Concrete thinking, Asperger's Syndrome and The Battle of Little Big Horn

In 1876, the vainglorious General George Custor, with a force of 600 troops, impetuously attacked a Sioux band of 2500 to 3000 warriors without waiting for support from the remainder of his companies. The entire body of men was wiped out. The battle was depicted in the movie "They died with their boots on."

I have never seen anyone die with their boots on but I have seen soldiers sleep in that manner. During my active duty service many years ago I was in a company consisting of persons like myself, avoiding the draft by enlisting in the Army reserve. In the midst of my graduate study, six months of active duty and five and half years of Army Reserve at home was preferable to two years of service God knows where.

One of the tribulations was KP. About once every few weeks I tied a towel to my bed stand at night so that the OD at 4:00 AM could wake me and a few other slaves for a day to dress, makes one's bunk, and report to the klitchen. Those who arrived first got the easiest jobs. Laggards would up in the most odious positions, the worst of which was scrubbing greasy pots and pans for an entire company using harsh lye soap in boiling water. Lacing army boots in the dark at 4:00 AM is not any easy task. To avoid pots and pans many soldiers made their beds the night before, did not remove their clothing or boots, and slept on the hard floor. I was no such fool. KP could last 16 hours. Periodically a mess sergeant would arrive, run his finger around the edge of the soapy water, and, if it came out the least bit greasy, make me empty the sink, start again with fresh water, and redo the last two hours work. Nevertheless, I refused to sleep with my boots on.


Asperger's Syndrome is a form of autism occurring in higher functioning persons. Seventy-five percent of autistic child never learn to talk. Almost all have communication deficits. They also have social deficits and may not form relationships. They also may have stereotyped behaviors such as hand flapping, spinning in circles. They are preoccupied with routine and become upset when they encounter new situations. Children with Asperger's tend to be of average or bright intelligence and do develop language, although their speech may seem somewhat poeculiar. They share the other characteristics of autism.

I was asked to consult about a 12 year old sixth grader with the diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome. Alex was verbal, but easily upset with changes in his routine.
His IQ was in the low average range. Alex has been wearing the same sneakers since third grade. He refuses to wear his new sneakers despite the fact that the old ones are torn and ratty. His school psychologist had worked with him and was able to get him to try on the new sneakers and wear them to gym. She provided incentives for him to continue to wear the better fitting, more attractive sneaks. "Do you think you might now wear these all the time?" she asked. "No I like to take off my sneakers when I go to bed" was his reply.

It occurred to me that Alex had a peculiar concrete type of thinking that makes his interpret things literally. Most children his age would accept as a given that people don't sleep with their shoes on and "all the time" referred only to waking hours. I wondered how much of Alex's "melt downs" and other peculiariities wer language based with misterpretation of communications from other leading to his fears and frequent temper outbursts. Alex told me that he doesn't eat apples when he is hungry becayuse they speed up his digestion and are unhealthy. He does not play soccer because "it makes you shrink." Had he been told something stunts his growth? Can I teach him to deal with abstractions, understand humor, recognize inconsistencies and absurditiies. Or are these the very essance of autistic reason and beyond interventions? We'll see.

I married a jackrabbit

My wife is ADHD. Her entire family is ADHD. I am not. She has an ADHD internal combustion engine. I’m a run down AA battery.

We like to walk every evening during the warmer months. Our new house is part of a development but it’s out in the boonies far enough that we can be on country roads in five minutes. We enjoy walking past the horse farms, the estates, the corn fields, the barns and silos. We share that interest. But our styles differ. I like to stroll. She sprints. I have long legs. Hers are short. I can’t keep up with her. When she senses that she has opened up too great a distance she makes a loop and comes back. She winds up walking a lot more steps than I do. We hold hands until her ADHD accelerator kicks in and she opens up a fast ten yards and the process repeats. 0

I’m sure there is a vastly divergent psychological profile. She lives life faster than me. She thinks faster. She talks faster and gets more words in. She starts sentences and doesn’t finish them before starting the next sentence. When she talks to her sister on the telephone the wires heat up and don’t attempt to get me for at least 45 minutes. Her mom is good for an hour. She accuses me of not being talkative. I accuse her of not explaining things fully so that I understand. She insists she told me things that I never heard. I’m sure she said something related to what she thinks she said but it never registered. It’s not that I’m not communicating. It’s just that she doesn’t give me enough time for the thought to take shape and the words to come out.

