A night out on the town

Yesterday I voluntarily subjected myself to sensory overload. Otherwise known as a night out pubbing and clubbing.

I have never learnt the appeal of this choice of enjoying oneself, but I occasionally go when invited, because I think it’s important to share in celebrations with friends and fellow students, to show myself friendly and happy for them. I know that probably sounds a bit stuffy or disparaging, because that’s the kind of language people use when making fun of certain activities, but making fun or being stuffy is not my intention. I’m struggling to find words to express why I choose to do something so unnatural to me. I care about the people around me and want to show this – and am aware that I can find it very hard to show this. It’s very easy for me to inadvertently seem distant and aloof, and I am not good at banter, which is the way that people often show affection for each other. So choosing to go along to a social event is a concrete way of showing myself wanting to be part of the group and caring.

First we went to a pub. I had decided in my mind beforehand that I would buy the first round of drinks – because I know buying rounds is what is done when groups of friends go to the pub, and sometimes I forget or get confused as to when to do it, and if you don’t buy a round that is considered rude and looks like you’re taking advantage of people, whereas buying a round of drinks shows you’re friendly and being part of the group. I decided I should do it first, to get it over with, so I wouldn’t be worrying all night about when to do it and whether I wouldn’t get chance. So it was all clear in my mind what I would do – we would get to the pub and I would ask everyone what they wanted. I know from observation that this is how poeple buy rounds – they don’t declare it, but just ask everyone what they want. So this is what I would do.

It was all clear in my mind until we got to the pub. And then I took in the crowds of people gathered around the bar, people standing, people moving around in all directions with no clear destination, people moving then stopping, people standing then moving, people talking, shouting, laughing, and my mind felt swept away by a sense of chaos. I forced my mind to focus and realised the first step was how to actually get to the bar through the people.

The music was loud and rhythmic. I didn’t dislike it, as such, but it seemed to be pervading my body, taking away my clear sense of myself as an individual, so the boundaries between me and the music were not clear. I tried to focus on the bar, and my companions, trying to see what they were doing and following their lead. I would sometimes feel someone touch my back, to move me aside as they walked by. Every time this made me jump and took a while to process – why was a total stranger touching me? I knew it wasn’t rude. When I was younger I thought people were being rude and intrusive and it made made me angry, but I have since learnt that this is simply what people do in pubs and bars, because of the crowds, and the reduced inhibition from alcohol. They do it to everyone. People brush past people, or touch them to move them slightly, and it’s seen as normal and people don’t mind. But for me, each time it happens, I jump or freeze, momentarily shocked and distracted, losing my focus on getting to the bar.

My awareness and sense of self and general meaning became more and more fragmented. I was no longer a distinct being in my own space, with my thoughts clear. I was somehow merged with crowds and noise – invaded, violated, confused. I knew this was a pub and that people were here to have a good time, but the overall meaning of it eluded me. I didn’t – and still don’t – understand the appeal. My thought process was as follows:

Must buy a round of drinks. Must buy a round of drinks. How does that work again? Must find out what everyone wants. Where are they? How many of them are there again? Are they all here? Can I distinguish them from the many other people? They are all merging in, rather than a separate group. Okay, let me count in my mind – oh! My arm – who touched my arm? Who is moving past so quickly? Was I in the way? Must I move? Where are my friends? One’s over there – talking to someone I don’t know. Let me count – yes, I see all of them. Must ask them what they want to drink. Who to ask first? How will I remember all those drinks in my mind? It’s too loud – can’t focus, can’t hear myself think, can’t keep drinks in my mind. What if I forget and turn round to ask them again and I can’t find them, or I can’t remember whose I’ve forgotten?

To my utter relief, one friend said ‘Shall we buy rounds or just buy our own individual drinks?’ and it was agreed to buy individual ones. I focused on reaching the bar, ordering a drink, and taking it to a table with my friends.

Sitting at a table is good. Once I have a seat, I have a spot, which is my space, and no longer being invaded by strangers.  A wave of relief came over me as I sat down. I put my drink on the table and focused on my drink.

