I was listening to a podcast about transgender children. The mother of a MTF transgender child was on the show, and another person asked her if she and her husband had had difficulty accepting the reality of their child claiming that "he" was really a girl. The mother said that it was not terribly difficult for her and her husband because her father was dyslexic. What does one have to do with the other? Her father is in his seventies; he grew up in an era when dyslexia was unheard of. When he tried to explain that reading was tough for him, the teachers wouldn't have any of it. They told him that he was lazy and wasn't trying. He tried to tell the teachers what was going on in his head-- that letters and numbers were confusing for him-- but they dismissed his explanations as mere excuses. Transgender children face similar obstacles: a natal boy tries to tell "his" mother that "he" is actually a girl (or vice-versa). Many parents respond to this by telling the child that "he" is wrong and doesn't know what "he" is talking about. Drawing on the father's experiences with trying to explain what was going through his head when he had a hard time reading, these parents gave their child the benefit of the doubt that the woman's father never had. The transgender child's parents said, "Who are we to say what's going on in our child's brain?"
As you might guess, I draw a similar parallel to my experiences with Asperger's Syndrome. To navigate the social world growing up, I had to use my cognitive faculties to accomplish social tasks that most other people do intuitively. As you also might have guessed, many parents and teachers told me that I was not trying. I can recall many instances of, as a child, being at social gatherings with my parents and one (or both) of them pulling me aside and telling me, "You're acting inappropriate", "You're too loud", or something else to that effect. Oftentimes I had no idea what I was doing "wrong". After the social gatherings, my mother would often remark, "You were very immature." There were many times at these social gatherings when I would be reduced to tears, frustrated and unable to understand why people (not just my parents) were reacting to me the way they were. Most parents assume they can bring their kids to social gatherings without incident, but whether or not such a gathering would go over smoothly for me was a crapshoot.
These memories continue to haunt me in very vivid dreams, and sometimes I even wake up screaming and crying. In these dreams, I am that ten-year-old kid again, insisting that I'm trying to be "good" only to hear my parents say, "Well, I don't see you trying." My attempts to explain what was going on in my head were dismissed, and that hurt like hell. Another mantra I had to deal with often started with the words, "If you would just... [insert action here]." Okay. Tell the transgender child, "If you would just learn to be a boy" or the dyslexic child, "If you would just learn to read." I assure you that these words can cut deep. It's the verbal equivalent of somebody slowly plunging a rusty knife into your side.
Parents, please listen to your kids. You may be thirty or so years older than them, but sometimes they not only know more than you think, but in some cases more than you.
Monday, June 16, 2014
Thursday, June 12, 2014
The Memory That Won't Let Go
It has become almost cliché to say that people with Asperger's Syndrome have a difficult time "letting things go." In fact, I've heard "Jeez, Julie, let it go!" more times than I prefer to count. I've been working on that over the years. I usually end up doing self-talk: "Okay, is this really worth obsessing about?" or "What are you going to accomplish by continuing to replay that incident in your head?" What works the best for me is engaging in vigorous exercise, like running or swimming. The activity is a distraction, and for some reason it helps me think things through more rationally. Maybe it's the endorphin release.
But there is one memory that I have a difficult time letting go of. Rather, it won't let go of me. In 1999, I moved to New York City from my hometown in Pennsylvania to go to art school to study animation. During my second year, I had an animation teacher, Doug (not his real name) who I ultimately developed a crush on. It was some bizarre perfect storm between a childish "hero worship" and, well, a crush. Eighteen years my senior (unusual for me-- I have never before or since then had a crush on someone that much older), he was an excellent teacher, and was intelligent and funny. I was aware that having a crush on him could ultimately lead to a frustrating obsession, and I was determined to handle this one well. I knew that Doug was married and (as far as I knew), monogamous. Besides, I didn't think for a second that he was interested in me. The first two months went well. Doug initially seemed nice, but by the middle of my third year, he was constantly snapping at me and even telling me that I was wasting his time and had no talent.
I felt confused. Surely Doug didn't really mean these things, did he? And, hell, perhaps I should have been understanding that I was probably making him uncomfortable. The self-blame came from past experiences of inadvertently scaring off guys I had crushes on who figured out how obsessed with them I was. I accepted that what was happening was my fault, and if only I did better animation and behaved better, Doug would accept and like me. Everyone else seemed to like him, so I was certain I was the problem. Aside from that, I had already put so much energy into my crush that I could not-- no, would not-- see very clearly that Doug was just a nasty person. What I failed to acknowledge was that while the guys I had crushes on in the past sometimes snapped at me, they almost always apologized later and tried to be friendly. Doug didn't even try. In fact, his behavior towards me became nastier and nastier.
By the end of my fourth year, Doug was unpleasant and vicious to me on a regular basis. He never wasted a moment in favoring me with a scathing remark: in response to a conversation with someone else that didn't involve him, in class if my animation wasn't up to his standards, and even on the school's animation listserv. Every time I commented on something on the listserv, he would make a nasty, bitingly personal comment. Once he even said something like, "I hope certain people get hit by a crosstown bus."
By the time I graduated, I was a wreck, and my self-esteem was destroyed (fortunately, I have since regained it, but that's another long story). This man whom I respected and adored hated me, and I couldn't accept it. Doug had even lied to try to keep me out of a class, saying that it was full when I knew damn well it wasn't. He was a remarkably good liar, able to make the most outrageous lies look like the truth and make the truth look like an outrageous lie. I ultimately got into the class, but only because I all but twisted his arm, so to speak. Deep down, I knew exactly what I was looking at: a vicious person. But I couldn't bring myself to acknowledge it. It was just easier for me to believe that I was the problem. Sometimes believing in nonsense is easier than accepting the reality, swallowing the red pill.
If there was something that should have brought me to my senses, it was Doug's arrest in fall 2004, about a year and a half after I graduated. Yes, that's right. Doug was arrested. He was caught in an undercover FBI sex sting for trying to solicit sex online from someone he believed to be a thirteen-year-old girl. My immediate reaction-- and the one I should have stuck with-- was, "I hate him." But, again, I couldn't swallow the red pill. I tried but then puked it up. I felt bad for Doug, making myself think things like, "Oh, he's just complicated" and, "Oh, he just has a problem and needs help." So what did I do? I wrote him a letter. It said something to the effect of that I was sorry about what happened and that we all make mistakes.
