I saw my new AS-literate therapist for the first time on Tuesday afternoon. We’re going to have three sessions and then evaluate whether we can work together, but I’m feeling very good about her already. In many ways, seeing her was a very intense experience, and it has sent my thinking in very positive new directions.
The Experience
The therapist is in New Hampshire, about 35-40 minutes from where I live. I found the drive on Tuesday to be very challenging. I was anxious about meeting a new person, and I was desperately hoping that she wouldn’t say something clueless or patronizing about AS. I had sent her a link to my blog so that she’d have some background on where I’m coming from, but still, you never know.
I was also afraid of getting lost, because like many of you, I was born without any discernable sense of direction. I had given myself extra driving time in case I misread the directions she’d emailed to me. Fortunately, at my request, she had taken care to add a lot of detail, so I got to her office with 15 minutes to spare.
Within five minutes of my arrival, the therapist saw me parked outside, came out, introduced herself, and invited me to come in and get the session started early. Of course, on this basis alone, I liked her immediately. How many times does a health professional get your appointment started on time, never mind early? So I started to feel optimistic.
She began the session by saying that she really liked my blog, and that I was doing a great service with it. She was very straightforward and sincere when she said these words, so I had no choice but to believe her.
That was a good start. I began to feel even more optimistic.
Since we hadn’t talked on the phone, she asked me what I wanted from the therapy. I said that I wanted to work on accepting myself just as I am, which includes having the disabilities that come with Asperger’s. At this point, she very gently stepped in and said, “You know, I think of Asperger’s as a different way of thinking and being, not as a disability.”
I know that I should have felt even more optimistic in the face of this statement, but I was determined not to let her sugarcoat my experience. (I don’t think that’s what she was doing, but the fear was there, so I went with it.) I started my shpiel about feeling that on some days, Asperger’s gives me lots of strengths, and that on other days, it’s a really debilitating disability. I described some of my sensory deficits, my difficulties going shopping, cleaning my house, driving, and so forth. I expressed my frustration and the low self-worth that emerges when I’m not able to do basic tasks without feeling cranky, dizzy, and exhausted.
She acknowledged my frustration, and then she said the most amazing thing. “Well,” she said, “it’s true that you can’t go grocery shopping very easily, but on the other hand, how many people who go grocery shopping easily can write the way you do?”
I had to acknowledge that there was truth in what she was saying. Then, when she asked me about what I do out in the world, I talked about working in the thrift store. Once again, I focused on how hard the sensory overload felt, and said that I didn’t feel that I could do much at the store at all. When she heard that, she once again put my Aspie strengths into focus and said, “Even in the short time you’re there, you’re doing a great service at the store, and the staff values it. How many people can just walk into a place with your kind of focus and start organizing things?”
This type of interaction kept happening over and over. I would mention something I was doing, and then proceed to devalue it by bringing up all the things I couldn’t do. She kept turning my statements around to give me a different perspective. Her respect, and even admiration, for people with Asperger’s was palpable. I finally broke down and said, “You know, I just feel so badly about myself, even in this room with you. I can’t maintain eye contact with you because I need to look at the floor in order to think. I feel like I talk too much and get disoriented and exhausted by it.”
At this point, your average therapist would have given me that benign therapist look. You know the one I mean. It’s that look that says, “There is something deeper here you’re not seeing. I know, because I’ve studied psychology.”
But this therapist said, “It’s perfectly fine that you don’t make a lot of eye contact with me. And if you need to be quiet at different times during our session, that’s fine, too. By the way, is there anything in this office that is visually distracting to you?”
It’s a good thing I was sitting down, because if I’d been standing up, I probably would have fainted. It’s so unusual that anyone asks me that question that at first, I was shocked. But then, I realized that I’d better seize the moment, so I said, ”Yeah, actually, that stuff piled on the bench over there is bothering me because it’s kind of random, and that book over there is bothering me because it’s kind of tilted and the color on the cover hurts my eyes.” She said she’d get that fixed for next time, and that if I felt distracted by the environment in any other session, I should speak up.
Before we finished the session, she talked about how Jung believed that mid-life is an opportunity to truly become ourselves—an opportunity that takes a lot of courage to embrace. At that moment, I felt very grateful to have Asperger’s, because its challenges and its strengths are giving me the impetus I need to find that courage and to be myself.
New Directions
So, I’ve been thinking: What can I do well, and what are my difficulties? Consider the following:
What can I do well?
I can write in a way that has meaning for me and for other people. I can sing in a strong, clear voice. I can make beautiful art from found objects. I can dig up a whole yard using a shovel, a lot of muscle power, and a ton of sweat. I can plant beautiful flowers, vegetables, and herbs that bring enjoyment to my family and to my neighbors. I can de-clutter my living space and organize my house so that it feels calm and restful. I can do all the dishes and the laundry (although my husband and I compete over the laundry, because we both enjoy it so much). I can be a good listener for Bob and for Ashlynne. I can give them honest, constructive responses to the challenges they face in their own lives. I can focus like there’s no tomorrow. I can get upset with injustices that other people never even notice. I can advocate for my kid when she needs it (although, these days, she’s quite good at advocating for herself). I am highly empathic, hard working, fair minded, honest, trustworthy, and without guile.
What are my difficulties?
Cleaning my house, food shopping, cooking, driving, making small talk, being around a lot of people, and working at a conventional job.
Anybody notice anything?
1. The things I can do well far outnumber the things I can’t.
2. No one can do everything on both lists.
3. The things that I can do well are just as important than the things I can’t. After all, what would I rather do, make small talk while feeling desperate to be understood, or write a blog so that none of us has to feel so alone? And at this point, I don’t need to have a conventional job, so why should I feel so badly about it? I should be happy!
I used to think that all the basic tasks I find so difficult were the most important things. I used to think that all the things that I do well were just self-indulgent hobbies and useless oddities that were helping me pass the time between now and the moment of my death. I kept looking out into the neuro-typical world and feeling “less than” because I couldn’t shop and socialize and get invited to parties, or even get noticed by most people at all.
I now realize that when people ignore me, it’s not because they don’t see me, it’s not because I’m not important, and it’s not because I’m missing a piece. It’s because I’m putting out very intense signals that aren’t the ones they’re expecting. My husband has told me as much. All those many times that I’ve been ignored, or patronized, or laughed at, I thought it meant that there was something wrong with me. Now I realize it means that there is something very right with me. I’m very intense, I’m very focused, I’m very loving, I’m very sensitive, I’m very empathic, and I do not suffer fools graciously. I think that’s all very good. In fact, I think it’s better than very good. I think it’s great.
I’m not like most people, but there is nothing wrong with me. For the first time, I am beginning to feel that I have value. I have my strengths and I have my difficulties, just like everyone else. I don’t have to apologize for the things that are difficult. I just have to assert my strengths and ask for what I need.
So, for example, when I go to work this Monday, I’m going to ask that someone turn off the speaker above my head while I’m working on the jewelry. I’m not going to say that I’m sorry to trouble them, and I’m not going to feel small and scared. I’m just going to say that I’m very sensitive, and that everything comes into my senses at the same volume and with the same intensity, both of which are very high. I’m going to say that listening to the music, hearing people talking, and trying to concentrate on the jewelry is more than I can do at once. In other words, I’m going to ask for the staff’s assistance in making the environment work for me.
This is who I am. I get to be here, too. I don’t have to pretend to be neuro-typical anymore. I just have to be myself, the way I was made. It’s the most important thing I’ll ever do. And like most important things, it’s also the most difficult.
© 2009 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg
