Half-assperger's Syndrome

 I have always realized that I’m not quite like everyone else.  When I was young I thought of myself as a “deep thinker” and was sometimes told that I was being “too serious” for my age.  I have never had the feeling that I fit into any particular group so I tended to pursue my own interests and ignore the world around me.  I studied astronomy as a child, photography as a young teen, and guitar/song-writing as an older teen.  Unlike a more typical child though, my interests did not lead me into an appropriate social circle.  For example, I never took a music or photography class.  I never joined a camera club or tried to form a band.  The number of songs that I have composed is actually greater than the number of people who ever heard me play one of them.  As strange as it may sound, I crave being around people but I can’t handle being the center of attention.  I would occasionally fiddle around with my guitar in front of someone that I was completely comfortable with but nothing would throw me into more of a panic than when someone at a party would announce that I was "really good on the guitar" or something to that effect and ask me to play.  When everyone turned to look at me I would feel like I was going to faint and I would stammer trying to excuse myself in some self-depreciating way.  "Oh...I really don't play much...I can't..."  The embarrassment was excruciating for me and I know I must have embarrassed the person who had asked me to play.  In my day they would call this kind of situation a "buzz-kill."  Now that I recognize how this condition relates to the social anxiety that plagues people with AS, I finally have a name for it: Half-assperger's Syndrome.  In so many ways I could teach myself anything that I became interested in but something that I could not explain would prevent me from progressing past a certain point. 

 My Halfassperger’s was not always a result of social anxiety though.  When I was young and there was no recognition of Asperger's in the school system, I was often told that I didn't try hard enough.  Many times this comment was directed at my hand-writing skills.  Throughout my school years I believe that I was penalized by about one letter grade for being sloppy.  I learned from an early age no matter how hard I tried, I would disappoint my teacher.  One year in elementary school my teacher asked me privately if I had "some physical handicap" that kept me from being able to write neatly.  I told him that I didn't think so.  He said that if I wasn't handicapped then I would have to practice writing during recess until I got better.  I agonized over having to remain at my little desk when the other kids got to go outside.  I think he eventually realized that I was doing the best I could because he allowed me to return to the playground after a few days. 

As a freshman in high school I had a wonderful biology teacher named Mrs. Jarrett.  She required us to take notes "like a real scientist does" as she went through the textbook and used an overhead projector to illustrate the concepts that we were learning.  Our notes counted for 50% of our grade while our quizzes and tests counted for the other 50%.  I enjoyed her class and I learned a lot but I barely passed.  Each grading period she would point out that I had made an A or a B on all of the pop-quizzes and on my test but that my notebook was sloppy and that I had hardly taken any notes.  She explained that accurate and legible notes were important in science because we all build upon each other’s observations to solve difficult questions about our world.  She seemed hurt to tell me that she had to give me an F for that part of my grade.  Mrs. Jarrett was so frustrated with me because she really wanted to give me a better grade.  She implored me to just write down what she talked about during class and use better handwriting so that she could actually read what I had written.  "What is so hard about that?" she asked me, so I explained: "When I try to write about what you are saying I have to look down at my paper.  When I look up at you again I don't know what you just said and I miss what you are showing on the projector.  I have found that if I look at the pictures and listen to every word that you say, I can understand everything and make a good grade on the test."  I went on in my know-it-all way by saying, "I think that it is more important for me to learn the lesson than to write more notes and miss half of what you are saying."  That explanation made perfect sense to me and I thought it should make perfect sense to Mrs. Jarrett too.  Unfortunately it did not.  Either my Half-assperger's or my half-assed attitude left me with a D+ for both semesters and a D+ for the year. 

