Maybe I'm Navajo

In grade school, I think it must have been grade 4 or grade 5, my class read about Navajo kids. Obviously there was lots about what they do for work and play, what they eat. what they wear, what their houses are like—all the typical ethnographic stuff. What shocked—and thrilled—me was a little nugget of information about discipline. The account said that when they were being chastised by their parents they were never forced to make eye contact. It sounded like heaven to me!

I like eye contact—a quick glance of shared meaning, of recognition, of approving or approval. But if that contact lingers I begin to feel panicky. What am I supposed to be doing—what's the meaning of the extended gaze? What should I be thinking? I'm probably thinking the wrong thing. I suspect that something's being conveyed by that eye contact but I don't get it.

It's not just discipline. Years ago my wife and I introduced one of our best friends to one of her best friends. It quickly developed into love. They would spend what seemed like hours staring into each other's eyes. It made my skin crawl. The worst thing about it was that I knew this was an indicator of "true love". How many stories do you read that have the smitten couple staring deep into each other's eyes? So, was I supposed to be able to do that? Was I depriving my wife of some sweet experience? Did I not actually love my wife?

I very much love my wife. But I still begin to feel a little panicky if I have to hold impromptu eye contact for too long. If I understand the context—discussing a specific topic such as making plans, working through an idea, parsing out a movie or story—then I feel fine with holding eye contact. I feel some confidence in the body language. But shift the meaning of your gaze and the ground starts shifting under me. I can tell that the meaning is different, but which sort of different is it?

As I write this I realize that locking eyes is, to some extent, a surrender of self. I'm not sure why and I'm just starting to think about the implications of surrender. That'll have to be a different post.

Woke up. Maybe.

A week-and-a-half ago I heard an interview with David Finch. He's a man with Asperger's syndrome who's written a book about his experiences recognizing and coping with it. I very much enjoyed the interview but as it progressed, as Mr. Finch described his experiences, I began to feel a bit of horror. His descriptions of himself could, in many ways, be descriptions of myself. So I found an online Asperger's test—one of the short ones that I suspect are dangled as bait to lure in hypochondriacs and the bored—and I took it. And it came up positive.

Oy.

I don't want to be autistic.

But it would explain a lot. And if it is the case, I'd better deal with it. So, the last week-and-a-half have been a bit nightmareish. Every move, every thought, every sentence out of my mouth has been intensely scrutinized against the understanding I have of autism. I've been doing the scrutinizing. That itself almost sounds like a symptom. It's fatiguing. I've decided to attempt a journal of sorts to keep track of my thoughts, musings, findings as I figure out whether or not I'm on the autism spectrum disorders (ASD).