Social difficulties in autism are usually attributed to poor theory of mind. That’s not always the case.
In my early thirties, I was diagnosed with what was then known as Asperger’s syndrome. Like many on the spectrum who receive a diagnosis late in life, this was something of a revelation, not to mention a relief. It allowed me to look back on all the difficulties I’d experienced and not only fully understand them but put them in a proper context. Only through this lens did my college experience in particular finally make sense.
For example, one day during freshman year, I was eating lunch with my roommate, and he made a subtle crack at me. I wish I could remember what he said, just to be able to give a more illustrative example. Rest assured, though, that it was a mostly playful comment. There was a slight edge to his voice but no real malice in his intent. In response, I just sat there, immobile and stone-faced.
“One of these days,” he said to me, “you’re finally going to realize I’m joking.”
In a more familiar version of this story, this would be the part where I tell you that his humor was completely lost on me. Because, as everyone knows, people with Asperger’s can’t read social cues. They can’t understand facial expressions or vocal inflection and don’t always know what someone else is trying to convey. They tend to take things literally and struggle to pick up on irony, wit, jokes, and sarcasm.
Except in my case, none of that was true. I could read the wry look on my roommate’s face. Hear the sarcastic lilt in his voice. Decipher the irony behind the literal meaning of his words. All of this came to me automatically, without forethought, as it would to most people. He was joking. I knew.
What I didn’t know, at least at that moment, was how to respond.
I got my formal diagnosis over a decade later, after years of wondering. While I might not be the world’s most empathetic person, I’m confident in saying that I have no significant deficits in picking up on other people’s emotions or other non-verbal cues. I suppose it’s possible that I could, at least on occasion, lack some of the finer points of these skills without realizing it, but I doubt that this has made much of an impact on whatever qualifies Asperger’s as a disability.
If anything, I tend to be over-attuned to certain cues, depending on the circumstance. I can even be pretty good at social reciprocity if I feel safe and am in a good headspace. Not only do I understand most sarcasm, but I’m known for delivering the perfect one-liner, often with impeccable timing.
So why was my condition defined as a form of autism rather than something simpler and potentially less devastating — such as social anxiety, for example? First of all, both are present. In fact, the first mental health diagnosis I ever received was Avoidant Personality Disorder, a rather pervasive variant of social anxiety that’s even rarer than all forms of autism. Lucky me.
It’s been generally understood that Asperger’s and social anxiety are, if not mutually exclusive, not to be confused. People with social anxiety simply have a fear of social situations. And while Aspies may also have this fear, this is because they generally don’t understand the nuances of social interaction. See? It’s all very cut and dried, isn’t it?
Well, no, because mental health is nothing if not complex. My social difficulties don’t exist in isolation; they trail a host of symptoms that suggest my brain doesn’t operate like most people’s: clumsiness, ADD, piss-poor spatial relations, emotional meltdowns, a blunted affect, stimming and repetitive behaviors, executive dysfunction, and a tendency to blank out and get lost in my own thoughts and worries, often to the point where I appear to be in a fog.
There’s been so much focus on the difficulties Aspies have in perceiving other people’s non-verbal social cues, that it’s easy to forget that the opposite is also often true: we can have just as much trouble expressing and regulating our own.
After graduation, I struggled to find steady work. At one point, I called a temp agency. I wasn’t exactly jazzed at the employment prospects that were offered, but I thought I was at least appropriately engaged and emotive.
Several minutes into the call, the recruiter started laughing. “Dude,” he said, “You really have to start drinking energy drinks.”
This wasn’t the first time I’d heard such a thing. Once again, I said nothing, but I wanted to drive to his workplace and beat the guy senseless with his own office equipment.
Desperate for answers, I forced myself to get over the fear of discussing my problems with a professional. First, I tried various cheap mental health clinics filled with utter lightweights who somehow managed to earn advanced degrees without learning anything. I distinctly remember, over the course of weeks, spilling my guts to my first therapist: not just about problems in employment, but organization; past and present friendships, relationships, and sensory issues.