For another year and a half, I continued to trumpet my support for Doug and that what he really needed was help, not prison (he ended up being incarcerated for 4 1/2 years). In the summer of 2006, however, I reached an epiphany (another long story). I finally acknowledged that Doug was a horrible person, and that he was possibly even a sociopath. His arrest did not reflect a brief lapse of judgement on his part. He knew what he was doing. It made sense in light of the way he had treated me: in both cases, he preyed on someone he perceived to be insecure and vulnerable. I have met many nasty people in my life, but Doug has to be the worst human being I have ever known. After Doug's arrest, I was proud of myself for being able to see the situation as "complicated", but now I'm just embarrassed.
Now to the heart of this post. Why won't this memory let me go? Because every time I see someone do something unethical, my mind goes there, goes back to Doug. My reflexive thought is, "Is s/he another Doug? Is s/he harboring dark secrets?" I talked about it tonight with my therapist. It is a very traumatic memory that I need to work through. My friend from art school, Flora (not her real name), tells me that she actually struggles with the same thing. She doesn't even have Asperger's Syndrome. But I think that just speaks to the kind of person Doug was. And that is the kind of bizarre, horrible memory that could hijack anybody's brain.
But there is one memory that I have a difficult time letting go of. Rather, it won't let go of me. In 1999, I moved to New York City from my hometown in Pennsylvania to go to art school to study animation. During my second year, I had an animation teacher, Doug (not his real name) who I ultimately developed a crush on. It was some bizarre perfect storm between a childish "hero worship" and, well, a crush. Eighteen years my senior (unusual for me-- I have never before or since then had a crush on someone that much older), he was an excellent teacher, and was intelligent and funny. I was aware that having a crush on him could ultimately lead to a frustrating obsession, and I was determined to handle this one well. I knew that Doug was married and (as far as I knew), monogamous. Besides, I didn't think for a second that he was interested in me. The first two months went well. Doug initially seemed nice, but by the middle of my third year, he was constantly snapping at me and even telling me that I was wasting his time and had no talent.
I felt confused. Surely Doug didn't really mean these things, did he? And, hell, perhaps I should have been understanding that I was probably making him uncomfortable. The self-blame came from past experiences of inadvertently scaring off guys I had crushes on who figured out how obsessed with them I was. I accepted that what was happening was my fault, and if only I did better animation and behaved better, Doug would accept and like me. Everyone else seemed to like him, so I was certain I was the problem. Aside from that, I had already put so much energy into my crush that I could not-- no, would not-- see very clearly that Doug was just a nasty person. What I failed to acknowledge was that while the guys I had crushes on in the past sometimes snapped at me, they almost always apologized later and tried to be friendly. Doug didn't even try. In fact, his behavior towards me became nastier and nastier.
By the end of my fourth year, Doug was unpleasant and vicious to me on a regular basis. He never wasted a moment in favoring me with a scathing remark: in response to a conversation with someone else that didn't involve him, in class if my animation wasn't up to his standards, and even on the school's animation listserv. Every time I commented on something on the listserv, he would make a nasty, bitingly personal comment. Once he even said something like, "I hope certain people get hit by a crosstown bus."
By the time I graduated, I was a wreck, and my self-esteem was destroyed (fortunately, I have since regained it, but that's another long story). This man whom I respected and adored hated me, and I couldn't accept it. Doug had even lied to try to keep me out of a class, saying that it was full when I knew damn well it wasn't. He was a remarkably good liar, able to make the most outrageous lies look like the truth and make the truth look like an outrageous lie. I ultimately got into the class, but only because I all but twisted his arm, so to speak. Deep down, I knew exactly what I was looking at: a vicious person. But I couldn't bring myself to acknowledge it. It was just easier for me to believe that I was the problem. Sometimes believing in nonsense is easier than accepting the reality, swallowing the red pill.
If there was something that should have brought me to my senses, it was Doug's arrest in fall 2004, about a year and a half after I graduated. Yes, that's right. Doug was arrested. He was caught in an undercover FBI sex sting for trying to solicit sex online from someone he believed to be a thirteen-year-old girl. My immediate reaction-- and the one I should have stuck with-- was, "I hate him." But, again, I couldn't swallow the red pill. I tried but then puked it up. I felt bad for Doug, making myself think things like, "Oh, he's just complicated" and, "Oh, he just has a problem and needs help." So what did I do? I wrote him a letter. It said something to the effect of that I was sorry about what happened and that we all make mistakes.
For another year and a half, I continued to trumpet my support for Doug and that what he really needed was help, not prison (he ended up being incarcerated for 4 1/2 years). In the summer of 2006, however, I reached an epiphany (another long story). I finally acknowledged that Doug was a horrible person, and that he was possibly even a sociopath. His arrest did not reflect a brief lapse of judgement on his part. He knew what he was doing. It made sense in light of the way he had treated me: in both cases, he preyed on someone he perceived to be insecure and vulnerable. I have met many nasty people in my life, but Doug has to be the worst human being I have ever known. After Doug's arrest, I was proud of myself for being able to see the situation as "complicated", but now I'm just embarrassed.
Now to the heart of this post. Why won't this memory let me go? Because every time I see someone do something unethical, my mind goes there, goes back to Doug. My reflexive thought is, "Is s/he another Doug? Is s/he harboring dark secrets?" I talked about it tonight with my therapist. It is a very traumatic memory that I need to work through. My friend from art school, Flora (not her real name), tells me that she actually struggles with the same thing. She doesn't even have Asperger's Syndrome. But I think that just speaks to the kind of person Doug was. And that is the kind of bizarre, horrible memory that could hijack anybody's brain.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
The Summer of 1998
The summer of 1998 doesn't seem like sixteen years ago. I'm not sure how long ago it seems, but it does not seem like sixteen years ago. I suppose what it comes down to was that it was a huge turning point in my life in terms of how I understood myself, the world, and in my place in it.
In June of 1998, just a few weeks before leaving for what (unknown to me) would be my final summer at Camp Negev, I made a huge discovery. Or, that is, I thought I did. After years of wondering what it was about me that was so different, wondering why I was always off in "my own world" and why I got obsessed with movies as well as any guy I had a crush on, I literally woke up one morning and thought to myself, "I have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder." At the time, it was the closest I could come to labeling myself. Asperger's Syndrome was barely known at the time, and not having heard of it, OCD seemed like the only logical explanation. After a couple years, I realized that wasn't it (and, of course, I didn't know what it was). I compare my experience to that of many transgender people, who have not yet heard the term "transgender", initially misidentifying themselves as gay. Kim Pearson, of Trans Youth Family Allies, calls this mislabeling "in the absence of reflection." The mother of an FTM transgender child, in an interview she talked about her son initially coming out as a lesbian "in the absence of reflection." In other words, her child looked out into the world and didn't see any examples of himself. He felt masculine and thought, "Masculine females are lesbians. That must be what I am." But that label never felt right to him. It was only when he heard the term "transgender" that everything finally began to make sense to him; he realized that he was actually a boy trapped in a girl's body. In my case, I looked out into the world, didn't see examples of myself, and thought, "People who get obsessed with things have OCD. That must be what I have."