I knew that my poor grade did not accurately reflect my understanding of biology or my true intelligence in general.  Two years later I was sitting in study hall while a girl beside me was filling out a practice final exam for her advanced biology class.  I noticed that she had answered a few of the questions wrong and I couldn't resist correcting her and explaining to her what the teacher would be looking for in her answers.  She glanced over at me suspiciously, referred back to her textbook, thanked me, and then wanted to know how I knew the answers to her exam.  I told her of my disappointing experience with Ms. Jarrett and her emphasis on note-taking in first year biology class.  The girl commented that notes were not a part of her grade and suggested that I should take the class.  So I signed up for advanced biology the following year.  I assumed that it would be an easy class for me to pass.  I was in for a rude awakening though.  Because of that D as a freshman I wasn't allowed to take advanced biology during my senior year.  I ended up taking physics instead (and passed that class with an A) but I ended up with a cynical view of how the educational system “graded” me. 

    

The Arts of Conversation, Reading People, and Picking up Chicks

When I was in I was in my early twenties I lived for a while in a south Florida studio apartment that had been fashioned out of what had once been the carport on the side of a single family home.  The man that lived in the house beside me was a musician.   One evening he came over to introduce himself and let me know that he could hear me through the wall while I was plinking around on my guitar.  His first name was Gail, he was about eight years older than me, and he played old standards in a lounge at night.  We quickly found that we had at least two common interests: jazz and girls.  He told me that we could find both at a place called “The Brass Rail” on the inter-coastal waterway in Ft Lauderdale.  He asked me if I wanted to go check it out.  I told him that I didn’t have much experience with hanging out in bars and I could never think of what to say to women that I didn’t know.  He said that I would do fine if I just followed his lead so I agreed to go. 

When we got settled in with our drinks at the end of the bar, Gail began to scan the room and tell me about the female prospects that he saw.  He pointed out the tourists and explained how they were often looking for a “one night stand.”  He pointed out a group of locals and for some reason commented that they would not want to talk to us.  I tried to keep a pleasant smile going as I wondered if I was sipping my drink at an appropriate pace.  I knew that I was shaking a little and I hoped that no one noticed.  I was beginning to think that my friend was as scared as I was when it came to approaching women when he nodded toward two ladies at a small table.  “They are waiting for someone to buy them a drink.  Come on.”  I followed him to the table where he asked them if they were waiting for us.  Nodding at each other they stood up.  One of them held her hand out to me and in a very animated southern voice said, “My name is Fawn and this is my friend Jade.”  I took her hand and mimicked her tone by saying: “My name is Guy and this is my friend Gail.”  Everything turned awkward for a moment before the woman apologized and stated that they were actually waiting for someone else.  Back at the bar, Gail scolded me saying:

 “I can’t believe you said that!” 

“Said what?”

“That we are Guy and Gail!”

“But that’s our names.  What was I supposed to say?”

“Not ‘Guy and Gail’ and the way you said it made us sound like we are a couple of [gay people].”

I was bewildered and I didn’t know what else to say.  Gail paused for a moment and began to explain slowly: “Couldn’t you see that those women were playing a game with us?  They weren’t telling us their real names and they didn’t want to know our names.  When she said that her name is Fawn you should have said that your name is Buck.  When the other one said her name is Jade, I could have said that my name is Rock.  Do you see what I mean?  You just made us look stupid Guy.”  I was amazed that Gail could read the people in the room like that and I was sorry that I had messed up our chance to sit and talk with those women.  I had thought that they were quite pretty even though they seemed to have too much makeup on, and the one near me smelled like a flower.  We finished our drinks and then left.  My neighbor never asked me to go out drinking with him again.  

Excuse me....are you my friend?

A comment that my family often makes about my childhood is that I could put with a ridiculous amount of maltreatment from my peers without taking any apparent offense.  My sister recalls a time that she saw a boy kicking me repeatedly in the hallway at school and I just did not respond in any way.  When she asked me what was going on I shrugged her off saying, "Oh nothing.  He’s my friend.   He's just messing around."  She didn't accept that explanation because he was kicking me so hard but being two years younger than me she didn't know what to do.  I don't remember that incident but I do recall a similar situation.  When I was about ten years old I went out into the neighborhood where my grandparents lived and saw a couple of boys that I had played with the summer before.  They were under a tree with five or six other kids that I didn't know at all and I just walked up to them.  I don't remember exactly what happened next except that they all started making fun of me.  Then they proceeded in turns, one or two at a time, to beat me up.  At the first blow to my face my vision went blank.  I didn't know what I should do.  I couldn't run and I couldn't fight.  I remember trying to get them to stop by saying something like, "Okay...okay... that's enough."  This went on for several minutes and I had no idea how to extract myself from the situation. 

