Journeys with Autism » Blog Archive » Early Childhood Memories

Dec
24

Early Childhood Memories

Filed under: Childhood, Girls and AS, Mind-Blindness;

When I first realized that I was an Aspie, I began to look at my past with new eyes. As so many of us have found, numerous aspects of our lives make sense for the first time when viewed through the lens of Asperger’s Syndrome.

One of my first memories is that of watching another child, with some kind of helmet on his head, riding a tricycle. I was between three and four years old, and I thought he looked like an astronaut who had been to outer space. I don’t recall talking to him or asking to ride the bicycle. I don’t recall feeling that I could traverse the vast and invisible chasm that separated us. I was fascinated by the helmet, though, and that he kept riding around in circles. I enjoyed observing him very much. It felt safe to be in my little bubble, way on the outside, looking in.

I remember the linoleum on my bedroom floor, riding my tricycle around the room, wearing a pair of blue corduroy pants, and my grandfather picking me up, but I can’t remember any faces. The ones I see in photographs from that time don’t look familiar to me at all. I can remember the gray and yellow floor tiles in the kitchen in vivid detail, but I can’t remember any conversations with a single soul. If I had them, they made no impression on me.

I also recall being five years old and going to kindergarten. I can remember the crayons, and the play dough, and the color wheel, but I don’t recall playing with any of the children. In fact, in my mind, I don’t see other children there at all, except as passing shadows. It was as though I were there alone, caught up in my fascinating new discovery of primary colors and how to combine them.

At some point between five and seven years of age, I began to wonder about the images in other people’s minds. One afternoon, my mother was in my room, talking to me, and I found myself occupied with the fascinating question of how she saw things in her mind’s eye. I realized that in her mind, she had memories of her old neighborhood, of her school, and of her parents, teachers, and friends. I knew that everything she had ever seen and experienced, and everyone she had ever known, uniquely shaped the way she thought, felt, and experienced the world. Because I had not lived her life, I knew that I could not imagine what was in her mind. Seeing her mind in acutely visual, literal terms, I realized that I could not see it at all.

Though decades would pass before I heard the word, I realized that I was mind-blind. My mother seemed an impenetrable mystery. At that moment, it did not occur to me to trust in the idea of commonalities that transcend the unique pictures in our minds. As I grew older, of course, I understood that there are levels of consciousness and feeling that human beings have in common. But for me, that understanding did not come intuitively. Rather, it derived from a great deal of thought and an even greater leap of faith.

By the time I was six or seven years old, I realized that I was very different from other people. I didn’t have the words for it at that time, but I knew about my “otherness” and wondered about it, as so many of us did, and as so many of us still do.

© 2008 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg

5 Comments

5 Responses to “Early Childhood Memories”

Jennifer December 30th, 2008 at 6:32 pm

My husband has tremendous difficulty recognising faces.
When I first read about Aspergers in connection with my children, I recognised it as fitting him (which was a surprise to me, at the time, but less of a surprise to him: he admitted that he probably had it- he recognised himself in the descriptions, but he simply shrugged his shoulders.)
It’s really strange that if somebody wears different clothes he can’t recognise them. It takes a long while till somebodies face registers.

Long ago, I saw a documentary on autism where they showed that certain parts of the brain are triggered when looking at faces, but that the brains of autistic people don’t register the same way- they were said to see faces in the same way as they register inanimate objects.
Yet, your description, of wondering what your mother was thinking, means that you knew that people are far from inanimate objects.
Rachel December 30th, 2008 at 8:12 pm

Hi Jennifer–

Thanks for your comments. It’s true what you say: People have never seemed like inanimate objects to me. If the context is right, I enjoy the time I spend with people. My challenge is to stay aware of the early warning signs of sensory overload and limit my time before I get overwhelmed. This is a new skill I’m learning, and it’s proving quite useful.
Phoebe Bergvall January 2nd, 2009 at 2:45 am

I relate to having memories of things more than people, and of people seeming like moving shadows. I think the sensory overload applies there- I blocked them out as it was too much to process. As a child in school, we are put in an impossible situation. My daughter got in trouble in first grade for appearing to not pay attention, but she was- she was just off by herself, but still listening.
Where does the word ‘mind-blind’ come from? I haven’t heard it, and am curious about what that means. It sounds right, though.
Rachel January 2nd, 2009 at 4:32 pm

Simon Baron-Cohen coined the term “mind-blindness” to describe an inability to read non-verbal cues in order to discern what another person might be thinking or feeling. He states that neuro-typical people are basically “mind-reading” all the time, making educated guesses based on lots of non-verbal cues, and that being able to “mind-read” is central to navigating through social interactions.

I realized as a child that I could not mind-read. It expressed itself in the realization that the images in my mother’s mind were altogether different from mine, and that I could not see them. What I was really saying to myself was that I had no way to tell what was going on in her mind unless she told me explicitly. Once I heard the words, the issue of the pictures in her mind being different from the pictures in my mind would be held in abeyance, and I could empathize. So, for instance, if my mother were disappointed over something and expressed it in words, I would feel sad, as though the disappointment had happened to me.
John Dale Lyons January 26th, 2009 at 3:59 pm

My early memories are mixed. I remember being frustrated at not being tall enough to open a door or use a light switch. I remember walking with my father. I pointed to the parked cars and said “I like that!” He replied “Those are called cars.” I remember my mother giving me a bath in the kitchen sink. I didn’t like to bathe. I wasn’t hydrophobic; it was just too much sensation. I remember how the drain thing felt against my feet, the smell of Johnson’s baby shampoo, how the water felt uncomfortable in my ears. My mother would take a pot of warm water and warn me “Here comes the water!” I didn’t like the bath, but I liked that kind of intimacy, that we were doing things together rather “normal” forms of affection such as hugs that I felt uncomfortable with. (Not anymore; I love to hug my girlfriend).

There was no diagnosis back of Aspergers back in the 1960’s; I just had “problems.” Fortunately, my parents (mostly my mother) sent me to a place that specialized in things like socialization, and handling emotions. Only about 10 years ago or so did I even hear of Aspergers. And about 2 years ago I was also diagnosed with ADD.

Writing about these things is like Proust smelling the madeline.