LENS, or Educated Brainpokes (11/25/14)

Posted on by Realistic Autistic
When you boil it down and strip the technical terms off of it, LENS (Low Energy Neurofeedback System) is really just a way of nudging your brainwaves until they fall into healthier patterns.  It’s done gently and carefully, more light prodding than anything else.  The results, however, can be remarkable.  Presently there are conflicting clinical studies on the effectiveness of LENS, but a truly staggering host of positive case studies in the ten years the system has been in use.  

The basis behind LENS is fairly simple.  Through the course of their lives, people experience traumas: both physical impacts to the head and mental and emotional traumas.  The loss of a loved one, or a divorce, or losing your job.  All of these things hurt people, putting a strain on their minds and functioning.  In the brain, this can be seen in the form of depressed brainwaves.  If you imagine brainwaves as a wavy pattern, depressed brainwaves are much shorter, smaller waves. 

                                                            A sample EEG of a brainwave.
LENS nudges those brainwaves toward more normal functioning.  It’s interesting to note that the brain will adjust to a more positive brainwave pattern, but not a more negative one.  The body heals itself, or at least tries.  
My personal experience with LENS so far has been mixed.  Over three sessions, I’ve had a reduction of anxiety and an improvement in overall mood.  Both these things have been unrelated to anything in my life changing.  My job is still what it was, my living situation hasn’t changed, nor have my bills and the amount of stress leveled on me by life.  So to my understanding, something is clearly happening.  Not everything is positive, though.  I’ve had a marathon headache over Thanksgiving weekend, an oddity in my vision for a half hour or so, a night where I couldn’t sleep very much, and a short-lived spike in my temper.  All the bad side effects have gone away, given time, leaving the good ones for longer periods of time.  
After each negative side effect, the doctor has adjusted the nudges to my brainwaves, so as not to provoke the same response.  So far I’ve had no repeats of any bad side effects.  I’m hopeful that the good effects will continue, and as we get to understand how my  particular brain functions, the bad side effects will stop occurring.  
I’m outwardly open and cautiously positive about this therapy.  

Therapy incoming (10/28/14)

Posted on by Realistic Autistic
Nerves nerves nerves.  I’m scheduled for my first ever visit to a place of therapy.  I went to a different place, once, to get my diagnosis, but that was just to test what already exists.  This, and the subsequent visits, will be to change the seemingly delicate, hard-earned mindset I’ve developed over the years.  We’re not playing with prescriptions, but we are playing with electricity and my brain.  It’s a therapy called LENS.  Experimental evidence behind it is conflicted, but it seems to either do something good or nothing at all.  There are scads of case studies supporting it, with beneficial effects in up to 70% of those who try it.    

It’s not the most promising start, but maybe it’ll do something.  My problems are less “needs immediate fix” and more “improving the quality of life” related.  Essentially, I operate under a perpetually pessimistic, even cynical, mood, with a healthy dose of “everything makes me nervous.”  I hold down my jobs, I see my friends, I pursue hobbies… But I don’t really have fun doing so.  Fun is honestly kind of a foreign concept to me.  If I’ve had fun in an evening, I usually don’t realize it.  If I do, it’s right before I get home.  Not exactly useful.
So the LENS therapy may improve my overall mood, reduce the anxiety, and maybe help with sound sensitivity.  It’d be nice.  I’m almost 26, and I’m only getting to this now because I shouldn’t ignore it any longer.  Just because I didn’t get started with therapy early doesn’t mean I can’t benefit from it.  I hope. 

To blatantly shatter the illusion of normalcy? (10/14/14)

Posted on by Realistic Autistic
I’ve been tempted, more than once over the years since receiving my diagnoses, to brandish a sign proclaiming my autism.  Just to make people aware that we exist.  That we’re not crippled, just different.  Maybe even to prove something to myself, I’m not sure.  I envision awkward questions, quiet stares, and perhaps even arguments with ignorant people.  Would the reality be any different?  I’m not sure.