But then comes socialising. Socialising is hard anyway, but when your body and mind feel invaded by noise, and your ears are so full of noises of music and crowds that you can’t actually distinguish the separate noise of what your friends are saying, socialising reaches whole new levels of difficulty. My instinct is to zone out, because nothing makes sense, and the effort of making it make sense is exhausting, so it would be much easier to go with the flow and zone out. Then everything could just flow over me, as fragmented pieces of the world, making no sense, and not needing to make sense. But that would be rude – and defeat the whole purpose of going out with friends. So I make myself focus.

I know it’s important to make it look like I’m having a good time, to make people feel comfortable around me, and free to enjoy themselves without worrying about me, so I try to arrange my face in a sort-of smile. Not a huge smile, because to fix one’s face in a huge smile would look unnatural and creepy. So just a general happy sort of look. Even then, I’m aware of its fixed-ness, and try to alter it a bit, so it looks like I’m reacting to what people are saying. When others laugh, I laugh. I focus hard on their lips and try to lip-read. When people look at me to address me specifically, I concentrate extra hard and often say ‘pardon?’ because I didn’t understand.

I remember eye-contact. My eyes more naturally look down lower than the face – there’s too much information in the face, so when someone is not specifically talking, it’s easier to look at their clothes, which are neutral. But eye contact is important, so I make myself look at the faces, and in the eyes. As I am easily zoning out, I must avoid just staring at the eyes – must look at eyes for a few moments, then look away, then look back at eyes, then at forehead. Am I doing it right? How are people mentally responding to my eye contact attempts? I have no idea. I am sometimes aware of eyes fixating for too long, and make myself switch.

Some guy I don’t know comes to stand next to where I’m sitting, to the left of me, and talks to the girl next to me. She chats to him and they banter, not knowing each other, but able to banter. He is young and enthusiastic and fun, and she makes her eyes go big and look up at him. I try to analyse it, to make sense of it. It’s sort of a mating game, these whole bar interactions, where men come over and talk to women, and banter. Some kind of sexual thing – but yet not quite the mating game, because no one seems to be looking for a long-term mate. Just a sort of taste of it – maybe practice for future, or maybe to make them feel attractive and sexy.

My thoughts are brought short by sudden cold wetness! What happened? Everyone is shrieking with laughter. A drink has fallen over, and liquid is all over the table and all over my lap. The bantering man is apologising to the girl next to me, promising to buy her another one, while she’s saying that it’s fine. The drink is dripping from the table. I move my chair away, so the drips don’t go onto me. Everyone is still laughing and chatting about it. I remember that this drink was Southern Comfort and lemonade, and there is some satisfaction – some sense of order in chaos – identifying the exact type of liquid that is on my leggings and my legs.

A little later the friend to the right of me says that she’s getting wet. The drink has spread over the whole table and is now dripping onto her legs. The guy who spilt the drink didn’t think to wipe it up when getting a replacement drink. I don’t like uncontrollable liquid all over the table randomly dripping on different people, so I declare I will go get a cloth. I go to the bar and tell the barman that a drink has been spilt and ask for a cloth. He grabs a blue j-cloth and comes and wipes it himself. I watch the liquid get seeped up by the cloth, and also watch him miss bits. As he goes back to the bar, I see the table is no longer overflowing with liquid, but there are random islands of liquid on the table – little rings of liquid, merging together. I watch them, waiting for them to evaporate. They sort of evaporate, but sticky marks are left on the table The barman can’t have used soap. My mind focuses on the circles of stickiness – they are a good focus. Nice orderly geometrical shapes.

The pub closed at midnight, and then we went to clubs. But the description I’ve just given doesn’t really change a great deal for different settings. I had a couple of drinks, but was very careful to control alcohol intake so that I didn’t become dizzy. If I drink too much (and the threshold is pretty low for me!) then sensory overload is even harder to control, and zoning out harder to stop. My friends, however, drank quite a lot, and remained alert and cheerful and able to banter and know what was going on.