Although the OCD label proved to ultimately be wrong, the attempt at diagnosing myself that summer made me aware of something: some people are simply HARDWIRED DIFFERENTLY. This had never occurred to me before in my life. I realized, "If I'm hardwired differently and I know this, I can understand myself better." I came to Camp Negev that summer fully ready to not only embrace this understanding but also to be the best C.I.T. I could be-- at age 17, it was time for me to enter the C.I.T. program at camp. As it turned out, however, camp wasn't ready for me to take this next step. It turned out that the only reason that I got accepted to the program was because my counselor friend and mentor, Jonas, demanded that the camp accept me, which they were originally not going to do. I was allowed to be there, but they would not let me work with kids. For the first time, I realized, "They won't let me work with kids. It's not because I'm a malicious person or someone who would hurt the kids, but it's because I'm hardwired differently and they don't understand me."
The other C.I.T.s, however, had known me already for three years and did understand me. Most of them thought the whole thing was unfair. The camp director told me I could work with kids second session (halfway through the summer) if I proved able to work with them. Do you sense a Catch-22 here? How could I possibly prove myself if they didn't want me near the kids? In fact, I recall constantly referencing Catch-22 throughout that summer. I was given kids second session, but apparently only after director and some other counselors were up until 3:00 A.M. discussing it.
It was around this time that I began to be disillusioned with the social politics of Camp Negev and also see a greater hypocrisy in the world. I could have understood the concerns of the counselors and the director if most people on staff were responsible, caring counselors. But they weren't. Most of them simply worked at camp to be with their friends. I was appalled by some of their conduct. Many of them left their kids alone in the cabins and went off to the staff lounge to smoke weed. Some of them were nasty to the kids. I found this hypocritical at a camp that specifically preached social justice. In fact, during second session when I was at a staff meeting, a group of counselors was talking about an eleven-year-old kid with four-doses-of-Ritalin-per-day ADHD. They said that he was a horrible kid, that he was hopeless, and that he deliberately misbehaved. I did not take this lying down. I told the counselors that the kid was just that-- a kid. He was a kid with ADHD and, thinking of my own epiphany at the beginning of the summer, one who was hardwired differently. I tried to explain that to them but they just laughed at me. What made this even more disgusting was that the meeting was in a cabin cubby and some of the kids were in the next room. I warned the counselors that the kids might be listening. I know I would have at age eleven. Throughout the summer, many of these same counselors were very short with this kid who, as far as I could see, was well-meaning and not malicious. I remember thinking, "I hope when it's his turn to be a C.I.T. in 2004 he doesn't have to go through what I'm going through" (fortunately, years later I learned that he got into the C.I.T. program with no trouble).
From that summer I also took away another lesson that still resonates: It's not what your intentions are, or even what your actions are. It's about how well you cover up any mistakes that you make. Let's use the metaphor of getting caught with your pants down. Socially savvy people get caught not just with their pants down, but peeing or pooping on the floor, masturbating, you name it. They laugh, wipe their hands off, and pull up their pants. No big deal. As someone with Asperger's, when my metaphorical pants fell down (accidentally, of course) at camp, I could not pull them back up with the kind of finesse that the others could. To them, it looked like I committed a serious infraction. This is metaphor of course, but in terms of what actually happened? It was okay for these counselors to go off and smoke weed instead of watching the kids, or to browbeat a kid with ADHD because that was a socially acceptable thing to do. But if I tripped and fell and reflexively said, "Oh, shit!" when a kid was within earshot? Forget it. The whole universe collapsed on itself and within an hour everyone at camp knew and I was read as an unstable person who shouldn't be near kids. Never mind that these kids really liked me. I recall one fellow C.I.T. commenting that she was impressed by how much initiative I took in terms of spending time with the kids.
I should mention that since 1998, Camp Negev (not its real name) has changed drastically and the leadership is much better. It is no longer acceptable to leave the kids unattended or to smoke weed at the camp. As I understand it, it was in or around 2002 when some serious changes began to take place. I couldn't tell you exactly when it happened, because I could not get hired as a counselor. Further down the line I learned that there is Asperger's awareness training that takes place during orientation. However, since 1998 I have still seen this dynamic of "getting caught with one's pants down" in the real world. If anybody besides me gets caught screwing up, no big deal. It's an isolated incident. If I do? People read way too much into it and what my intentions are and what it means about me. In some cases, this type of misunderstanding has gotten me fired from jobs.
And finally, one thing I began to notice in the summer of 1998 that sticks with me to this day is that when I think a situation is going downhill or that something is going on regarding me that I'm not aware of, I'm usually right. I may have had difficulty with social cues, but during the summer of 1998 I picked up on subtle cues that led me to correctly believe that people were scrutinizing me beyond the superficial (ie beyond "prove that you can work with kids"). I knew very clearly when they said one thing and all I was hearing was the tip of the iceberg. "We have some concerns." There was a time when I would have read that as, "We have some concerns." In fact, I think many people would. But ever since 1998, that word has been more loaded for me. "Concerns" means, "You are a problem and we are watching every move you make. And everything you do is subject to microscopic examination." Beyond this example, I can't articulate exactly what I mean. But I've seen it a number of times since then. I have had to learn to read more deeply into things than most people, because they don't have a history of social failure.
Despite everything, the summer of 1998 was overall a fun, memorable summer for me. But I still won't forget the frustration I felt in certain situations. And because of the lessons I took away from it that are still relevant, it does not seem as long ago as it should.
In June of 1998, just a few weeks before leaving for what (unknown to me) would be my final summer at Camp Negev, I made a huge discovery. Or, that is, I thought I did. After years of wondering what it was about me that was so different, wondering why I was always off in "my own world" and why I got obsessed with movies as well as any guy I had a crush on, I literally woke up one morning and thought to myself, "I have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder." At the time, it was the closest I could come to labeling myself. Asperger's Syndrome was barely known at the time, and not having heard of it, OCD seemed like the only logical explanation. After a couple years, I realized that wasn't it (and, of course, I didn't know what it was). I compare my experience to that of many transgender people, who have not yet heard the term "transgender", initially misidentifying themselves as gay. Kim Pearson, of Trans Youth Family Allies, calls this mislabeling "in the absence of reflection." The mother of an FTM transgender child, in an interview she talked about her son initially coming out as a lesbian "in the absence of reflection." In other words, her child looked out into the world and didn't see any examples of himself. He felt masculine and thought, "Masculine females are lesbians. That must be what I am." But that label never felt right to him. It was only when he heard the term "transgender" that everything finally began to make sense to him; he realized that he was actually a boy trapped in a girl's body. In my case, I looked out into the world, didn't see examples of myself, and thought, "People who get obsessed with things have OCD. That must be what I have."