Perhaps I don’t talk enough. But I talk quality. When I say something it pays to listen.

She reads my blogs. She may slow down enough to let me know how wrong I am. I may hear her.

Amusement parks

When my children were young I dutifully took them to amusement parks. This piece was written at that time. Now that I have grandchildren the same thoughts arise, although I do enjoy Disneyworld.

I do not like amusement parks
To me they're not appealing
I'd rather swim with schools of sharks
Than venture Ferris wheeling.

I do not like amusement parks
I've found they don't amuse me.
I think I hate amusement parks.
Who needs them to abuse me?

While some are whirling all around
With great acceleration
I stay safely on the ground
And practice moderation.

A stomach was not meant to churn
(It's really not supposedta')
It's clear that I will never learn
To brave the roller coaster.

I'd rather ride the Carousel
It's fine for one who's cautious.
Cause I can hold on very well
Without becoming nauseous.

But other rides that I have tried
My kishkus finds upsettable.
Whatever prompts me to decide
I later find regretable.

On Hurrican, Cyclose, Comet, Whip
A thousand folk make merry.
But when my stomach starts to flip
Is this trip necessary?

When others ride the Tilt-A-Whirl
I just refuse to go.
Around the heavens, how they twirl
While I wait down below.

Like mighty Gods they rule the skies
And I a tiny worm, a
Serpent not equipped to rise
Above the terra firma.

Once in a moment weak I dared
To ride the fearsome Rocket.
I climbed aboard, no effort spared,
My ticket in my pocket.

The engine started with a roar.
I knew I'd met my master.
I braced my feet against the floor.
Ten heroes shouted "Faster."

Three times around the missile sped.
I clutched the handles frantically.
The world revolved about my head,
Pacific to Atlantically.

Once more about the Rocket turned,
My vision growing blurry.
My eyes bulged out, my forehead burned.
The children laughed, "Don't worry!"

And when,atlast,the ride was done
And heavens ceased their turning.
I made my exit on the run,
With stomach fully churning.

At last I found an empty bench
To regain equilibrium.
My nerves had had an awful wrench,
And so had my vestibulum.

Right then I vowed forevermore
Precisely and specifically
That I'd abhor, ignore, withdraw
From things that worked centrifically.

Though I don't like amusement parks
I'm sure there's much to say for them...
Now I don't mind amusement parks
Because I stay away from them.

Jewel box

The lid was stuck, the pin askew
You warned me not to try.
My projects raise a cry and hue
My fixing you decry.

That box is dear to me you cried
Inlaid with oak and teak.
But fragile is the h8inge inside
Just waiting these to break.

No need to worry, my sweet wife.
Wipe sorrow from your face.
There's not the slightest cause for strife.
I'll set that pin in place.
With one swift tap the rod I hit.
The pin came out...but the hinge was split.

The dark in the closet

The dark in the closet: A bedtime story

by

Popop


Jack was a brave boy. Just three years old he could jump from the sofa to the ottoman without ever falling, (even though his parents were not pleased when he did that). He could run as fast as a rabbit. He could lift a very heavy chair and move it to the corner so he would have room to play with his trains and trucks. He was also a very smart boy. He knew the names of all the dinosaurs. (Tyranasaurus Rex was his favorite.) He went to pre-school three days a week and sometimes learned bad words from other children, which did not please his teacher or his mom or his dad or his grandmom Jo. He could not understand why it was OK to say “stupendous” but when he said a shorter word, which needn’t be written here, he got in BIG trouble. So he didn’t say the shorter word, except once in a while it slipped out and then he had to have a serious talk with dad and then warm up the time out chair.
Best of all Jack liked to pretend he was Spiderman. He ran and jumped and lifted and caught make pretend bad guys, as he saw on TV. Once in a while that got a little out of hand as well so he had to have more serious talks with dad and the time out chair didn’t get too lonely. But most of the time Jack was a well behaved –well pretty active—little boy who made everyone happy when he was around.