Several times I thought about the fact that my friends saw this night as a good, fun, relaxing time after the hard struggle of an exam they’d just had, and I realised that in terms of difficulty – concentration-wise, focus-wise, effort-wise – I would probably find the exam easier. I was amused by the irony of this. And yet I wasn’t unhappy – the people I was with were nice, easy-going people whom I like. Sometimes I’ve been out with people who seem to look down on me a little and can make snide comments, and this creates emotional discomfort as well as sensory discomfort. But this wasn’t the case here. There was friendliness and goodwill. Furthermore, I had made the choice to be there, and I was glad to be there, because I wanted to be with these people, and I was happy for them that they were so happy – and there was no doubt that they were totally enjoying the night out. And I wanted to be part of that – to share that with them, by being there.

I was also aware that, sensory-wise, the pubs and clubs we went to were not the loudest, and they didn’t have the intense flashing lights that make me automatically zone out. I’ve been to clubs that are so loud, with such intense flashing lights, that I’m actually unable to make myself focus, and zoning out no longer becomes an option that I can prevent by concentrating. So it was nice to have a night out where, although there was sensory overload, I was able to keep hold of some kind of focus.

And yet there remains in my mind a complete lack of understanding of the appeal of this sort of night out. Why do people choose this sort of experience as pleasure? And how does it function as a sort of relief from the stress of exams and a way of celebrating? I don’t get it at all. All I do is observe that it clearly does function in this way, and thus I speculate that the actual experience others get from this setting is totally different from the experience I get.

Auditory processing issues (part 2)

I remember at four years old, when I’d just started school, my mother was asking me about what I did at school. As my mind stores every detail, I couldn’t begin to answer such a question, as there were far too many things to describe, so I said crossly ‘I don’t know’. She said ‘You must know – have you forgotten already?’ and I said no, and tried to explain that there were too many things. So she tried to narrow it down by asking me what I do first. I said it’s different every day, so she then asked me ‘What does Monday start with?’

Here was finally a specific question that made sense to me! ‘A “muh”!’ I declared.

‘Ah, you know your letters,’ said my mother, sounding surprised and pleased. ‘What does Tuesday begin with?’

‘A “cuh”!’ I said.

My mother frowned. ‘Listen to me,’ she said. ‘Tuesday.’ She said it very slowly.

‘A “cuh”,’ I said, and then added for emphasis: ‘Not a kicking “kuh” though.’

‘If it began with a “cuh” it would be “Cuesday”. Do you say “Cuesday”?’ asked my mother.

I remember thinking she must be incredibly stupid! ‘No, because it’s “cuh” “huh”, which makes “chuh”.’

There was a silence, and then my mother said ‘Oooooh! How funny! Yes, it does sound like “chuh”, but it’s not really.’ She went on to explain, but I stopped listening because I thought she was talking nonsense. The way she said it (and the way many Brits say it) was ‘Choose-day’.  I also said ‘Choose-day’ until I saw it written down and realised it was a ‘t’ and a ‘y’ together, so I altered my pronunciation accordingly. Altering my pronunciation according to spelling is probably one reason I developed an accent that was ‘posher’ than my family or my peers!

I wrote a while ago about auditory processing difficulties in Asperger Syndrome (here is the entry) and the specific difficulties of understanding accents, but, as the above example illustrates, there are in fact many other aspects of spoken language that make words vary. The same word, or sound, will be pronounced differently in different contexts, dependent on all kinds of different things. Tiredness, enthusiasm, formality, etc., can all alter the way a person pronounced a certain word – as can emphasis. For instance the vowel sound in the word ‘to’ is different in these two sentences:

  • ‘I’m going to go swimming’
  • ‘The train is going to London, not from London’

(Say them aloud, and you’ll see.)

People alter words and sounds for speed and ease of speech. There is a process called ‘assimilation’, by which a person will change a speech sound according to which sound is following it – so handbag is often pronounced hambag, as the m is in the same place in the mouth as the b is. And Roman Catholic is often pronounced Romang Catholic, because the tongue position in making the ng sound is in the same place in the mouth as the c sound.