Although the OCD label proved to ultimately be wrong, the attempt at diagnosing myself that summer made me aware of something: some people are simply HARDWIRED DIFFERENTLY. This had never occurred to me before in my life. I realized, "If I'm hardwired differently and I know this, I can understand myself better." I came to Camp Negev that summer fully ready to not only embrace this understanding but also to be the best C.I.T. I could be-- at age 17, it was time for me to enter the C.I.T. program at camp. As it turned out, however, camp wasn't ready for me to take this next step. It turned out that the only reason that I got accepted to the program was because my counselor friend and mentor, Jonas, demanded that the camp accept me, which they were originally not going to do. I was allowed to be there, but they would not let me work with kids. For the first time, I realized, "They won't let me work with kids. It's not because I'm a malicious person or someone who would hurt the kids, but it's because I'm hardwired differently and they don't understand me."
The other C.I.T.s, however, had known me already for three years and did understand me. Most of them thought the whole thing was unfair. The camp director told me I could work with kids second session (halfway through the summer) if I proved able to work with them. Do you sense a Catch-22 here? How could I possibly prove myself if they didn't want me near the kids? In fact, I recall constantly referencing Catch-22 throughout that summer. I was given kids second session, but apparently only after director and some other counselors were up until 3:00 A.M. discussing it.
It was around this time that I began to be disillusioned with the social politics of Camp Negev and also see a greater hypocrisy in the world. I could have understood the concerns of the counselors and the director if most people on staff were responsible, caring counselors. But they weren't. Most of them simply worked at camp to be with their friends. I was appalled by some of their conduct. Many of them left their kids alone in the cabins and went off to the staff lounge to smoke weed. Some of them were nasty to the kids. I found this hypocritical at a camp that specifically preached social justice. In fact, during second session when I was at a staff meeting, a group of counselors was talking about an eleven-year-old kid with four-doses-of-Ritalin-per-day ADHD. They said that he was a horrible kid, that he was hopeless, and that he deliberately misbehaved. I did not take this lying down. I told the counselors that the kid was just that-- a kid. He was a kid with ADHD and, thinking of my own epiphany at the beginning of the summer, one who was hardwired differently. I tried to explain that to them but they just laughed at me. What made this even more disgusting was that the meeting was in a cabin cubby and some of the kids were in the next room. I warned the counselors that the kids might be listening. I know I would have at age eleven. Throughout the summer, many of these same counselors were very short with this kid who, as far as I could see, was well-meaning and not malicious. I remember thinking, "I hope when it's his turn to be a C.I.T. in 2004 he doesn't have to go through what I'm going through" (fortunately, years later I learned that he got into the C.I.T. program with no trouble).
From that summer I also took away another lesson that still resonates: It's not what your intentions are, or even what your actions are. It's about how well you cover up any mistakes that you make. Let's use the metaphor of getting caught with your pants down. Socially savvy people get caught not just with their pants down, but peeing or pooping on the floor, masturbating, you name it. They laugh, wipe their hands off, and pull up their pants. No big deal. As someone with Asperger's, when my metaphorical pants fell down (accidentally, of course) at camp, I could not pull them back up with the kind of finesse that the others could. To them, it looked like I committed a serious infraction. This is metaphor of course, but in terms of what actually happened? It was okay for these counselors to go off and smoke weed instead of watching the kids, or to browbeat a kid with ADHD because that was a socially acceptable thing to do. But if I tripped and fell and reflexively said, "Oh, shit!" when a kid was within earshot? Forget it. The whole universe collapsed on itself and within an hour everyone at camp knew and I was read as an unstable person who shouldn't be near kids. Never mind that these kids really liked me. I recall one fellow C.I.T. commenting that she was impressed by how much initiative I took in terms of spending time with the kids.
I should mention that since 1998, Camp Negev (not its real name) has changed drastically and the leadership is much better. It is no longer acceptable to leave the kids unattended or to smoke weed at the camp. As I understand it, it was in or around 2002 when some serious changes began to take place. I couldn't tell you exactly when it happened, because I could not get hired as a counselor. Further down the line I learned that there is Asperger's awareness training that takes place during orientation. However, since 1998 I have still seen this dynamic of "getting caught with one's pants down" in the real world. If anybody besides me gets caught screwing up, no big deal. It's an isolated incident. If I do? People read way too much into it and what my intentions are and what it means about me. In some cases, this type of misunderstanding has gotten me fired from jobs.
And finally, one thing I began to notice in the summer of 1998 that sticks with me to this day is that when I think a situation is going downhill or that something is going on regarding me that I'm not aware of, I'm usually right. I may have had difficulty with social cues, but during the summer of 1998 I picked up on subtle cues that led me to correctly believe that people were scrutinizing me beyond the superficial (ie beyond "prove that you can work with kids"). I knew very clearly when they said one thing and all I was hearing was the tip of the iceberg. "We have some concerns." There was a time when I would have read that as, "We have some concerns." In fact, I think many people would. But ever since 1998, that word has been more loaded for me. "Concerns" means, "You are a problem and we are watching every move you make. And everything you do is subject to microscopic examination." Beyond this example, I can't articulate exactly what I mean. But I've seen it a number of times since then. I have had to learn to read more deeply into things than most people, because they don't have a history of social failure.
Despite everything, the summer of 1998 was overall a fun, memorable summer for me. But I still won't forget the frustration I felt in certain situations. And because of the lessons I took away from it that are still relevant, it does not seem as long ago as it should.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
I'm Not Asexual, but...
A bit over a month ago, someone who I do not know well expressed interest in the book about Asperger's that I'm trying to get published, so I sent it to him to read. After reading about half of it, he gave me a little feedback and commented on my being asexual. I explained to him that I am not asexual, that I'd been attracted to people before but just hadn't been in a relationship. He said from reading my book that he knew I'd had "crushes" on people, but that there didn't seem to be very lustful (to clarify, he was simply commenting on it and did not mean it as a criticism).
Well, it's true. Any crush I have ever had has not been very lustful, at least not lustful in the way most people experience them. Let me explain:
First, let me say that online dating would never work for me. Why? Most people look at a profile, see that the person has similar interests and think, "Hey, this is a possibility." But usually they first feel something from looking at that person's picture. "Wow, he's hot!" or "Wow, she's sexy!" And then they look at the interests. And then they get together for a date (and possibly sex as well). And then it may or may not work out. In other words, lust comes first, then feelings about the person as a person come next. For me, it's the complete opposite.
