Abstract image of a brain like shape with multi-coloured patterns and shapes attached to it and surrounding it. Artwork courtesy of Leif Prime

Empaths

On a number of occasions, I’ve come across the view that autistic people lack empathy. This is a popular view in mainstream therapeutic circles and the media and one that many families seem to absorb. Being autistic means some kind of problem empathizing. I’ve heard parents of autistic children comment that their child ‘didn’t grieve’ when a loved one died or that they ‘don’t care about other people’s feelings’ or that they ‘don’t understand emotions’.

I can see how this view took hold. From the outside looking in, it may seem that an autistic person doesn’t experience emotions in the same way that non-autistic people do. The truth is that although they might not express emotions the same, the feelings are all there. New research is backing up what autistic adults have long been saying, that rather than feel a lack of empathy and emotion, autistic people may feel more than non-autistic people. The ‘Intense World Theory’ suggests that neuronal circuits in autistic brains show hyper-reactivity. Which is a fancy way of saying that autistics feel a lot and can be overwhelmed by these feelings.

In our house, our small son seems to attend more to what is unspoken, the feelings in the house, rather than what is spoken. In your family, this may look like a 3 year old becoming non-verbal when there is underlying tension in the household. Or a 5 year old shutting down and not expressing grief when a family member dies, only to develop a range of repetitive behaviors as a reaction. Or perhaps a 10 year old needing to go over every little detail of a conversation in a friendship group, to figure out what the motivations of others were and how to develop a strategy for coping with so many different feelings.

As an autistic adult, I’ve had an interesting journey with empathy. I share it here in the hope that my experiences might in some way help you to better understand your autistic child. As a child, my feelings leaked out of me. They felt uncontrollable and scary. Hurt people or animals brought me to a stand still; their pain became my pain. In the company of others, their feelings, spoken or unspoken, felt as though they were being directly fed to me, like a stream of data that I was unable to deflect. Not much of this would have been observable from the outside as my strategy for coping was to develop an internal world where only I existed.

As a young adult who didn’t yet understand the way my neurology worked, I lived in emotional chaos. I suffered depression and anxiety as my empathy for the horrors in the world and the difficulties of those I loved incapacitated me. Like many autistic women, I gravitated towards a helping career in an effort to do something about the pain I saw and felt in the world. Only I found that sitting in front of someone in the midst of emotional turmoil was too much. I felt what they felt. I continued to feel it at 3am. I had no safe boundaries.

As an adult who has experienced the real pain that comes from some of life’s major hurdles, it has meant developing an armor that allows me to shut down when my feelings become too much. From the outside, this shut down can look a lot like not caring or even coldness. For a time, I worried about this, wondering if my ability to disconnect was some kind of pathology. The reality is that it’s a survival strategy that kicks in when the sensory inputs coming in have reached capacity and I need to block out incoming feelings from others so that I can process what’s going on. The downside of my armor is that it puts a distance between others and me. I’ve found that it takes a patient and understanding person to allow me the space needed and to understand my need for it.

Processing feelings for me involves distance running, meditation, yoga, writing and sleep. It sometimes involves halting incoming information so that I can pause long enough to recognize, accept and investigate the emotions inside me. From this process, I’ve learnt where in my body I feel anger, vulnerability and fear. This is helpful information that helps ground me in my body when it feels as though my mind is in free fall. For my autistic husband, it involves hard exercise, gaming and drawing. It’s only in our 30s and 40s that both of us have begun to understand this. It’s a gift and a
motivation for helping our son to develop his own methods of filtering and processing.

I invite you to move beyond the outdated view that autistics are not empathetic. It’s a view that is inaccurate and also potentially harmful, as many children may miss the opportunity to know themselves better if they are not diagnosed because ‘they can’t be autistic, they show empathy’.