Most people don’t even notice such things. The ‘normal’ brain filters out the unnecessary and attends to the relevant, whereas the autistic brain lacks this filter and attends to everything, having to use conscious intellect to decide what is important.

Hence, the majority of people have not even noticed or cared about something that bothered me tremendously as a child – the fact that the a sound in bat is different from the a sound in bad. This is something that is taught in university phonetics classes and people learn to become aware of it if they are studying about it – but they don’t need to be aware of it if they are not studying it, because it isn’t necessary for communication.

However, for myself, as a small child trying to find the patterns to language, I noticed it and became most confused and distressed that I’d been told the same sound was in ‘bat’ and ‘bad’, when I could hear they were different and feel they were different when I said them. Furthermore, my mother wouldn’t believe me when at six years old I told her vehemently that they were two different sounds, so my sense of reality got confused, and I wondered if I was pronouncing them wrong.

I clearly remember the day when this confusion was cleared up.  I was 22, studying in Canada and working at the university photocopy shop. One day I was photocopying a customer’s lecture notes on phonetics, and as I placed the papers down on the photocopier, I saw a paragraph about the ‘a’ in ‘bat’ and ‘bad’ being different. It explained that although both words contain an ‘a’ sound, the ‘a’ is actually longer in the word ‘bad’, but that this isn’t a difference that is acknowledged as significant, in the way that the difference between the ‘i’ in ‘bid’ and the ‘ee’ in ‘bead’ is.

I rushed to show a colleague, who was photocopying something on the colour copier, telling her with great excitement how interesting this was. She didn’t share my interest. My customer said to me when I handed her the photocopy ‘Were you actually reading those boring notes?’ ‘Yes, they’re really interesting!’ I said with enthusiasm, to which she replied ‘You’re mad!’ To her they were boring lecture notes, but to me they validated something I’d noticed as a child but that no one had ever seemed to notice. They spelt out something that I would have liked spelt out when I was five.

So, being hyperaware (if that is a word) of all the minute differences in the same speech sound can actually be just as much of a problem as being unaware of differences between different speech sounds.

I study speech and language therapy at the moment, and there is a lot of emphasis on helping children who have the opposite problem of not being able to distinguish between different speech sounds. For instance, if a child isn’t aware of a difference between the sounds c and g, he also won’t be able pronounce the two as separate sounds. So his speech will be difficult to understand, because, for instance, he will say the two different words girl and curl in the same way, so you won’t know which word he is using.

I have not observed a similar emphasis on the opposite problem of hyperawareness of all the variations one speech sound can take – perhaps because it doesn’t result in speech problems, so is less obvious. But hyper-awareness of all the variations of sounds leads to difficulty generalising. People on the autistic spectrum have difficulty with generalisation, and it is generalisation that enables a person to know, for instance, that the p in pit is the same phoneme (speech sound) as the p in spit, despite the fact that the former lacks the puff of air that the latter has, and thus sounds more like a b. It is similar generalisation and categorisation abilities that enables a person to know that the b in bit is not the same phoneme as the p in spit, even though it sounds the same.

It is possible to improve at auditory processing, but for someone on the autistic spectrum, who has difficulties generalising, the difficultlies generalising do not go away. They are an intrinsic part of how the autistic brain works. So improving auditory processing is about hearing the same words and sounds used in many contexts and by many speakers, so the brain builds up a sort of collection of the many different ways that a word or sound can be pronounced. There will always be new ways in future, so there will always be potential future confusion, but the more ways are collected, the easier auditory processing becomes.

For myself, where I noticed the biggest difficulties was in learning foreign languages at school. I learnt French and German, and to my teachers’ bemusement, I could read and write with ease to a high level, easily grasping the grammar and learning the vocabulary, but could barely understand the spoken language at all. As an adult I have experimented a little with learning new foreign languages in different ways, to try to see exactly how this auditory processing difficulty works and how it can be helped. I have learnt a few things from this, and will write one more entry on auditory processing where I talk about what I’ve learnt and try to formulate some helpful tips for helping children on the autistic spectrum with auditory processing. However, it’s important to bear in mind that auditory processing disorder is never cured – it’s a matter of finding compensatory strategies.