I suppose if I did decide to do it, I’d need multiple signs.  One on each shoulder, one on the front, one on the back.   They’d need to be more detailed than “autistic.”  Perhaps the front and the back could say, “self identifying for Autism Awareness Day” or mention something about the hidden population of semi-functional people.  After all, many people struggle with depression, but few tell others about it.  Either way I should probably include, “curious?  Please ask me whatever questions you have.”
I’d have to pointedly spend the day outside in the public.  Go shopping, maybe go to a museum, go to work, a coffee shop, a restaurant.  Eek.  This day might end up being very expensive.  It might be worth it.  

Empathy, Autism, and the Intense World theory

Posted on by Realistic Autistic
http://www.the-open-mind.com/theory-finds-that-individuals-with-aspergers-syndrome-dont-lack-empathy-in-fact-if-anything-they-empathize-too-much/

It’s “common knowledge” that people on the autism spectrum lack empathy.  The reasoning for that is mentioned: they tested kids with autism for a basic form of empathy at an age that other children had it.  And those kids didn’t have it.  From this, they assumed that all people with autism don’t have empathy.

This is in stark contrast to the experiences of people on the spectrum, who complain more of feeling overwhelmed by others’ emotions than lacking them.  People mainly defaulted to believing the interpretation of the studies, because as everyone knows, scientists are infallable human beings without a shred of bias.  Therefore people on the spectrum were walking sociopaths.  With no empathy to tie them to other human beings, why wouldn’t you expect every gunman in a school shooting to be autistic?

Fortunately, not all scientists were so closed-minded.   The Intense World theory was first proposed by a pair of concerned parents of an autistic child, aided by another researcher. The article is here: http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3010743/

It’s longwinded and technical, but the basic idea is this: People on the autism spectrum experience the world more strongly than others.  Sounds are louder and sharper, lights brighter and more distracting, words and intonations confusing, and others’ emotions and reactions overwhelming.  

This, I feel, is a more accurate representation of autistic people than a strict assumption we have no empathy.  My life would be a lot simpler if I didn’t have empathy.  I wouldn’t cringe when I accidentally make someone’s job or life harder.  I wouldn’t consider the effect my words will have on other people before I say them.  Not having to do these things would save me a lot of time and care.  Unfortunately, I don’t have a choice.  I do have empathy.  And I have a response to the assertion of that study.

People with developmental disabilities often develop mentally and emotionally at a slower rate than our neurotypical counterparts.  I personally still feel like a teenager emotionally, though mentally I feel like I’m 40 or so.  I suspect if they’d taken kids a few years older and tried the same test, they’d have gotten results saying autistic kids do, in fact, have empathy.

Lady with the scarred cheek (8/25/14)

Posted on by Realistic Autistic
I’m sitting at Hartford airport facing a lady of African descent.  That wouldn’t be particularly abnormal, but she has four parallel slashes down one side of her face.  Too regular to be passing accidents.  I’d have missed the detail entirely were it not for the fact that her scarred cheek is facing me directly.  Some of her body language is tailored to hide it.  She leans on her hand, which covers that cheek.  Leans forward with an arm or wrist covering the scars partially.  A sign of shame, or just of discomfort?

I wonder what her story is.  I’d ask, but I know better than to accost a random stranger about something like that.  It isn’t always a fatally rude move, but in a situation like this, I don’t think I could pull off the easygoing, slightly concerned air required for any possible non-hostile response.
Perhaps it was ritual scarring.  She speaks a nonEnglish language.  Perhaps an accident with mechanical equipment.  Her three kids are unscarred, and also speak with an accent.  Slight, mostly.  I don’t have trouble translating the words I can hear.  I’m not a very good eavesdropper, though.  Every passing noise drills into my sensory perceptions.  Something keeps dinging, for instance.  Like an elevator telling you the car is there, but every few seconds, and unpredictably.  Announcements come over the PA system.
The lady with the scarred cheek going to Baltimore, not Grand Rapids, so I’ll probably never see her again.  I hope she’ll be okay, and safe.  She seems happy, but that’s no indicator of the rest of her life.

