This is part two on a series about living with Asperger’s Syndrome. You can visit part one here. DISCLAIMER: I am one individual with Asperger’s Syndrome. I speak only for myself, and do not claim to speak for all people with Asperger’s Syndrome. I am not a mental health professional, nor do I play one on TV.
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I’ve been debating with myself about this second post. I’ve thought about skipping over my “pre-diagnosis” years, and just focusing on my adjustment period after diagnosis, (along with some suggestions as to how the missional church might best disciple and love people with Asperger’s Syndrome). However, I’ve decided that this (very painful) part of my story is important, and so I am going to tell it (even though I am probably avoiding some of the most soul killing aspects out of self-preservation.).
Unlike kids with classic autism, there is no clinical speech delay in children with Asperger’s syndrome (i.e. we start to talk by the age of two). In fact, some, (but not all) people with Asperger’s Syndrome are highly intelligent and very verbal, and precocious language development is not uncommon.
I was one of those precocious babies. I started talking at five-and-a-half months and was reading before the age of two. There were a few hiccups in my development (I started walking a bit late), and I had trouble with sleeping (stopped taking naps very early and didn’t go to bed easily at night), but I was otherwise a very fine baby and toddler.
But as I got older and began to interact with my peers more, some cracks in my precociousness began to show. My pre-school teacher told my mom that I seemed “remote”. If cousins or friends came over to play, my parents would often find me sitting alone reading while the other kids ran around and tore up the house. Even more puzzling were the gaps in my abilities: I was considered a “gifted child” because of my reading and verbal skills, yet I couldn’t tell left from right or tie my shoes until I was eight. I couldn’t catch a ball. I never learned to ride a bicycle.
But the worst was yet to come.
I was officially a “weird kid”. I hated having my hair brushed (or even washed) so it was always a mess. I fought my mom on what I wore each day, so my apparel left something to be desired. The stress of being in a classroom turned me into a “daydreamer”, much to the frustration of my teachers. I couldn’t find ways of connecting with the kids at school: I didn’t understand social rules, games, or nuance, and so I was a bully-magnet. Each and every day that I went to school (from first grade well into high school) I was told that I was ugly, stupid, lazy, and weird. When I came home from school, I was exhausted and traumatized from the stress, and so homework was not high on my list. (Because my grades sucked and I was generally cranky, I got called more than a few names at home, too.) Recently, my therapist pointed out the irony in all this: My intelligence actually worked against me getting any help. Nobody wanted to believe that a smart kid might have problems beyond her control. My issues were instead alternately blamed on my parents’ divorce, the fact that I was adopted, antisocial tendencies, bad character, and laziness. (In fairness, I should note that Asperger’s Syndrome did not exist as an official diagnosis until I was adult. However, I still maintain that someone should have figured out that I had some very specific challenges and needs.)
Yet, it was also my intelligence that got me out my hellish childhood alive. Through logic and reason, trial and error, I managed to figure out how to get along in the world (even if I didn’t always do it very well). But the turmoil of my childhood had taken its toll: I entered adulthood with a tattered self-image, unable to trust anyone (not even myself), depressed, easily stressed and with extreme difficulty in setting realistic expectations for myself and others.
(Next up, answering the question “What is it like to have Asperger’s Syndrome?”)