Auditory processing issues (part 1)

At church a couple of Sundays ago, a visiting preacher was talking about how some people only think about God once a week when they go to church. Then he added something that sounded like ‘If you’re tall’.

I spent the next few minutes searching my brain for reasons why a person’s height would make them more likely to go to church and think about God, and then finally realised there were no reasons and that this made no sense at all.

So I then searched for the nearest alternative and wondered if the preacher could have said ‘if at all’. That would make sense in the overall context of what he was saying. And ‘if you’re tall’ and ‘if at all’ sound pretty similar in a non-rhotic English accent, other than the ‘y’ sound. I have a good ear for detail and the preacher had clearly raised his tongue in his mouth after the word ‘if’. But I know that sometimes people’s tongues are not quite in the right place when they say a word – sometimes they were going to say something else and then switched, for instance, or they aren’t paying attention.

So, after my mind had been through that careful analysis, involving many vivid images, from the image of tall people going to church to the image of the phonology lectures at college in which I learnt about how people’s tongues are not necessarily in the expected place for the word they are saying,  I concluded that the preacher must have said ‘if at all’. But by this time I’d missed the next few minutes of what he’d said – which brought to my mind many vivid images of my primary school days and the frustration of trying to listen to a story and missing parts and then having no idea what the story was about.

‘Auditory processing disorder’ is something that is recognised as often being part of ASDs, but the concept of auditory processing seems to be still incredibly vague. So much so that I’m not even sure if what I experience actually falls into the diagnositic category of ‘auditory processing disorder’. However, I know it is about processing and not about hearing. As a child, I was suspected of having a hearing impairment and was sent to have my hearing checked, with the results that my hearing was fine. I’ve also had a hearing test a couple of years ago, and it’s still fine. However, the fact remains that understanding what people are saying requires a great deal of concentration from me.

So I’m going to try to explain exactly what I experience when I am listening to someone speak, and how this has developed over the years.

One thing I’m aware of is that if I don’t concentrate when a person is talking, all I hear is their accent, which I automatically analyse in great detail in my mind. I find myself subvocalising sounds they make, in order to get a sense of how the sounds they use correspond with the sounds I use. That is, I repeat words they say, but silently, trying to keep my mouth closed (so that people don’t think me weird!). My tongue moves around trying to get a sense of how they say the word. Not for every word they say, but only if it’s a word spoken in a way I find unusual in accent, stress or intonation.

If am alone with the TV on, and similarly not concentrating, I repeat the words I hear on TV out loud, because I have no reason to hide my behaviour when alone. I believe this behaviour would be classified as ‘echolalia’, which is sometimes seen as meaningless repetition, but for me it has the useful purpose of enabling me to process how words can sound in different accents. Feeling the sounds in my mouth helps me to map the sounds onto the sounds I use, and to thus make links between what I hear and what it means.

As a child, I was taught the alphabet phonically. I learnt ah, buh, cuh, duh, eh, fuh, guh, etc. I learnt an exact sound for each letter. I also learnt how the sounds could be changed by the ‘magic e’ – so that ‘bit’ becomes ‘bite’. I learnt how each word was pronounced by listening and repeating. I learnt how different letter combinations produce different sounds. I learnt everything exactly and precisely.

I became an advanced reader for my age – I had a reading age of 12 when I was 6. But reading was easy compared with listening, because written words are consistent. Spelling rules may be inconsistent, but as long as you learn the correct spelling for each word then you will always recognise that word when it is in print. However, the same cannot be said for words that are spoken.

I shall illustrate what I mean. At four years old, I had a plastic doll with a string attached to her. I pulled the string and she said something that I didn’t understand.  I listened again and again and decided she must be saying ‘Excuse me, I’m pridable’. I had never heard the word ‘pridable’ but it made sense as a word, because I knew ‘pride’ was a word, and I observed ‘able’ being added to words in general.