Whenever I've felt attracted to a guy, it has always happened after having a few in-depth conversations with him. After I realize he's interesting and intelligent, then I might start to think, "Oh, he's hot!" And then other... thoughts... eventually follow. But this just does not happen very often. I know plenty of guys whom I find very interesting but, for whatever reason, have not resulted in Cupid's arrow. If I rarely feel lust, and if lust only comes after knowing the person somewhat instead of before, then it stands to reason that I, of course, have not been in a relationship. The fewer attractions I feel, the less likely the chance of one being reciprocated. And yes, my never having been in a relationship means exactly what you think it means. There was one guy who returned my feelings, but he was only in the states for a few months; we were friends with (limited) benefits. I was almost 19 at the time that I knew him, and he is the only guy I've ever kissed, let alone had any other (limited) "experiences" with. Though perhaps had he been around longer something might have happened. I don't know. In any case, at the time I wasn't ready for sex, and he didn't push it.
Apparently, it is very common for people with Asperger's Syndrome to either be asexual or, like me, just rarely attracted to people and to experience attraction in the "reverse" way that I do: person first, lust second. However, when they do get attracted to people, they tend to become very obsessive. That, of course, causes a lot of pain when the person with the crush sees the person they yearn for avoiding them at all costs. For this reason alone, I hate getting attracted to people if it's not reciprocated. Hey, I know people like to say, "Well, just enjoy the feelings you have for them." For us Aspies it doesn't work that way. Imagine how you'd feel if you hadn't eaten in days and there was a three-pound bacon cheeseburger constantly a few feet away from you... and you were told you weren't allowed to eat it but to just enjoy the smell. Well, that's what it's like for us. Mercifully, my last crush was in 2008-- six years ago as of this writing-- and what a shit storm that was. I won't get into it.
Just for the record-- and I know people are going to ask me this because they always do-- my being rarely attracted to people is simply how I'm hardwired. Many people assume that if you are asexual or comparatively so then you must have had some bad experience, must be religious or have some moral objection, or must be repressed in some other way. No, I was not sexually abused. No, I am not religious. I don't care what other people do as long as it's between consenting adults. No, I am not repressed. When I was living in New York City, I went to the GLBTQIA center one day to listen to a guest speaker. I mentioned that I have only been attracted to eight people in my entire life. He said something to the effect of, "Well, that tells me that you have some kind of sexual problem." I don't remember his exact words, but that was the gist of it. I told him, "Excuse me, you don't know anything about me. And you know what? I think your theory sucks!"
Well, it's true. Any crush I have ever had has not been very lustful, at least not lustful in the way most people experience them. Let me explain:
First, let me say that online dating would never work for me. Why? Most people look at a profile, see that the person has similar interests and think, "Hey, this is a possibility." But usually they first feel something from looking at that person's picture. "Wow, he's hot!" or "Wow, she's sexy!" And then they look at the interests. And then they get together for a date (and possibly sex as well). And then it may or may not work out. In other words, lust comes first, then feelings about the person as a person come next. For me, it's the complete opposite.
Whenever I've felt attracted to a guy, it has always happened after having a few in-depth conversations with him. After I realize he's interesting and intelligent, then I might start to think, "Oh, he's hot!" And then other... thoughts... eventually follow. But this just does not happen very often. I know plenty of guys whom I find very interesting but, for whatever reason, have not resulted in Cupid's arrow. If I rarely feel lust, and if lust only comes after knowing the person somewhat instead of before, then it stands to reason that I, of course, have not been in a relationship. The fewer attractions I feel, the less likely the chance of one being reciprocated. And yes, my never having been in a relationship means exactly what you think it means. There was one guy who returned my feelings, but he was only in the states for a few months; we were friends with (limited) benefits. I was almost 19 at the time that I knew him, and he is the only guy I've ever kissed, let alone had any other (limited) "experiences" with. Though perhaps had he been around longer something might have happened. I don't know. In any case, at the time I wasn't ready for sex, and he didn't push it.
Apparently, it is very common for people with Asperger's Syndrome to either be asexual or, like me, just rarely attracted to people and to experience attraction in the "reverse" way that I do: person first, lust second. However, when they do get attracted to people, they tend to become very obsessive. That, of course, causes a lot of pain when the person with the crush sees the person they yearn for avoiding them at all costs. For this reason alone, I hate getting attracted to people if it's not reciprocated. Hey, I know people like to say, "Well, just enjoy the feelings you have for them." For us Aspies it doesn't work that way. Imagine how you'd feel if you hadn't eaten in days and there was a three-pound bacon cheeseburger constantly a few feet away from you... and you were told you weren't allowed to eat it but to just enjoy the smell. Well, that's what it's like for us. Mercifully, my last crush was in 2008-- six years ago as of this writing-- and what a shit storm that was. I won't get into it.
Just for the record-- and I know people are going to ask me this because they always do-- my being rarely attracted to people is simply how I'm hardwired. Many people assume that if you are asexual or comparatively so then you must have had some bad experience, must be religious or have some moral objection, or must be repressed in some other way. No, I was not sexually abused. No, I am not religious. I don't care what other people do as long as it's between consenting adults. No, I am not repressed. When I was living in New York City, I went to the GLBTQIA center one day to listen to a guest speaker. I mentioned that I have only been attracted to eight people in my entire life. He said something to the effect of, "Well, that tells me that you have some kind of sexual problem." I don't remember his exact words, but that was the gist of it. I told him, "Excuse me, you don't know anything about me. And you know what? I think your theory sucks!"
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
New York City- An Aspie's Paradise
If anybody were to ask me about the perfect place for a person with Asperger's Syndrome to live, my answer would be very simple: New York City.
Why New York City?, you ask. Isn't it too crowded and overwhelming for people with sensory issues? Yes, but not everybody with Asperger's Syndrome has those issues. In fact, a good portion of them-- including me-- don't. And just to clarify, for many of us (me, at any rate) our discomfort with crowds is not about simply being around large numbers of people, but expecting to interact with them, all at the same time. For as long as I can remember, people have told me that I'm great in one-on-one or small group situations, but not so great in large group situations, such as parties. In fact, at parties, I usually befriend one or two people and go off in a corner with them to talk. Or if I need some break time, I just sit in the corner and draw. Asking someone with Asperger's Syndrome to enjoy large social groups is like asking a Catholic nun to be John F. Kennedy.
