One of the many myths or misunderstandings about autism that has led us astray for so long is the belief that folks on the autism spectrum don't experience the same emotions as neurotypical (non-autistic) folks - or maybe don't experience them in the same way. In my early introduction to autism, I remember a journal article about "Joey the Mechanical Boy." As the title suggests, Joey was described as a boy who saw himself as some sort of robot, absent human feelings or any desire for human interactions. Similarly, the very term "autism" was said to be derived from "auto" or maybe "alone" - again, leading to or from the assumption that these individuals (they were all kids at that time; no one was giving any thought at all that they might become adults some day. See how much we had to learn?) don't really have feelings like the rest of us. They existed in "their own world" and many of them were left there, alone and withdrawn.
Based on lots of personal experience, plus the spoken, written or typed reports of many, many people on the autism spectrum, I am convinced they not only experience similar emotions, many of them experience these feelings to a significantly greater extent than the rest of the population. My students always knew when I was having a bad day, when I was tired or worried, sad or upset. Some would show this by touching me in a tender way, but more often it happened that my "off" mood caused them great distress that was more than they could handle and we encountered what was so often referred to as "behavior problems" --- unexplained, of course; we had no idea what was setting them off!
In addition to being easily overwhelmed by taking on the feelings of others, it is common that kids (and adults as well) with autism are unable to identify their own feelings or emotions, and often can't express how they are feeling in any sort of typical fashion. One of my students from years ago got reprimanded by our principal when he laughed at a highly inappropriate time. I don't remember just what sad news the principal delivered that day, but laughing was not the response that was expected. That principal (and just about everyone else in our school setting) had little or no understanding of autism. I was a little farther along in my education as a teacher, and I KNEW this particular student didn't mean to laugh or be disrespectful; he understood clearly what the sad news meant, but he was overwhelmed and his body was not within his control at that moment. Instead of crying, he laughed. I have seen it happen many times since then.
Recently in a communication session with L, he typed forcefully, "Help me be more normal" - one of his more common opening remarks in our sessions. I launched into my usual pep talk about loving him just the way he is, there is no such thing as "normal," adding for good measure that he doesn't need to change, but maybe we can help those around him understand his autism better so that he can fit in more comfortably.
For the most part, L is a low-key, easy-going sort of guy who doesn't show much in the way of emotions. If he is having an off day, he might decide to lie on the floor. If he is upset about something, he might become agitated, make loud sounds of protest or even bite his hand. In his home setting there is a history of breaking things, with some signs of joy when he does this. But in all of our typing sessions, he has not been able to use any of the typical feeling words to explain what might be going on.
On this particular occasion, L remained seated and generally on task, and I proceeded with a typical conversation, trying to engage him in something that might be of interest - the weather, an upcoming holiday, a visit with Grandma maybe. I was so focused on the keyboard and his typing that I failed to notice a trickle of tears flowing down his cheeks, and a look of agony on his face.
I wiped away the tears and offered my hand for support. When he was ready he typed, "Please just help me be more a man." L has often begged me to tell everyone about his intelligence, and has complained that too many people still treat him as a baby. When he asks to be helped to be more "normal" he knows his appearance fools people and they forget all too easily that he is in fact an adult and deserves to be treated that way. Still not using any of the feeling words I may have suggested, but the tears made his point very clearly.
And then at our very next session, with several members of his team present and all of us wearing masks as Covid precautions, L started to smile, then burst into infectious laughter - something I have never witnessed in all our years together. We all joined in the laughter, couldn't resist! - and asked him to explain. He looked around, making direct eye contact with each of us and still laughing, then typed, "You all look funny!" From sadness to joy, and able to tell us why. This is real progress, folks.
Earlier stories about L: http://grandmacharslessonslearned.blogspot.com/2017/09/
http://grandmacharslessonslearned.blogspot.com/2019/