But Jack had one big problem. Jack didn’t like the dark. Even though his mom and dad told him the dark was there to help him sleep at night next to his trusty dog Tillygirl, Jack just wasn’t very comfortable with the light out. So his parents left the light on at night and he slept
fine… except for the closet.. In the corner of his room, next to his toy chest, was his clothes closet where his best dress-up clothes were hung. Dad told him there was nothing else in that closet but Jack was not so sure. How can you tell there is nothing else if it’s so dark you can’t see inside?” Jack knew about witches and monsters and bad guys from TV. He also was told many times about fairytales not being real but still…if you can’t see inside the closet how do you really know?” At least that’s what Jack thought about when he was trying to close his eyes and go to sleep. And sometimes it was worse than that. If mommy left the closet door open the darkness might escape and come into his room and then anything might happen!
Jack’s mom and dad didn’t know what to do. How could they show Jack that the dark was friendly and not scary? Do you have any ideas? Well they didn’t. This was too bad because Jack was such a happy boy and this was the only thing that was spoiling it (except for the occasional talks with dad and time out, but those weren’t so bad either).
Well, that went on for a while until Grandmom Jo had a very good idea.
“Lets make a trap for the darkness,” she suggested. “I’ve got a very special shoebox that likes it dark inside. We’ll put this box here right outside the closet door and I’ll make a tiny, little hole in the side. It’s a very special hole. Things can go into it and get trapped. If the darkness comes out of the closet it will go right into this hole and be trapped inside the box. Nothing can escape so you don’t have to worry.”
So Grandmom Jo put the box by the door and I guess it worked because the darkness stayed in the closet, and Jack went to sleep, and that’s the end of the story. Good night.

On psychs and writing

In my early years as a psychologist I was able to publish a fair number of research papers in professional journals. I was doing what had been drilled into me as a graduate student at Penn. Psychology (at least empirical psychology) was a scientific discipline and we are obliged to expand our science by publishing controlled, meaningful research in respectable, refereed journals. After several years of doing just that, most often in the area of mental retardation and habilitation of handicapped persopns, I had an epiphany. It wasn't the research that motivated me. Most of my studies were not that important or influential. It was the writing that drove me on--a visible validation of who I am and what I do. Compulsively I maintained by curriculum vitae and even saved copies of each paper in folders for my children, who would one day be grateful for the opportiunity to learn what their father did. They never did read those admittedly boring papers and I have have long since since discarded them. However, I continued to write in a more creative style outside the realm of psychology. I was less than successful. Of my 12 published books, only one was an attempt to reach a more general audience. Notes and Blots was a collection of short, autobiographical and annecdotal pieces. It was piublished, never marketed, and sold 43 copies. However it is still available on Amazon.com and occcasionally I buy a few used copies for friends.

There have been a few well known psychologists who were successful as popular writers. Hiam Ginot's Between Parent and Child, B. F. Skinner's Walden Two, and Robert Lindner's Fifty Minute Hour and Rebel Without a Cause are some notable examples.

My efforts to publish my first novel, Shrink, are on-going and somewhat painful.
I have learned that the actual writing is the least important part of the process. Finding a publisher, editing to specifications, and marketing are the most time consuming and least satisfying tasks. Presently I am having problems communicating with a review manager and have a bad premonmition that this odyssey may not end well for me. Time will tell. If successful, I will undoubtedly continue my feeble efforts at becoming a popular psychology writer. If not, I'm not sure that my
motivation will sustain itself.