But enough of that tangent, on with my endorsement of New York City as an Aspie's paradise. I lived in New York City for 13 1/2 years and for me it was incredibly easy to to forget that I had a condition that many regard as a disability (someone I met online who moved there from Maine for about a year made the same comment). Why? The answer is simple, I think. New York City is as diverse a city as you can get. There are all kinds of people who live there. I don't mean people of different ethnic backgrounds or even people from different religious affiliations (though there are those too). There are people with such a wide variety of temperaments and personalities, much more than I've seen anywhere else. I live in Boston now (long story), and while it's diverse enough that I feel comfortable, it's not quite the same as New York. Hell, a ride on the subways in each city will give you the idea of what I'm talking about.
You go to the F line in Brooklyn, for example. You wait in a small line to get through the turn style during rush hour. Someone can't find their Metrocard, and the person behind them butts in front of them. Typical New York impatience, but that's okay Everyone is used to it. You get on the train, heading for Manhattan. Five minutes in, someone gets on and starts screaming about Jesus and end times. A few minutes later, someone else begs for money. At the first stop in Manhattan, a group of guys gets on and does a wild performance for money, complete with back flips. Later, a man comes in dressed as a clown and does the nail-in-the-nose bit, also for money. As all these colorful people continue to board the train, you look around at everyone riding the subway. Some are trying to read and can't concentrate with all the noise. They roll their eyes. Others have a good laugh. Others still are ambivalent. In terms of the panhandler, many feel sorry for him and give him money. Trips on the New York City subway are never dull. And did I mention that the people who are riding the subway also have a variety of temperaments? Of course! Otherwise there wouldn't be such a wide variety of reactions!
We all know the stereotype, too, of there being a ton of crazy people in New York City. That said, I think it's also easier for the average person there to put things into perspective. Whereas a quirky behavior by someone with Asperger's might be viewed as "weird" or "scary" elsewhere, it might simply be viewed as "quirky" or even just part of the patchwork of personalities in New York City. With so many people acting unusual, it's just a lot easier to see the difference between "quirky" and "crazy". Plus, there are a lot of organizations that make it easier to find and make friends. There is the GLBTQIA center on 23rd Street, for example. How about the Asperger's support groups? Or groups for atheists? New York is also a place where I met a lot of polyamorous people (I'm not inclined that way, but my point is that New York is just very accepting of that kind of openness). And New York Public Library even hosts what's called an Anti-Prom, a prom for GLBTQIA teens. I suspect that New York might be the only major American city whose library would host such an event (except for San Francisco and, possibly, Chicago). You know all the stories about libraries being blackmailed by the religious right.
As for Boston? Well, there aren't lines for the subways, and in the six months that I've been here I saw a total of one solicitor and one "crazy person" on the trains. There's just not the daily exposure to oddness that there is in New York. Again, I think Boston is pretty accepting but I don't think in the same way that New York is. I don't know if, for example, the library would host an openly GLBTQIA prom. It just isn't nearly as diverse and I think Boston has somewhat more of a religious hold. But again, let's put this in perspective. Last year I lived in a small rural town in Maine for about five months. I hated it. It was homogenous-- lots of white, Christian people. Very, very few Jews, let alone those with any other religious background. And as for atheists? I'm sure they were in the closet along with the gays who live there. In fact, to meet interesting people I had to drive to Portland-- 75 miles each way. Everybody who was my age in the town in which I lived was married and had 2.5 kids. At one point, I posted on my Facebook status, "I miss NYC so much it hurts." It did hurt. I did not feel welcome, and I felt like many people thought there was something wrong with me. I did not feel that way in New York at all. As I said, in Boston I feel welcome, but let's just say that it's slightly easier for me to remember that I have Asperger's Syndrome, something many people regard as a disability.
So fellow Aspies, go to New York. It truly is an amazing city.
Why New York City?, you ask. Isn't it too crowded and overwhelming for people with sensory issues? Yes, but not everybody with Asperger's Syndrome has those issues. In fact, a good portion of them-- including me-- don't. And just to clarify, for many of us (me, at any rate) our discomfort with crowds is not about simply being around large numbers of people, but expecting to interact with them, all at the same time. For as long as I can remember, people have told me that I'm great in one-on-one or small group situations, but not so great in large group situations, such as parties. In fact, at parties, I usually befriend one or two people and go off in a corner with them to talk. Or if I need some break time, I just sit in the corner and draw. Asking someone with Asperger's Syndrome to enjoy large social groups is like asking a Catholic nun to be John F. Kennedy.
But enough of that tangent, on with my endorsement of New York City as an Aspie's paradise. I lived in New York City for 13 1/2 years and for me it was incredibly easy to to forget that I had a condition that many regard as a disability (someone I met online who moved there from Maine for about a year made the same comment). Why? The answer is simple, I think. New York City is as diverse a city as you can get. There are all kinds of people who live there. I don't mean people of different ethnic backgrounds or even people from different religious affiliations (though there are those too). There are people with such a wide variety of temperaments and personalities, much more than I've seen anywhere else. I live in Boston now (long story), and while it's diverse enough that I feel comfortable, it's not quite the same as New York. Hell, a ride on the subways in each city will give you the idea of what I'm talking about.
You go to the F line in Brooklyn, for example. You wait in a small line to get through the turn style during rush hour. Someone can't find their Metrocard, and the person behind them butts in front of them. Typical New York impatience, but that's okay Everyone is used to it. You get on the train, heading for Manhattan. Five minutes in, someone gets on and starts screaming about Jesus and end times. A few minutes later, someone else begs for money. At the first stop in Manhattan, a group of guys gets on and does a wild performance for money, complete with back flips. Later, a man comes in dressed as a clown and does the nail-in-the-nose bit, also for money. As all these colorful people continue to board the train, you look around at everyone riding the subway. Some are trying to read and can't concentrate with all the noise. They roll their eyes. Others have a good laugh. Others still are ambivalent. In terms of the panhandler, many feel sorry for him and give him money. Trips on the New York City subway are never dull. And did I mention that the people who are riding the subway also have a variety of temperaments? Of course! Otherwise there wouldn't be such a wide variety of reactions!
We all know the stereotype, too, of there being a ton of crazy people in New York City. That said, I think it's also easier for the average person there to put things into perspective. Whereas a quirky behavior by someone with Asperger's might be viewed as "weird" or "scary" elsewhere, it might simply be viewed as "quirky" or even just part of the patchwork of personalities in New York City. With so many people acting unusual, it's just a lot easier to see the difference between "quirky" and "crazy". Plus, there are a lot of organizations that make it easier to find and make friends. There is the GLBTQIA center on 23rd Street, for example. How about the Asperger's support groups? Or groups for atheists? New York is also a place where I met a lot of polyamorous people (I'm not inclined that way, but my point is that New York is just very accepting of that kind of openness). And New York Public Library even hosts what's called an Anti-Prom, a prom for GLBTQIA teens. I suspect that New York might be the only major American city whose library would host such an event (except for San Francisco and, possibly, Chicago). You know all the stories about libraries being blackmailed by the religious right.