One day I used the word ‘pridable’, and my mother informed me that it wasn’t a word. I told her that my doll said it. I got my doll to prove it and I pulled the string and the doll spoke.

‘She says “Carry me, I’m portable,”‘ said my mother.

‘No she doesn’t,’ I pulled her string again.  ‘There is a “ruh” and a “duh”. It’s “pridable.”‘

‘She has an American accent,’ said my mother. ‘Americans say it like that.’

This was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. I didn’t even know what an American was, but why on earth would anyone change a ‘t’ to a ‘d’, or add an ‘r’ that wasn’t there? So I simply disbelieved my mother. Besides, I’d never heard the word ‘portable’ before, and it sounded like far too difficult a word for a little doll to say. I didn’t know the word ‘portable’, so how could my doll possibly know it? And how could my doll have an American accent when I’d never heard of America?

The trouble with learning the sounds of your language is that you learn them in a specific accent. As soon as someone with a different accent speaks, many of the sounds change, so you are hearing a different word. This is where ‘top down processing’ helps people – they get an overall sense of what is being said and then fill in the details as they go along. But if you work from ‘bottom up’, focusing first on the details, you easily get lost. And this is where it’s harder for children on the autistic spectrum. Even when someone speaks in the same accent as you, they will not always be consistent in their pronunciation of different sounds.

People often talk about lines from songs that they misheard as a child. Songs lyrics are misheard because children don’t yet have a wide enough understanding of the world, or of language, to understand what is being said, so they approximate to something that makes sense to them. Also, songs don’t have the same rhythm and context as speech – the lyrics follow the rhythm of the music, and lack the environmental context that a conversation has. So understanding spoken language is not just about hearing the details of the sounds – it’s about linking what you hear to world knowledge and context.

While an adult on the autistic spectrum may have an in-depth understanding of the world, the ‘top-down’ linking of everything they hear to this world knowledge simply doesn’t happen automatically, because we process things from ‘bottom up’ – from the details. Similarly, the top-down linking to context doesn’t happen automatically. For instance, in context, obviously the preacher was saying ‘if at all’ rather than ‘if you’re tall’, but my brain latched onto the details of the sounds, and only upon conscious analysis did it occur to me to find a more suitable meaning.

Despite the fact (or perhaps because of it) that I found accents such a challenge, I became aware of and fascinated by the existence of accents quite early as a child. By repeating them, I got a sense of how they worked and how their sounds corresponded with my sounds, but it always required an effort, and sometimes I had to repeat something many times before I understood what word it was supposed to be.

At eleven years old I devised a list of all the ways that different people pronounced my name, which is Gail. My Grandad, who had a Northern Irish accent, said is as ‘Geeyul’. My Nana, who had a Yorkshire accent, used a vowel that sounded like ‘air’ (remember that the ‘r’ is unspoken in an English accent, so she didn’t add a consonant). My maths teacher, who was Welsh, said my name in a way that made it only have one syllable, because she didn’t use a syllabic dark ‘l’.

I used to get very confused as to how many syllables my name had, because it was different depending on who said it. Sometimes there was a definite ‘y’ in there (gai-yull) and there were two distinct syllables. Sometimes it seemed to be not quite two syllables, but more than one. And other times, when spoken by Welsh people, it definitely only had one syllable.

So, if my short simple name caused me so much confusion, and required such analysis, you can imagine how confused I got by spoken language as a whole, and how much effort went into analysing the sounds of various accents. As an adult, because of all this analysis, I can map the phoneme structure of many accents in my mind, but even so, I have to concentrate to hear the meaning of what people are saying, and it is easy to lose the thread of what someone is saying if there are many distractions or if it is complicated. When I watch DVDs I always activate the subtitles, because seeing the words written down is an enormous help in processing. Unfortunately, though, real life doesn’t come with subtitles, so it requires immense concentration!