on Aspergers, Autism, and the Cure
I have come to realize that my family has a long tradition of Autism. It is probable that my Grandfather was autistic. My father was certainly Aspergers. A brother I can't remember, in an institution I can't recall. At least one more Aspie brother and, of course, my lovely Aspergian sons. Most of my life, I simply thought I was damaged in some way. Many "educators" classified me as ret*d, or lazy, or poorly disciplined, or simply insignificant. A few teachers wept in frustration because they thought I would be brilliant, if only they could convince me to care, to look them in the eye and show them some small expression of realization. But nothing worked. I passed through the entirety of my schooling scoring near perfectly on tests, and failing utterly in every other respect.
This did, indeed, set me up for a difficult life. And that's been hard for my Beloved Wife. And it hasn't helped that my grand preoccupations don't seem to care whether they are lucrative, or just plain useless. I'm very lucky, I suppose, that one of them happened to be computers. I doubt we'd have survived on the guitar, or the poetry, or the Science Fiction, or the theatrical lighting, or the comic strip, or the hitchhiking. (A few of my fixations in the 70s were even more non-productive.)
As I said, I spent most of my life confused about myself. It wasn't until just a few years ago that we had a name (at least a polite name) for my peculiar perspective. Asperger Syndrome.
I admit that the label was scary at first. And, for a while, I just tried to ignore it. But I eventually realized that it wasn't a disease, or an amputation, or some sort of cancer. It was simply a different type of person. Some are tall, some are short. Some are strong, and some are graceful. Some are sociable and easy to talk to - some are able to see unusual things in unusual ways, and to put them together and take them apart surprisingly and sincerely.
I come from a long line of unusualness. And it doesn't look like it's ending soon. Most of us never knew how valuable we were, and we're still surrounded by those who doubt we are. But I'm convinced the world would be a much cheaper place without us, and may someday come to understand how much it needs us. And when I think this way, I actually wish I could go back and reassure those weeping teachers, puzzled counselors, startled school psychologists, and angry relatives. I'd tell them it's OK, that there's nothing wrong after all, and I really could hear how much they cared. That, ultimately, there's nothing to fix but the reactions of strangers. That someday I would know myself for what I am and find some freedom, finally, from the constant self-doubt and the vulnerability to others' abrupt and angry judgments.
So, no. I do not believe there will ever be a cure. There may not actually be anything to cure. And if it meant I'd have to give up my unique space in the universe, even for an easy "normal" life, I'd have to leave it go anyway. It may be harder for me to get where I want to go, but it's a much more beautiful and interesting place I'm struggling to reach.
I don't need pills, surgery, behavior modification, lobotomy or electroshock. I need my fellow travelers to slide over just a bit to let me travel along with them. I need to be allowed my own adventures. And I need someone, occasionally, to listen to the stories and look at the snap shots and marvel at the things I've seen.
28 Aug 2007, 12:38 am