As for Boston? Well, there aren't lines for the subways, and in the six months that I've been here I saw a total of one solicitor and one "crazy person" on the trains. There's just not the daily exposure to oddness that there is in New York. Again, I think Boston is pretty accepting but I don't think in the same way that New York is. I don't know if, for example, the library would host an openly GLBTQIA prom. It just isn't nearly as diverse and I think Boston has somewhat more of a religious hold. But again, let's put this in perspective. Last year I lived in a small rural town in Maine for about five months. I hated it. It was homogenous-- lots of white, Christian people. Very, very few Jews, let alone those with any other religious background. And as for atheists? I'm sure they were in the closet along with the gays who live there. In fact, to meet interesting people I had to drive to Portland-- 75 miles each way. Everybody who was my age in the town in which I lived was married and had 2.5 kids. At one point, I posted on my Facebook status, "I miss NYC so much it hurts." It did hurt. I did not feel welcome, and I felt like many people thought there was something wrong with me. I did not feel that way in New York at all. As I said, in Boston I feel welcome, but let's just say that it's slightly easier for me to remember that I have Asperger's Syndrome, something many people regard as a disability.
So fellow Aspies, go to New York. It truly is an amazing city.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Fight or Flight
Adrenaline
And
Cortisol
And
Norepinephrine
Are
Fucking and
fucking and fucking
My brain
Thundering
through
Constricted
vessels
A Pavlovian
response to
JuliecanItalktoyouforasecondwe’vereceiveda
Complaint
You’retooabruptyou’retoo
Intense
Youmakepeople
Uncomfortable
Peopleare
Afraid
Of
You
It’syouroverall
Personality
You
You
You
You
My heart
expandsandcontractsandmybreathinggets
Rapid
I’m so fucking
scared and the floordropsoutfromunder
Me
And it’s hot but
I’m
Shivering
And I can’t eat
because I have
No appetite
When I have to
Run from
Or
Kick the crap
out of an
Invisible enemy
That millions of
years of
Evolution and
Decades of
Experience
Have forced me
to
Confront
I go to the
Gym
And
IrunandIrunandIrun
And
IliftandIliftandIlift
Or I
SwimandIswimandIswim
And my lungs are
Burning
And my muscles
are
Ripping
But it is not
enough to
Neutralize the
Adrenaline
C9H13NO3
Nasty hormone
That I’m
Enslaved to
Because if I
don’t
Runandrunandrunandrun
And
Liftandliftandliftandlift
Or
Swimandswimandswim
I’ll
Scream
And
Swear
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
And fucking
Hurl something
Against the
Fucking
Wall
And the ringing
in my ears as it
Breaks
Is
Satisfying
But Destructive
So instead of
Fighting
I
Flee
On
Treadmillsandellipticalmachinesandweightmachines
Or
The pool
And God it’s not
enough because the
Adrenaline
And
Cortisol
And
Norepinephrine
Are
Raping
My
Brain
Sunday, October 13, 2013
How to Handle Bullying: An Evolutionary Perspective
Today is my 33rd birthday! I'm on Amtrak, on my way back from visiting my cousin in Providence, RI. It was a great weekend, full of Monster Mini-Golf; visiting the Armenian Museum in Watertown, MA; helping in the vegetable garden (she's a vegan); making vegan pie and cookies; searching for edible mushrooms in the woods; finding out that her first cousin twice removed's first cousin once removed is a famous TV producer (don't ask)...
Inspired by reading Richard Dawkins's new memoir, An Appetite for Wonder in which Dawkins briefly discussed his memories of witnessing school bullying, I presented my views on childhood bullying from an evolutionary perspective. I ended the post by stating that I was glad that science could shed some light on bullying and hoped that it could likewise provide insight as to what can be done about it. I think in some ways it can, although not in the way that one might think. I mentioned in the post that the bullying I experienced ended in 9th grade (age 15). What happened? It didn't just disappear. I did something about it, and I think my solution-- which is rooted in a basic understanding of evolution-- could be promising for many victims.
Let's backtrack a bit to the beginning of this story: at the end of the summer of '95, at age 14, I broke my left ankle during a game at overnight camp (my first summer, no less) and had to go home five days early. My ankle was confined to a splint for a week and to a cast for an additional six weeks. I knew that the ankle muscle would be atrophied due to lack of use for seven weeks, so I vowed to build it back up as quickly as possible by walking every day. That is exactly what I did. While the tendons were still stiff from immobilization, I simply walked about 1/4 mile (400 meters) down the street and back again each day. After the stiffness subsided, I gradually increased my distance to about 2 miles (3200 meters). Sure enough, the muscle was restored in about two months. I continued my daily after-school walks because I enjoyed them, and even incorporated a little jogging. It was odd for me to do this as I was always terrible at anything remotely athletic, including jogging. However, I continued these daily walk/jogs throughout the following months.
As discussed in my previous post about bullying, 9th grade was among the worst school years of my life because the bullying was worse than ever. Just like many adults in my life, I blamed myself for the bullying and continually lamented that there was something "defective" about me. I even sometimes said that I wished I were dead (which I didn't mean; I was never suicidal, not even in my darkest moments) and that I wished I hadn't been born (which I did mean). When the spring arrived, my mother suggested I joined the track team. I thought she was out of her mind. I knew she was just trying to make me get some "real" exercise, but I had always been terrible at sports, with teammates always taunting me. The last thing I needed, I felt, was to do something that I was not only bad at and disliked but also something that would put yet another bull's eye on my back. For whatever reason, I acquiesced to my mother's wish and joined the track team; my life would never be the same again.
I was right about one thing: I was terrible at it. In perhaps an apt metaphor for my social life, I could not keep up with my teammates and found myself frustrated, wondering why it was so easy for them (years later I found out that I have exceptionally low lung capacity, even when conditioned). My track coach saw that I was struggling, and instead of chastising me for what I could not do (as did many adults when I ran into social trouble), he helped me to train. Whenever I was tempted to stop and rest, he ran beside me and kept urging me on. Although I never quite kept up with my teammates, I eventually reached a point where I was not too far behind them either. At track meets, my coach initially put me in the 100 and 200 meter dashes. Although I was not built for sprinting, at least it was a short enough distance that he knew I could finish. One day, however, he nonchalantly announced that I was going to do the 800-meter (half mile) run. I was petrified.