Weddings: joyous (and trying) occasions (8/16/14)

Posted on by Realistic Autistic
Today I attended the wedding of my boyfriend’s older brother.  My boyfriend, Chris, was the best man, which meant I was involved in the preparations and rehearsals.  I even ran the Livestream of the wedding for people who got stuck in traffic or couldn’t make it.  I’m pleased to report the Livestream was apparently excellent quality, despite the technical difficulties.  You could see all the people, including the patient musicians, and hear all the words being said.  This was actually a feat, because I was back up in the balcony, trying desperately to hold still, not jiggle the camera, and stabilize the spotty wifi by sheer force of will alone. The wedding itself wasn’t actually that bad.  It was stressful trying to set up the webcam and get the right angle and fuddle with the shoddy wifi, but once everything was set up, it was just a matter of keeping the setup running and hitting “start” at the right time.  It was the reception that was painful.  It’s no surprise, perhaps.  All those strangers, barely familiar faces you should recognize, all the social etiquette.  Besides Chris’ family, some of whom I’d never met (and was promptly introduced to… ugh), there were all of the bride’s family and various friends.  
The bride and groom were kind, and put me at a table with people I knew and appreciated.  I’ve had other weddings where I’ve just been amidst people I didn’t know and spent a lot of time trying to pretend I didn’t exist.  In any case, Chris’ family is… enthusiastic.  I was flagged down by a relative I’d met before, who promptly shepherded me to a new table full of her children.  That was the most awkward 15 minutes this week, if not this month.  In addition to trying to remember social etiquette, I had to shout to be heard over the overpoweringly loud music, and strain to hear responses.  
Apparently no one told the sound guy that people like to hear each other talk.  Well, most people like to hear each other talk.  By the middle of the reception, I wanted to hide in the carefully manicured bushes outside the building.  To be clear, both families were very nice, the bride and groom were respectively beautiful and handsome, but I was oversocialized by the time the first two hours were done.  Oh, and the reception lasted four and a half hours.  
Besides the earburstingly loud music and the extreme amounts of sociable people I couldn’t reasonably escape, there was my attire.  I wore a dress.  I despise dresses.  This is the first time I’ve worn a dress in years.  I did so out of respect for the groom and his family, but I am feeling it now.  Dresses restrict movement and blood flow, and between that and the fancy shoes, I have sore knees, a hip out of place, blistered feet, and a very sour mood.  
Chris kindly took me for a walk, mid-reception, so I could clear my head and feel less like a sardine in a can.  We both needed the break.  Too much flash photography, too many people talking, too much loud music.  At the end of the reception, the music was a little too loud from two rooms away.  Chris had actually gone and turned it down on two separate occasions… even some of the (presumably) neurotypical people were complaining.  Y’know, politely.  
The bride and groom danced beautifully, though.  They’ve both had years of professional lessons, and it showed.  They did some very fancy things, spins and partings, maneuvers I don’t have words for, all of it smoothly and romantically.  I was a little jealous.  I’ll never be that graceful, I think.  My gifts and skills lie elsewhere, I guess.
I’m immensely tired now.  I had to write this down before I collapse in bed, though.  I think Chris’ family probably won’t know for years how hard this wedding was for me, but I’d like a record of it.  It was a pleasure to attend, but I am now utterly weary.  I could sleep for a week.  

Manzano bananas + Where Am I Eating? (8/9/14)

Posted on by Realistic Autistic
These are Manzano (apple) bananas.  I found them at a fancy food store I sometimes go for rarer foods I eat.  Normally I’d have walked right by, but I read Where Am I Eating? recently and it had a section where Kelsey hunted down where bananas came from.  One of the really cool things he mentions (seriously, go read this book) is that we eat mostly one kind of banana, called the Cavendish.  Actually, he mentions trying a small banana so sweet, it might be considered candy.  I’m not sure, but that may be the very variety of banana I’m holding now.

These things are tiny.  They’re maybe slightly longer than my longest finger. The usual bananas in the store are at least the length of my whole hand (7″) at shortest, if not a hand and a half.  They make me smile.  

