Getting a psychiatric diagnosis affects everyone differently. For many, it’s a catharsis, a key to self-discovery and self-acceptance. For others, it can be a troubling albatross, a confirmation that in some basic, inescapable way you will never quite fit in, not matter how hard you try. But one experience almost every newly diagnosed person shares is searching their memory for the clues to their condition that were missed, but now seem obvious: for all the past embarrassments, conflicts, deviations, and social failures that now have an explanation.
My first few weeks after being diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder were full of denial. I told myself that I couldn’t be autistic because 1.) I was highly verbal; 2.) I didn’t have any sensitivities to the textures of fabrics or the sounds of chewing; 3.) I thought of myself as empathic to a fault, feeling shame for people who didn’t feel it for themselves; et cetera. But slowly I realized that none of this was cut-and-dry.
For example, I definitely have a lot to say (too much sometimes) when I get going on a topic that interests me, but I am super hesitant to talk with people I don’t know—and often even people I do know. I can talk too loud, I can mumble, I can stutter. I have to remind myself constantly to take turns with my interlocutors. And while for the most part I don’t have sensory issues, such as an aversion to anything but my favorite foods1, but often when I am wearing layers in winter I have a sudden claustrophobic reaction and need to tear everything off at once. And while I may feel empathetic, I have a very hard time expressing it, to the point that a lot of people assume I am blowing them off.
Then there are some dead giveaways that should have tipped me off much sooner: my many stims, the oddest and most off-putting of which is my constant desire to rub my feet together; my ability to develop any number of special interests and to flit from one to another; and my tendency towards living entirely inside my head. I learned from my mother that when I was a little boy I would sometimes drift off into an unresponsive reverie and she had to shake me by the shoulder to get me to focus.
So long story short, I eventually accepted (though didn’t embrace) my disorder. It has become painfully obvious to me that if ASD had been viewed with the more expansive eye of contemporary psychological practice, I would have been diagnosed much sooner, which might have given me tools to fake that eye contact that neurotypicals seem so keen on for some inexplicable reason2. This broader classification has led to more late-in-life diagnoses such as mine, as well as significantly more childhood ones, and is the obvious reason that reported ASD cases have greatly increased over the last decade, so RFK Jr. can go pound sand.
Eventually I worked my way through denial, bargaining, and depression (skipping over anger because I’m such a cool-headed guy3) and found my way into acceptance, however. By this I mean, paraphrasing Alan Watts, I started to become what I am. I embraced my obsessions, even the nerdy ones like math that I had tamped down so as not to bore people at parties. I found times and places to space out entirely and stim in all my weird ways. And I recognized a somewhat painful truth, which is that I don’t really like to be touched.
(This is where I assure my wife that I’m not talking about her. I have always loved her touch.)
What I am talking about it the various social ways people used handshakes, hugs, and (ugh) encouraging hands on shoulders. This had become a problem for me in the 2000’s because there was a growing norm that when you greeted people, or were greeted, you were expected to hug. Even men were often expected to hug other men, and it felt like a minefield to me. I was never sure how long or how hard I was supposed to hold on, and how to not be creepy about it, and it caused a lot of stress. My liberal self was glad that men were letting go of gay panic, but my autistic self was dying inside.
Two things happened that saved me: The #metoo movement brought scrutiny to previously tolerated behavior. And then there was the pandemic, which had even more of an effect. Over the course of a few years hugging became less and less prevalent, although there still are huggers out there, you just have to watch out for them.
Anyway, a couple of years ago, we got a dog, Hunter (see header image). Hunter is a large and muscular dog, half German Shepherd and half Catahoula (if you don’t know that breed, neither did we). He can look intimidating, and will bark fiercely at anyone with the temerity to deliver a package on our porch. But he is also a big softy and will snuggle up with any of the family (and strangers that we bring inside without his noticing). And he will vigorously lick, by which I mean he gets his whole foot-long tongue involved, and will stick it down your ears and your nostrils and anywhere else you don’t actively discourage him from.
And the weird thing is, while this seemed all too much at first, I became able to stand it. I told myself that Hunter needs to be able to express affection in his own language, and that whatever my personal reaction was (which was ick), this was something I could do for him. And herein lies the truth that I’m sure is obvious to neurotypicals, but which eludes many with autism: when you do something for someone you love, you can put up with a lot.
And so this is the blindingly simple life hack (again, ick) that I have learned from my dog. And while I don’t know if it will help me to hug any better, I’m all set the next time a four-legged friend greets me with their tongue in my face.
- I even have a great fondness for unpopular flavors like licorice, cilantro, mushrooms, olives, pickled herring, etc. ↩︎
- Honestly, guys, what the hell is this “windows of the soul” nonsense? Learn how to say what you mean and you’ll never have to guess what’s in someone’s head. ↩︎
- This isn’t remotely true. ↩︎
