I never learned all those things that now seem like common-sense. Yes, I don't have common sense.
I'd go through stages in highschool, first feeling proud of the independence and non-conformity and maturity I had achieved. Then, I was overcome by the challenge of learning how to make and stay friends. After a while, as I succeeded in some respects but not in others, I grew sad, upset that I couldn't understand others, certain that I would always be lonely.
Highschool was easier than college is. In that social bubble, I could act a role, any role I wanted, and people would accept me as such. College is more difficult. Outside the bubble, people are truly themselves. They're older, more mature, and I simply don't feel like I can keep up. Friendships are closer, more intimate, but based less on day-to-day interaction and superfuntime and more on overcoming life's plentiful challenges and the occasional adult relationship.
And I feel lonely. And I feel scared. And I feel young. And I feel incapable of knowing what's going on, incapable of being close to others. I'm afraid I'll never have friends, though I try. And, if I can't make friends, how can I ever care for someone romantically? I am craving a deeper connection, that I just can't seem to find.
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