They also make me wonder about the people who harvested them.  I suppose it’s much the same as the Cavendish operation… These were more expensive than the Cavendishes, by about 50 cents a pound.  But still.  I hope those people are okay.  Maybe even happy I’m trying the Manzanos?  I may have had one already.  It was hilarious underripe.  But even startchy, as underripe bananas taste, it still tasted different.  I bet the ripe ones will be completely delicious.  
These new bananas aren’t my first new experience for the day, though.  My Saturday morning obligation flopped, so I was able to go and help with a food distribution thing this morning instead.  It was… hectic.  This was a near-record day, with 170ish people coming to get food.  The food was… odd.  You know in food drives, they ask you to give canned things?  None of this was canned.  I guess it was excess from various vendors.  There were pineapples, 2 lb. bags of frozen chopped sauteed onions (yes, that’s a thing. No idea why), Pop Tarts, cakes and breads of all kinds, cabbages, bottles of orange knockoff brand pop, roughly a million small cucumbers, and probably a couple other things I forgot.  
The truck was on time, which was nice.  I was the first volunteer there, so that gave me some time to find the organizers and learn a bit.  The operation isn’t too complicated.  People arrive long beforehand and sign up to receive numbers, which determine their place in line.  Meanwhile, tables are set up in a large, rough rectangle missing the front side so the truck could get in.  The volunteers arrive before the truck, to be ready.
When the truck arrives, volunteers count what was in there to figure out how much of everything they could give per person.  They also move the tables in towards the truck and get the food laid out.  When everything is ready, they’re given stations: hand out this food, or unload this box, or something similar.  When all is ready, a quick prayer is said.  Then the line begins, with one person calling out numbers and getting people in the right order.  Everyone files through slowly, with the volunteers handing out food and ensuring everyone gets the designated amount if they want it.  
This goes on steadily until the line is finished, but an organizer may run around the truck, taking inventory on quantities of food and reassigning how much food can be given to each person, if necessary.  When the whole line is done, a second round of numbers is handed out to anyone who wants a chance at the leftovers.  Ideally there aren’t many leftovers, but no count is perfect and not everyone is honest in the line.  Some people will try to get extra by having their kid or friend act like he has a number too.  That’s people sometimes…  
In the end, whatever isn’t taken by the people in the second round is up for grabs for the volunteers, or it gets thrown away.  The truck drives away, the tables are wiped down and put away, and all the volunteers go home.  
This drive was… a little haphazard.  The truck was on time, and apparently it usually isn’t.  So the volunteers weren’t there, except for me and the organizers.  The frozen chopped sauteed onions got counted at least four times.  I wished I had a clipboard and a pen… I could have saved time and stress.  I guess it isn’t usually this bad.  In any case, I made myself useful and counted things, laid things out, cleaned tables, scurried around after the organizer trying to figure out what I was doing, lifted pallets that were way too heavy for me, trucked many armfuls of bread and sweetbread to tables, and handed out pineapples.  
Trying to smile genuinely at people you don’t know is hard.  Especially when some of them are clearly embarrassed to be receiving charity, and some don’t care you exist so long as the food gets in their containers, some of them don’t speak English, and you don’t really know what to say other than “Good morning!” “Hi,”  “(Would you like a) Pineapple?” and respond with “You’re welcome.”  
After all the hubbub had died down and the last people had filed through, all that was left were bags of frozen chopped sauteed onions.  I snagged two on the enthusiastic urging of the organizers.  I’ve managed to foist one off on my grandmother, who I saw later today, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with the other one.  French onion soup?  Foist it onto another friend, maybe?  
I’ll probably go back and do the food truck thing again, but not next time.  When next time occurs, I’ll be in CT for Chris’ older brother’s wedding, and I’ll be wearing a dress (ugh).  It’ll be four weeks before I can try it again.  Maybe the volunteers will be there early and the truck will be on time.  Maybe we won’t have a near-record number of people, too.