Eventually, after feeling like treatment was going nowhere, I broke down and, through hysterical sobs, asked her point-blank if she thought something was “wrong” with me — if it was something specific that could be recognized and treated. She contemplated this for a moment and then said… “I think you’re someone who’s tried very hard to get a job.” You get what you pay for.
Finally, I threw my hands up (quite literally; I was stimming hard at the time) and booked a session with a psychiatrist in private practice who charged over $200 per hour and, naturally, didn’t take insurance.
He didn’t hit on an exact diagnosis right away but was able to assess the basic situation within minutes. “The gas pedal on your brain works too well, but the brakes don’t work well enough,” he told me. I’d been rocking, squirming, and moving about in my chair, only half-aware that I was doing it.
Ironically, this is the very first criteria listed for Asperger’s in the fourth edition of the mental health Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM-IV): “Marked impairment in the use of multiple nonverbal behaviors such as eye-to-eye gaze, facial expression, body postures, and gestures to regulate social interaction” (emphasis mine). Regarding understanding those same cues, the manual says precisely nothing.
Such confusion could play a part in why Asperger’s is technically no longer a thing. The fifth and current edition of the DSM doesn’t distinguish it from the broader category of autism spectrum disorder. But the same outlook often persists that of a condition primarily characterized by poor “theory of mind” — the ability to interpret the mental states, emotions, and expressions of others. It doesn’t help that popular entertainments like the Netflix series Atypical, about an autistic teenage boy, tend to exaggerate these characteristics to the point of parody.
However defined, clinical understanding of autism may be expanding beyond theory of mind into a unifying hypothesis known as Intense World Theory. The theory holds that the world is simply too intense for autistic people to cope with. All major functions of our brains are working at increased capacity, and, as a result, we may struggle to self-regulate and shut down emotionally or disengage socially. Concurrent with this theory is a study that can perhaps summarize autism in a single sentence: Our brains generate forty-two percent more information at rest.
In short, autism isn’t a deficit. It’s an overload.
This is most obviously manifested in sensory processing. It’s common knowledge that, for autistic people, lights can be too bright, sounds too loud, and certain textures unbearable. But what is forgotten is that our wiring can be just as inefficient in handling emotional input. Aspies are often hyper-rationalists, but we’re not emotionless logic machines; in fact, we can appear distant and lacking in emotion because we feel too much.
Since autistic children fail to adequately engage with the world around them, they may be delayed in learning social cues or developing a proper understanding of others’ perspectives. Similarly, since autistic adults may be overwhelmed by sensory and emotional input, we might miss certain cues in the moment or simply fail to respond appropriately.
We can also become so involved in our own inner world and special interests that other people and their points of view can fail to register. According to Intense World Theory, however, these empathic deficits are essentially a byproduct of autism, not a defining characteristic. (The traditional view is that they are due to dysfunctions in the brain’s social regions called mirror neurons, but recent studies show that mirror neurons are working normally in autistic people.)
The theory is a relatively new development that is undergoing some debate; admittedly, it can’t yet be considered scientific fact. Some critics are quick to point out that it doesn’t define all autistic individuals, that many experience hypo-sensitivity — that is, under-reaction to stimuli. But, as the saying goes, if you’ve met one person with autism, you’ve met one person with autism.
If it is true, Intense World Theory could have a profound impact on the way autism is treated. Current methods like Applied Behavior Analysis or social skills training might not always be necessary. Instead, many children and adults with autism are probably best treated in the same way as anyone with an anxious temperament.
The theory also posits that “the autistic person is an individual with remarkable and far above average capabilities due to greatly enhanced perception, attention, and memory.” [Intense World Syndrome — An Alternative Hypothesis for Autism, Frontiers in Neuroscience, 2007.] In a calm, nurturing, and supportive environment, we can shine.
The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the Autism Spectrum News Editorial Board or Mental Health News Education, the publisher.
Brian Theobald is a Long Island-based freelance writer/reporter. His work has been published in Slant Magazine, EDGE Publications, and the Times Beacon Record Newspapers, among others. Read his more personal and humor-based stories at Medium.com/@briantheo.