I ask you to see beyond the external behaviors of your child to explore their inner emotional world. To give them time to process what they are feeling. They’ll need your understanding if they are to develop strategies to survive the at times overwhelming emotional realities that they experience. In practice, this might look like focusing less on approaches to change behaviors and more on attending to the underlying feelings that inform them. For example, rather than create a ‘reward’ chart in an attempt to get rid of a challenging behavior, you might like to make changes to your environment for a while to see if reducing the incoming stressors leads to changes in outward behavior. Changes might include altering sensory inputs like sound or light, avoiding contact with people or places that raise anxiety levels, or protecting the family from additional stress.

So spread the word. Autistic people are empaths. The better this is understood, the more respect we can be afforded.

5 replies
  1. Bob Yamtich
    Bob Yamtich says:

    I agree. I think a lot of times NT people claim they want empathy, but what they really want is demonstrated sympathy. There is often a difference between being heard and being convinced that you are heard. For me, empathy is an ability to be present for what is for another person, and I have had some of my best experiences of "receiving" empathy in the autism community.

    Reply
  2. tahrey
    tahrey says:

    Oh my stars, this, a thousand times.
    Sometimes it’s a case of bottling something deliberately in order to be the stronger one for people you know are going to be externally overwhelmed and only open that shaken-up soda bottle later, very slowly and carefully, more privately. Or learn how to sublime the grief with happier thoughts of every positive way a lost loved one touched your life (though that can also make it worse). It can be a bit tricky though if you’re not really sure how to comfort an unexpected weeper, can be sort of uncomfortable.

    One thing that I think might be the case though is that emotions can come and go much faster, particularly the highest peaks and all but the worst troughs, with the return to a sort of neutral state after the worst emotional stimulus has passed being much more rapid than the people around you. Which is maybe where the “stone cold” appearance comes from. The lights that burns twice as bright, and all that. By the time the funeral finally arrives, you’ve long since burned through all the emotion that everyone else shows on the day, without them having seen it, because you were a wreck for several hours after the initial few minutes of numb shock. And then, well… you’ve habituated. Maybe the sadness never even actually left, but it’s become part of the background noise and been unconsciously tuned out. The actual service, seeing the casket can cause a brief flashback flush, but otherwise, it’s just… sombre.

    My aunt and occasionally mother (and apparently uncle, who I don’t see much of recently due to him moving house) are all occasionally in floods over my grandmother’s death (their mother) nearly a year later… and I really don’t know how to respond. I was almost as close to her as the rest of them, being the first grandchild, and having essentially a weekly dinner date with her all the way through to a few days before she passed away. The news passed through me like a rusty fence post. Absolutely horrible. Worse on seeing her in the chapel of rest. But … after that, I was over it. She was gone. The one thing she’d have complained about is being excessively mourned when everyone could be out enjoying themselves instead and living in love. I do my best to sympathise and play along when they crack up, but I don’t know if even then I seem false and cold hearted… it seems almost unreal. Maybe it’ll hit in a flashback in five years time and incapacitate me, who knows. But the pattern of previous such events has generally been the funeral as a final cathartic point after what was already a sharp, intense peak of emotion then a gradual wind-down and regression to the mean.

    And the inverse is true when it comes to things people might think it’s more normal to have a less intense but more drawn out response to, like difficult interviews or hearings, car crashes, awful news stories, new babies, unexpected windfalls, so on and so forth. The immediate reaction is somewhat amplified, maybe cartoonishly so, even if it then persists for the duration of an extended stressful situation. Then there’s a tail-off, passing through the more normal level of excitation on the way… and ten minutes later, when they might still be stressing or celebrating at the more moderate level… well, I’m over it, basically. Rapid attack, short sustain, rapid decay. An odd mix of being seen either as a needless (sometimes, incomprehensible or OTT to the point of fakery) stress bunny, or manic, or extremely depressive, but at the same time excessively stoic as well. It’s the same quantity of feels, just crammed into a shorter period.

    Though usually the babies manage to retain some novelty and fun value, because they’re always up for a giggle and don’t tire of it so much as adults, and I can defintely get on that wavelength 😉

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