Communications Spectrum
Autism is a constant reality. Some days are tough. There is a circuit pathway or two that just isn’t doing what it needs, and sensory inputs are doubly extra sensitive. Some other days are great. Whatever wires are involved are working in the direction of societal expectations. Things just “click” with the world of normies.
The best of days are amazing though. Some of those wires are working at 90 degree angles to what “normal” says they should be doing. That right angle helps find aesthetically beautiful results. Charlie, for example, has a gift for language. When he needs to be understood he can turn a phrase that may have come from Douglas Adams or Maya Angelou. Sentences that have weight and music and flavor all wrapped together.
There is a little bitter-sweetness to this though. Like most anyone on the spectrum, Charlie can become overwhelmed. The term is “meltdown”. Think less spoiled-brat-at-the-mall and more 3-mile-island. His brain is shorting out. He is losing his ability to process, and it is beyond anyones ability to cope with the disorganization of sensory inputs he is experiencing. This usually leads to a decline in various things. His motor control drops lower. His emotional regulation is impacted. His balance goes off a bit. And he becomes non-verbal.
My son has a gift that is taken from him just in the moments he needs it most. It’s cruel and the universe is a fucking bastard for robbing him. HIs biology came in and stole the parts of him that would otherwise allow him to explain to the people around him what is happening.
There was a day some many weeks ago that Charlie was struggling. Several meltdowns through the day, and it was a quiet day at home. The normal quiet of our life was even confounding his autonomic brain processes. It was also a day I was gifted with a small sliver of better understanding about my sons inner world. I learned that his gift for language is not a gift for English, but for his ability to be understood.
He had spent a number of blocks of time that day non-verbal. He was struggling to get words out, and he looked so distraught. I was sitting with him in one moment and he sort of gave up and walked off. I was sitting alone then, stewing in self-loathing for lacking the knowledge needed in that moment. After 10 or 20 minutes he came back with his iPad.
He used the Apple Notes app. He found pictures on his photo gallery and using Google Images. He made me a comic. The first frame was a picture of a storm blowing through a meadow complete with lightning and rain. The second was a picture of a stick figure in jail that he had drawn. The last was a picture of himself, with a hand-drawn arrow pointing himself to the stick figure in jail.
He then swiped through and showed me other pictures he found. Pictures of sad animals in cages and jail cells. One was of a person that looked to be stuck in a giant balloon, the thick beige latex wrapped over an outstretched hand and screaming face.
It was a moment of deep joy and sadness. I was incredibly sad that my son has this experience forced on him. But the joy was that his gift isn’t being taken from him. It’s still there. The medium he is able to work in is just different.
The lesson from that day has helped inform our present. I try to challenge Charlie to communicate how he feels in those bits of time that the spoken world is gone to him. Sometimes he pushes through and can find single words. Even those single words carry more meaning than their dictionary definition. Sometimes those words have context to him and I, or our family. Very specific meanings. Other times he will get a book, or an object and it can also tell me the story of his moment.
And that gives me a deeper peace. He is still there. All of him. And he isn’t giving up when his world is impossible. Indeed, impossible might be the one word not in his vocabulary.
The best of days are amazing though. Some of those wires are working at 90 degree angles to what “normal” says they should be doing. That right angle helps find aesthetically beautiful results. Charlie, for example, has a gift for language. When he needs to be understood he can turn a phrase that may have come from Douglas Adams or Maya Angelou. Sentences that have weight and music and flavor all wrapped together.
There is a little bitter-sweetness to this though. Like most anyone on the spectrum, Charlie can become overwhelmed. The term is “meltdown”. Think less spoiled-brat-at-the-mall and more 3-mile-island. His brain is shorting out. He is losing his ability to process, and it is beyond anyones ability to cope with the disorganization of sensory inputs he is experiencing. This usually leads to a decline in various things. His motor control drops lower. His emotional regulation is impacted. His balance goes off a bit. And he becomes non-verbal.
My son has a gift that is taken from him just in the moments he needs it most. It’s cruel and the universe is a fucking bastard for robbing him. HIs biology came in and stole the parts of him that would otherwise allow him to explain to the people around him what is happening.
There was a day some many weeks ago that Charlie was struggling. Several meltdowns through the day, and it was a quiet day at home. The normal quiet of our life was even confounding his autonomic brain processes. It was also a day I was gifted with a small sliver of better understanding about my sons inner world. I learned that his gift for language is not a gift for English, but for his ability to be understood.
He had spent a number of blocks of time that day non-verbal. He was struggling to get words out, and he looked so distraught. I was sitting with him in one moment and he sort of gave up and walked off. I was sitting alone then, stewing in self-loathing for lacking the knowledge needed in that moment. After 10 or 20 minutes he came back with his iPad.
He used the Apple Notes app. He found pictures on his photo gallery and using Google Images. He made me a comic. The first frame was a picture of a storm blowing through a meadow complete with lightning and rain. The second was a picture of a stick figure in jail that he had drawn. The last was a picture of himself, with a hand-drawn arrow pointing himself to the stick figure in jail.
He then swiped through and showed me other pictures he found. Pictures of sad animals in cages and jail cells. One was of a person that looked to be stuck in a giant balloon, the thick beige latex wrapped over an outstretched hand and screaming face.
It was a moment of deep joy and sadness. I was incredibly sad that my son has this experience forced on him. But the joy was that his gift isn’t being taken from him. It’s still there. The medium he is able to work in is just different.
The lesson from that day has helped inform our present. I try to challenge Charlie to communicate how he feels in those bits of time that the spoken world is gone to him. Sometimes he pushes through and can find single words. Even those single words carry more meaning than their dictionary definition. Sometimes those words have context to him and I, or our family. Very specific meanings. Other times he will get a book, or an object and it can also tell me the story of his moment.
And that gives me a deeper peace. He is still there. All of him. And he isn’t giving up when his world is impossible. Indeed, impossible might be the one word not in his vocabulary.