Luckily my older sisters happened by, rescued me, and took me back to my grandparents’ house.  As they doctored my bloody nose and cleaned me up, one of my sisters asked why I wasn't fighting back.  I replied: "Because they are my friends."  She was puzzled.  She went to great lengths to explain to me that if kids are beating you up they are NOT your friends.  I didn't get it.  Not only could I not read between the lines, I couldn't even read the lines.  I don’t want to give the impression that I didn’t understand that something had gone horribly wrong in that situation though.  It was a traumatic experience for me to approach some kids with the intention of finding someone to hang out with on a summer day and end up being beaten for no apparent reason.  I just felt like there had been some kind of mistake that I didn’t understand.  I didn’t have hard feelings toward those other boys.  I just didn’t know why it had happened or what I had done wrong.   

I have found that, even as an older adult, I have trouble with the concept of friendship.  As a part of the initial process that my psychotherapist used to help me understand how I might be a little different than a more "neuro-typical" person, she asked me to tell her who my friends were.  I listed my closest friends first and then went on to comment on the people that I had lost touch with when they or I had moved on to another job or to live in another town.  In a very gentle way she began to explain to me that there was something wrong with my list.  She said something like: "Those people are not who I'm asking about. You're calling your wife your best friend.  She is a friend in a way but that's different.  If you were having trouble dealing with your wife, who would you be able to talk to about that?  That person would be a friend.  In the same way, your son is not really your friend, your daughter is not your friend, and your son-in-law is not your friend.  These people care about you because you are a part of their family but they can't really be your friends." 

I assured her that I did understand what she was saying and that my family was just sort of my "inner circle" of friends but I had other friends.  For example, in the past I had always considered whoever I worked with at the time as being my friends.  I explained that since I had worked from home for the last nine years I had lost touch with them.  I still had friends during those years though among the people at my wife's school.  We went to their parties and to their weddings and they came to our daughter's wedding.  I described some of them and, one by one, she said: "No…that sounds like your wife's friend....no that's your wife's co-worker...no that's your wife’s friends’ husband."   I felt a little uneasy because I could see where this was going.  We finally got to the point when she said, "I want you to think of it like this: Other than your family, who have you known for a long time that you could call if you needed a really big favor or if you had a problem and you just needed to talk?"  "I don't have anyone like that" I said, losing my composure in the process.  That's when I had to admit to her what I had known when we began that exercise.  I didn't really have any friends and I didn't really know why.

Empathy?

I have read about the apparent lack of empathy that is observed by those who interact with Aspies.  I say "apparent" because when I think about this issue, I believe I have the opposite problem.  I can be empathetic to the point that it is painful for me.  When I see a kid that is upset because his mother won't let him have a toy from the department store, I have a strong urge to just buy the toy for him myself, not only to bring peace to the checkout line, but just to see that kid smile.  If I see a homeless person digging in a dumpster like they are scavenging for food, I will buy them something to eat.  If anyone mentions that they have a problem, I feel compelled to come up with a solution whether they really want me involved or not. 

One time a hitch-hiker I had picked up told me that he was leaving Florida to go home to Ohio because he had been robbed of everything he owned except for the shorts he was wearing.  I literally gave him the shirt off of my back because I knew how cold he would get by the time he got that far north during October.  Then I bought him a sandwich, gave him ten dollars for the road and drove him fifty miles out of my way so that I could drop him off at a point where I felt he would have a better chance to get a ride all the way home.  Even then I felt terribly guilty about having to put him out of my car as it was getting dark, and return to my apartment.  He was so overwhelmed by my concern for his situation that he asked for my address so that he could pay me back when he got on his feet again.  Not wanting him to make a promise that I didn't expect him to actually keep, I told him to just do something comparable for someone else in the future.  Five years later he finished the book that was to become the hit movie "Pay it Forward."  (Okay, okay... I just made up that last part to see if I had your attention)

