Mountain Cows, Cow Pies & Asperger's

::Blog Warning:: This is a light-hearted essay. You might not think so at first, but it is. So keep reading. Trust me. 

I had such fun at my counselor's office today. My counselor had me in stitches. You read that right, and if you think that's odd, well, then, you don't know my counselor. He's a very funny guy. (For the record he's a brilliant neuro-psychologist, but counselor is easier to say and type.)

I started seeing Bob (a pseudonym meant to protect his professional reputation, er, privacy) after I became totally disabled. At the time we met, I had become recently disabled with ME/CFS (a neuro-immune disorder) and was inundated with post-traumatic stress type symptoms. People with ME frequently have the same handful of co-morbid conditions--fibromyalgia, multiple chemical sensitivities, and/or post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). (There are more, but for some reason, these are the ones that researchers tend to focus on.) 

As I mentioned in Falling Down the Rabbit Hole, I think the PTSD symptoms that so many of us with ME experience "may have less to do with trauma and more to do with the break down in the body's ability to cope with stress. When my [bodily] systems crashed the few psychological defenses I had [which were not many] crashed as well, and all the unhealed hurts of my childhood came rushing forward all at once demanding attention. Really, they had no consideration whatsoever for the fact that I--the grown up Claire--wanted to deal with the fact that I was no longer able to work and my life, as I knew it, was basically over. I can joke now because my trip down that rabbit hole was emotionally healing.

About the time I'd worked through all that and felt more whole than I ever had, despite being seriously, debilitatingly ill, my brother Michael died. My ailing mother moved to town. Then, my childhood nemesis died (it's okay I was her nemesis as well), someone who has always possessed a sizable portion of my heart. By then, I decided that seeing my counselor twice a month was good for my mental health. ::Claire laughing.:: What I mean to say is that many of us when we are chronically, debilitatingly ill become isolated and I accepted that paying someone to know me over time was a small, er, price to pay to be known over time. Being seen and being known, as well as seeing and knowing someone else well, is important--at least for some of us. (Also, it has been helpful to have a talented mental health professional assist me in coping with the reality of living with such an all-encompassing disability.)

Of course, life went on. I became more and more whole. 

Then, my partner left me for someone 20 years my junior (this would be my last and not my ex-Y below). Extremely odd (extremely odd to me) housemate drama ensued. (I needed live-in assistance because I couldn't care for myself for quite a few years there.) After knowing me so long, including extended periods where I exhibited a very healthy frame of mind and the ability to think rationally (while still needing help to cope with being extremely ill and the isolation of total disability), Bob started seeing something about me that was difficult to spot when I was dealing with real-life tragedy (e.g., disability and untimely deaths) not the cooked-up drama of other people's imaginations. (The fact that I tend not to respond as neurotypicals think I ought no doubt contributes to drama making, and perhaps even more so with people either prone to it or primed for it.)

Bob had begun to notice that I was pretty obtuse in some ways, unduly trusting, and erred on the side of giving people the benefit of the doubt to my extreme detriment. Indeed, he started thinking that what he thought was over compensation for a traumatic childhood--that is, my bend toward Spock-like logic and expecting others to be every bit as logical--might actually have been a sign of something altogether different. What appeared to be a Pollyanna mindset born of denial started looking more like openhearted naivety. (My ex-Y could have told him something about that... more on that later.) Now he was onto something.

You see, Bob started to suspect that I had Asperger's. Because the rules of social reciprocity are different in a counseling office, and because real crises can obscure underlying, ongoing issues, it's not too hard to fathom that it took Bob a while to notice that I was different. So I'm not holding it against him that I brought Asperger's up as a possible issue for me when I was in the throes of PTSD symptoms. (I'd just read a book written by someone with Asperger's, and I'd never before read anything where I felt like my experience in the world had been so well explained.) Well, not much I'm not holding it against him. ::Muffled laughter.::

Bob had me go through some testing, and sure enough, the Asperger's profile fit. Also for the record, years ago I was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder, which was part of my effort to find strategies to help me cope with some of the down sides of having that disorder on the job (there are upsides as well... very good reasons to have employees with ADD and Asperger's). And I have sensory processing disorder (SPD)--you might remember reading about my inability to keep track of my head in space unless I'm falling in Knowing How to Fall--and a handful of learning disabilities (including dyscalculia and dysgraphia). Seventy-five percent of people with Asperger's have ADD, and a myriad of sensory processing disorders and learning disabilities seem to come with the territory, and so I am not alone.

