independently of one another, there is some overlap. A graphical representation of empathy might involve a Venn diagram—two circles, one for the affective component and one for the cognitive, slightly overlapping, with me standing well outside of both circles talking incessantly about the weather during a funeral.
In people with Asperger syndrome and other autism spectrum conditions, these mechanisms of understanding are much less reliable and productive than in neurotypicals. Those of us living within the parameters of an autism spectrum condition simply can’t engage the empathic processes that allow for social reasoning and emotional awareness. Furthermore, we have difficulty separating ourselves from our own perspectives (the word autism comes from the Greek word autos, meaning “self”), so we can’t easily understand or even access the perspectives and feelings of others.
This explains why I sat in bird poo in junior high school, to the profound amusement of popular kids. Had I access to the appropriate cognitive resources, I might have been able to recognize the motivations of the douchebags who had insisted that I sit with them, “in that spot, right there.” I thought they actually wanted me to join them, even though they couldn’t remember my name or keep themselves from laughing.
Reduced empathic ability also partially accounts for my gross misinterpretation of social exchanges. I wrongly estimate the intentions that underlie the interaction, and in so doing, I make a fool of myself. Kristen and I might meet a couple at a party, and if I feel any sort of connection with them, I’ll pull Kristen aside and start hounding her: “We need to become close friends with these people as soon as possible. Invite them over this weekend. They like us, it’s obvious. He mentioned they have a boat—that was an invitation for us to join them on it, right?”
“They were just talking to us the way people do at parties,” Kristen will say, looking at me skeptically. “I think they might be drunk.”
On the way home, we might argue about it. I will insist that Kristen just blew the friendship opportunity of a lifetime, and she will maintain her position that it’s creepy to tell strangers that you’d like to become close friends with them, adding, “And you should never say ‘as soon as possible.’”
Whenever I find myself sitting in bird poo or demanding close relationships from complete strangers, I can chalk it up to God-given faulty cognitive processes. To me, this is great news. I don’t have to be embarrassed anymore about my social cluelessness. I can’t be expected to predict the intentions of others and assume their perspectives any more than I can be expected to rebuild a carburetor or sit down at a piano to knock out a Rachmaninoff concerto; I wasn’t born with that particular talent.
The not-so-great news is that my affective (emotional) responses are also reduced, a phenomenon that severely undermines my abilities as a husband. Embarrassing myself at a cocktail party is one thing. Not being able to recognize when Kristen needs my support is something else entirely.
After Emily was born, Kristen struggled with postpartum depression. We didn’t recognize it at first. Something wasn’t right, she wasn’t herself, but we assumed that her moods and exhaustion were due only to the surprising demands of being a first-time mom.
Kristen had dreamed of having children since she was herself a child and had always thought that she would love motherhood as much as she would love her babies. “I know that being a mom will be demanding,” she told me once. “But I don’t think it will change me much. I’ll still have my life, and our baby will be part of it.” She envisioned long walks through the neighborhood with Emily. She envisioned herself mastering the endlessly repeating three-hour cycle of playing, feeding, sleeping, and diaper changing. Most of all, she envisioned a full parenting
In people with Asperger syndrome and other autism spectrum conditions, these mechanisms of understanding are much less reliable and productive than in neurotypicals. Those of us living within the parameters of an autism spectrum condition simply can’t engage the empathic processes that allow for social reasoning and emotional awareness. Furthermore, we have difficulty separating ourselves from our own perspectives (the word autism comes from the Greek word autos, meaning “self”), so we can’t easily understand or even access the perspectives and feelings of others.
This explains why I sat in bird poo in junior high school, to the profound amusement of popular kids. Had I access to the appropriate cognitive resources, I might have been able to recognize the motivations of the douchebags who had insisted that I sit with them, “in that spot, right there.” I thought they actually wanted me to join them, even though they couldn’t remember my name or keep themselves from laughing.
Reduced empathic ability also partially accounts for my gross misinterpretation of social exchanges. I wrongly estimate the intentions that underlie the interaction, and in so doing, I make a fool of myself. Kristen and I might meet a couple at a party, and if I feel any sort of connection with them, I’ll pull Kristen aside and start hounding her: “We need to become close friends with these people as soon as possible. Invite them over this weekend. They like us, it’s obvious. He mentioned they have a boat—that was an invitation for us to join them on it, right?”
“They were just talking to us the way people do at parties,” Kristen will say, looking at me skeptically. “I think they might be drunk.”
On the way home, we might argue about it. I will insist that Kristen just blew the friendship opportunity of a lifetime, and she will maintain her position that it’s creepy to tell strangers that you’d like to become close friends with them, adding, “And you should never say ‘as soon as possible.’”
Whenever I find myself sitting in bird poo or demanding close relationships from complete strangers, I can chalk it up to God-given faulty cognitive processes. To me, this is great news. I don’t have to be embarrassed anymore about my social cluelessness. I can’t be expected to predict the intentions of others and assume their perspectives any more than I can be expected to rebuild a carburetor or sit down at a piano to knock out a Rachmaninoff concerto; I wasn’t born with that particular talent.
The not-so-great news is that my affective (emotional) responses are also reduced, a phenomenon that severely undermines my abilities as a husband. Embarrassing myself at a cocktail party is one thing. Not being able to recognize when Kristen needs my support is something else entirely.
After Emily was born, Kristen struggled with postpartum depression. We didn’t recognize it at first. Something wasn’t right, she wasn’t herself, but we assumed that her moods and exhaustion were due only to the surprising demands of being a first-time mom.
Kristen had dreamed of having children since she was herself a child and had always thought that she would love motherhood as much as she would love her babies. “I know that being a mom will be demanding,” she told me once. “But I don’t think it will change me much. I’ll still have my life, and our baby will be part of it.” She envisioned long walks through the neighborhood with Emily. She envisioned herself mastering the endlessly repeating three-hour cycle of playing, feeding, sleeping, and diaper changing. Most of all, she envisioned a full parenting
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