I think that in my case, the lack of empathy that people think they perceive is actually due to my restricted ability to read what is really going on with the people around me.  I recognize that I have a huge problem with what is called "theory of mind" and the related deficits of an inability to read body language and a limited ability to "read between the lines" when people are trying to communicate something without actually coming out and saying it.  If someone is suffering in silence I probably won't even notice that something is wrong.  Even if they say something like, "My sister is having surgery today to find out why she is having so many headaches" I can proceed to spend thirty minutes telling them about a fascinating article that I read on Latin American politics and not notice that they aren't listening.  Their thoughts are far away and my insight into what kind of man has been running Guatemala is not making them feel any better.  To get me to shut the hell up they would have to say something more literal like, "Guy! I am worried that my sister is dying!"  Most people don't do that though.  I think that most men especially don't feel comfortable confiding in someone about such personal feelings so they are likely to just walk away and never want to have a conversation with me again.  Anyone else within hearing distance of this kind of incident is likely form a negative opinion of me without ever actually talking to me themselves.  I realize that I can be a real jerk sometimes but I would like to think of myself as a kind, caring, considerate, compassionate, and empathetic jerk.        

Assholeperger's Syndrome

Although I don’t take everything that is said to me as literally as Amelia Bedelia does, I do take words at face value and don’t do well at all when it comes to “reading between the lines” in my interactions with other people.  Sometimes this deficit results in a good-natured laugh but more often than not I think it makes me look like an ass.  Here’s an example of how this deficit almost got me fired:

One time I did a small plumbing job in the local hospital that required me to put a pipe through the ceiling above a patient conference room in the oncology department. As was the custom our city building inspector came by at his own convenience to inspect my work.  I had been instructed to work with the head nurse to coordinate our access to that room so I went straight to her and asked if I could set up my ladder to allow the inspector take a look at what I had done.  She said: “You can do your inspection anytime but there is a doctor talking to a family in that room right now.”  So I picked up my ladder, motioned for the inspector to follow me, walked up to the room and knocked on the door.  As I began to explain to the surprised doctor why we were there, the head nurse ran down the hall to apologize for our intrusion.  As soon as the doctor escorted the family to another room the nurse began to scream at me in a very quiet hospital voice saying, “What the hell were you thinking?  I just got through telling you that there was a doctor in this room trying to explain to a family about their loved ones’ cancer diagnosis!  How dare you interrupt them!"  I tried not to look at her but she moved to the right and then to the left to keep her face directly in front of mine as she continued: "This is going to cost you your job!  You will never work in this hospital again!  Get your inspection done then get out of here and NEVER COME BACK!”

I was confused and shaken by this encounter.  I don't handle conflict very well anyway but to find myself being confronted by a very pissed off woman when I could not understand what I had done was quite disturbing.  She had literally said: "You can do your inspection anytime but there is a doctor talking to a family in that room right now."  Where did I go wrong?  "Right now" is "anytime" is it not?  That incident was almost 20 years ago and I never deciphered the meaning behind her words until I learned the concepts of "too literal" thinking and something called "the unspoken part of a conversation."  Experts say that 80% of all communication is actually achieved through unspoken means such as context, body language, intonation of voice and the like.  People with Asperger's Syndrome tend to miss that part.  It may seem ridiculous for me to explain any further but for the benefit of other Aspies I will.  The message that the nurse had intended to convey was: "You can do your inspection anytime except right now because this is the oncology department which means we treat cancer patients and that means that the doctor in that room is talking to a family about someone they love who is very, very sick and may even be dying so just wait a few minutes until they leave and then you can go in there."  I didn't get all that.  I realize now why she treated me with such contempt.  I had an Amelia Bedelia moment and it wasn't funny at all.  I'm sure I came across as a real ass.  This is what I now jokingly call "Assholeperger's Syndrome" but I don't really expect a laugh.  It's only funny in the rarest of situations, like when you ask me to dress a chicken for dinner.