At the dreaded track meet, I struggled through the first lap (400 meters). Ready to collapse, I desperately cried, "What do I do?" "Do it again," he said, because, well, the 800-meter-run is the 800-meter-run! I pulled myself through the second lap, timed at a terrible near-five minutes. Nevertheless, my coach congratulated me for completing it. After that first time, running the 800 became gradually easier. My body was adapting to the daily demands of the intense workout that is running. What happens, exactly? Because of the increased demand for oxygen in the muscles, the heart actually grows larger (it's colloquially known as "athlete's heart") so that it can hold more blood and deliver oxygen more efficiently (this is why marathon runners have very low resting heart rates). The lungs increase in size as well. These wonderful adaptations enable the runner to run for longer periods of time without tiring. The ability to do this is important for the point I am trying to make about handling bullying (I'm getting there, I promise!).
After about a month on the track team, I noticed that I felt euphoric following my runs, which gradually increased in duration and intensity as my body became more able to meet the demands of the workouts. As time passed, these feelings of post-running euphoria-- and increased self-confidence-- gradually increased in duration until I felt almost constantly happy... except, of course, when I was bullied. But the fact that running induced this state of mind-- relatively new for me-- seemed to have significant changes on my brain. One day, while heading to class, I had an epiphany: the bullying I experienced was just that-- bullying. It was abuse. It was harassment. Some of it was physical assault. It was not an "understandable response to a horribly annoying and weird person." It was not me "bringing this treatment on myself." As I strode through the hall I realized something important: What I had been experiencing was not my fault. I made myself a promise: from now on, I was going to stand up for myself. I was not going to let anybody treat me like a virus that needed to be destroyed.
I was to be put to the test that very day. A few months before, my ceramics teacher had sent me to the room across the hall to work because she could not stop the kids from throwing clay at me. She did this for my safety, but it obviously sent the other students a message that I had been banished from the room. It did not stop any of the kids from sneaking into the room where I was working and harassing me. This happened, too, on the day that I promised that I would henceforth defend myself. Two knuckle-dragging guys entered the room and, as always, started taunting me in the usual manner, calling me names, stealing my tools, and trying to throw balls of clay at me. That day, I was also listening to the soundtrack from Annie. Of course, these boys decided to use that against me as well. Before they could say anything, I was already embarrassed. But I had made myself a promise, and I would see it through to the end. If I had to fight, I would fight. If I broke both hands while defending myself, so be it.
"What the f*** are you listening to?" one of the boys taunted.
Normally, I would have said, "Nothing," and hoped that the boys wouldn't figure out that I was listening to soundtrack from a musical that many deem "babyish." Instead, I said, "Annie. You got a problem with that?"
Did they further taunt me about my choice in music? Yes. They even went on to call me a "f***ing circus freak" and told me that the teacher sent me in here because she didn't want me in the class. I maintained eye contact and said something to the effect of, "Okay, so? Why is that any of your business?"
After a few more minutes of this back-and-forth, I said, "Okay guys, I've had enough fun for today. Why don't you leave?" When they refused, I told them again to leave. I said something like, "I am supposed to be in here, and you're not. And I am asking you to get out. Now!"
The boys grabbed my tools and ran to the ceramics room, but not without turning up the stereo so that the entire hallway could hear my choice of music. I recall thinking, "I'll never hear the end of this," followed by, "So what?" I ran back to the ceramics room, retrieved my tools, and returned to the room where I had been working. I returned the stereo to its normal volume. The boys did not come in for the rest of the class.
A number of things happened that day: I have no doubt that the boys thought that they scored yet another "victory" against me. I know that I was shaking while I defended myself. But something else happened: I had at last mustered the strength to defend my dignity. I think the boys came in to harass me maybe during one or two classes after that. Given that their "visits" had been nearly daily before, this was a significant change. Did my teacher suddenly have control over her class when she did not before? I doubt it. Was the decrease in frequency of visits a coincidence? Perhaps. But I think what happened was I did exactly what the bullies were not used to: I stood up for myself. I defended my dignity. I made it clear to them that I was not going to tolerate any abuse. I had won. In fact, very few people bothered me for the rest of the school year.
Clearly, the vigorous exercise I engaged in every day improved my mood and enhanced my self-esteem. Why? I assure you that my experience is not unique. Many runners report feelings of intense euphoria following a run. It turns out that running-- or any intense physical activity, such as lap-swimming-- stimulates the release of endorphins and other neurotransmitters that induce euphoria and act as natural long-term anti-depressants. What does this have to do with evolution? Well, I personally think that every bit of psychology has something to do with evolution; I think without evolution psychology doesn't even make sense. But what happens, exactly? Why the runner's high? Some scientists suggests that runner's high was an adaptation to make prolonged and extensive running-- endurance running, that is, which puts great strain on the muscles-- more tolerable to our ancestors while they pursued prey over long distances (this is called persistence hunting). The neurotransmitters stimulated by running acted as natural pain-killers.
Other benefits from regular vigorous exercise include: neurogenesis (creation of new brain cells), increased attention span, increased energy and motivation, improved memory, and increased ability to learn.
Aside from the evolutionary explanation as to why running gave me the strength to stand up to the bullies, there are some important lessons to be learned:
1. If you or someone you care about is being bullied, it is not your/his/her fault!
2. Ignoring bullies does not work. The bullying only stopped because I defended myself, not because I "just ignored" the bullying, not because I changed something about myself, but because I DEFENDED MYSELF!
3. The best weapon against bullying is self-esteem. Period. Maintain eye-contact when possible and firmly tell the bullies to stop. The first time it may backfire, but eventually the bullies will figure out that what they are doing is something you will not accept.
I should also point out, however, that nobody's life follows a real story arc, complete with climax and resolution. I admit that I got into some terrible habits while at university including overeating and not exercising and went from being skinny to being overweight; at one point I was close to obesity. At university, I also went through a bit of depression for many complex reasons; this was, I'm sure, only exacerbated by the chemical changes in my brain. Fortunately, in the past year I finally conquered my weight problem: since last October, I lost thirty pounds (for a total of forty since I was at my heaviest a few years back) and am at a healthy weight. I have since embraced running again and plan to run a 5K soon. Exercising, whether running, swimming, or lifting weights, is something that has become a regular part of my life and a near-daily ritual. Losing the excess baggage and getting back into shape, I feel like I have woken up from deep coma. In some ways, I am happier than I have ever been in my life.
Exercise is important for more than just the obvious reasons. Remember that.
Exercise is important for more than just the obvious reasons. Remember that.
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