I guess you could say I'm a neuro mess, but this neuro mess, or pea soup of neuro quirkiness, is my normal. I've adapted well and love life. At least, I think I have adapted well. I've held down responsible jobs (though I frequently fail water cooler), bought houses, had what I thought at the time were good relationships, developed and conducted workshops to great reviews, been a successful mediator, provided crises counseling. Can't complain about my ability to work around the challenges presented me. (Being disabled with ME is a whole 'nother kettle of fish however.)

Though, I do wish I had, at an earlier age, better understood how neurotypical people (NTs, people not on the autism spectrum) interpret my neuro quirkiness. NT people tend to read a lot into other people's behaviors--it comes with the territory. Not understanding how people with Asperger's experience and interact with the world, they may read wrongly into our behavior. Knowing I had Asperger's may have saved me, and others, a good deal of heartbreak. 

Which brings us to a case in point: my ex-Y. One of the things he used to say about me was, "You are an enigma" (from my Mac's dashboard dictionary: "a person or thing that is mysterious, puzzling, or difficult to understand"). And yet, as an active but odd Aspie, I found that statement puzzling because I say what I mean (though I make a sincere effort to be kind most of the time because other people seem unusually sensitive). No doubt my ex-Y tried to read between the lines and couldn't figure me out when I left nothing, at least nothing that I could discern, between the lines. Unfortunately for most NTs, like other talkative Aspie's, I tend to tell everything in far more detail than you'd ever want to know because I often have trouble discerning what I think is important or what I think the other person might find important. (For example, although I was once an attorney, when I consulted an attorney for something that might cause me to have a day in court, he told we'd have to do extensive rehearsal prior to that day because there was no way I could answer in such detail and not piss off the judge.)

Another frequent refrain of my ex-Y after he'd known me for about a dozen years was "You live within the six inches of your skull." Then, when I started providing services to displaced homemakers and single parents, many of whom were in dire living situations, my ex-Y expressed concern that I might try to bring some of them home to live with us. I thought it an unfair assessment of my tendency to give away my heart. Nevertheless, I kept his concern in mind while I had that job. And truly, his commenting about his concern helped me watch this tendency and develop better on-the-job boundaries. Still, if I am "a thinker," if I "think too much," why would there also be such a concern over my open heart? Perhaps this was the enigma he couldn't crack: That is, how could I come from such a headspace and a heart space at the same time?

Spring forward to today's session with Bob.

I'd given Bob a list of the things I love about having Asperger's, a list of stuff that just is and I cannot do much about (e.g., sensory processing disorders), and a list of things that I dislike about having Asperger's, most of which has to do with how neurotypicals interpret the behavior of people with Asperger's. What I asked from him was for him to go through the list of things I dislike to see if there's anything that we can work on behavior wise in counseling--anything I might learn so as to make getting on with NTs easier. And if so, what he thought we ought to focus on first (in his great wisdom).

That's when Bob started laughing. Turns out that in addition to the tests he'd had me take, he had for at least four or five sessions exhibited some rather odd behaviors for him, things that I ought to have picked up on given that I've known him so long if I did NOT have Asperger's. He wanted to see if (1) I'd notice these behaviors, (2) if I'd comment on the behaviors, and (3) if I commented on them, could he pull the wool over my eyes with relative ease. His recounting had me in wide-eyed wonder and stitches. My God, am I really THAT obtuse? (Missing behavioral cues was on my list.)

(1) I rarely noticed Bob's odd behaviors. (2) When I did notice them, I made positive attributions toward them (in my head of course). For example, when I noticed he looked sleepy, I thought maybe he was sleepy, but since it's his job to listen or tell me when he needed to end a session early, I kept talking. Once when I saw him looking bored (not that I caught this the whole time), I remember thinking that as a counselor he must get bored some times. Mostly though, I am unable to process cues that I do happen to see at the time I see them because I have difficulty focusing on more than one thing at a time (a sensory processing disorder that is referred to as mono-channel); I am doing my best to focus on the words being used. As someone who experiences visual delays--i.e., misses micro-expressions--and either frequently misses or misinterprets behavioral cues, words are my most reliable source of information when communicating with other humans.

Note that when it comes to discerning truth, body language is the most reliable source of information (that and facial expressions, though the body is more honest). That may be less true if you are trying to read someone who has Asperger's because a disconnect between the two can be a part of our particular pea soup. NTs tell white lies and hide or gloss over feelings as a matter of social nicety, and that's understood and read by other neurotypicals. For someone with Asperger's it can be difficult enough to learn not to say, "Your butt looks big in those jeans." What I mean to say is we're not necessarily on the same sheet of music and singing the same tune as neurotypicals. (And as an Aspie friend of mine says, WHEN we pick up on a disconnect between behavioral cues, tone of voice, and words, the disconnect is literally painful to us, and some, if not many of us, don't know how to make sense of it or deal with it.) If you're an NT and confused, imagine how confused we are by your behaviors, particularly when they've grown big enough for us to notice after you've grown frustrated with our seeming insensitivity. We might be tempted to turn the table and say, "Liar, liar pants on fire."

Bob also surfed the net while listening to me (and sometimes responded in a brisk manner), clicking his mouse a lot and attending to the computer screen rather than looking at me and typing session notes. He was prepared to show me pictures of cars and stock options to see if he could convince me that he was surfing the net for my benefit. And yet, I never questioned his behavior (if and when I saw it). Nor did I ever question his good intentions. So, we never got to 3, we never got to seeing if he could pull the wool over my eyes (over and above the subterfuge already underway).

Which is not to say--speaking of Bob never getting to #3 above--, that my ex-Y never pulled the wool over my eyes. My ex-Y used to say, "You are the most gullible person I've ever met." The first time he drove me over the Appalachian Mountains and into the Shenandoah Valley (a place I would come to love with my whole heart), I was happily taking in the pastoral views and blissful cows (I love cows). In all seriousness, my ex-Y said to me, "You know, mountain cows grow up to have two legs that are shorter on one side of the body than on the other because of standing on mountains all the time." I took that cow hockey in, and I would have believed him too except for the fact that I'm not stupid. I puzzled it out and realized that if that were the case the cows would only be able to walk in one direction without tipping over. But it took me a few beats. And for a moment there, he knew: he'd pulled cow pies over my eyes.

Looking back, I must give my ex-Y credit. When he told me "You live within the six inches of your skull," he probably said it in context with something else he had been saying, and I simply did not connect the dots. Now, armed with the knowledge that I probably miss more than most by being so literal and by frequently failing to connect the dots or read between the lines, I realize my ex-Y was probably saying something more than "You think too much." By connecting the dots between that statement and other things he used to say, which showed concern for my safety, I realize that what he was trying to tell me was that by being more in my head than in the world, I was missing stuff, perhaps even vital stuff. Which makes re-watching movies an archeological delight, as I am always picking up on things I missed the first one or three viewings. I end up thinking, "Wow, this ought to have been obvious to me the first or even third time," but it wasn't... just like in real life. 

What my ex-Y didn't know and I didn't know is that I am wired this way. That's not to say that the brain lacks plasticity or that it's not possible to learn some new wiring. Apparently, because there are more NTs than there are people with Asperger's, it is our job as Aspie's, the ones with the supposed brain handicap, to learn to better understand NTs rather than the other way around. It's a daunting task, though, for someone my age. Particularly when that brain lacks the energy reserves of a healthy person.

So the counseling plan, for now, is for Bob and I to go on as usual and for him to work in odd behaviors to see if I can spot them. And if I can spot them, to see if I can catch myself from making a positive exceptions for the behavior, to see if I can stop myself from giving him the benefit of the doubt. Then, I suppose we'll see if I can respond appropriately. Really, I have no idea how to respond (at least no idea how to respond like a neurotypical person) and so we will be breaking new ground for me.

Hopefully, the cow pies will come off and I'll soon learn to spot B.S. when I see it.

Dedication: This essay is dedicated to Bob of course! Seriously, I have no idea how I would have coped with being totally disabled and everything else that has happened in my life in recent years without his professional support. And also, a special shout out to my friends in an online chronic illness support group, my Facebook friends who provide spiritual support (and well, friendship), my FB friends who are also chronics and hysterically funny (you inspire me), AND to my friends in the online Asperger's support group that I frequent, both neurotypical parents and Aspie's alike, who are also a scream (don't let anyone tell you that people with Asperger's do not have a sense of humor).