The Journal of Best Practices (12 page)

Empathy involves both processes, and while they operate 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 partnership, in which I’d help whenever I was home—morning, nighttime, and weekends. Of course, I didn’t know any of this until she told me, which she did after Emily was born.

At first, the newness of parenthood made it seem as though everything was going according to our expectations.
We’ll be up all day and all night for a few weeks, but then we’ll hit our stride and our lives will go back to normal, plus one baby.
Kristen took a few months off from work to focus all of her attention on Emily, knowing that it would be hard to juggle the contradicting demands of an infant and a career. She was determined to own motherhood. “We’re still in that tough transition,” Kristen would tell me, trying to console Emily at four
A.M
. “Pretty soon, we’ll find our routine. I hope.”

But things didn’t go as we had planned. There were complications with breast-feeding. Emily wasn’t gaining weight; she wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t play. She was born in December, when it was far too cold to go for walks outdoors. While I was at work, Kristen would sit on the floor with Emily in the dark—all the lights off, all the shades closed—and cry. She’d think about her friends, all of whom had made motherhood look so easy with their own babies. “Mary had no problem breast-feeding,” she’d tell me. “Jenny said that these first few months had been her favorite. Why can’t I get the hang of this?” I didn’t have any answers, but still I offered solutions, none of which she wanted to hear: “Talk to a lactation consultant about the feeding issues.” “Establish a routine and stick to it.” Eventually, she stopped talking altogether.

While Kristen struggled, I watched from the sidelines, unaware that she needed help. I excused myself from the nighttime and morning responsibilities, as the interruptions to my daily schedule became too much for me to handle. We didn’t know this was because of a developmental disorder; I just looked incredibly selfish. I contributed, but not fully. I’d return from work, and Kristen would go upstairs to sleep for a few hours while I’d carry Emily from room to room, gently bouncing her as I walked, trying to keep her from crying. But eventually eleven o’clock would roll around and I’d go to bed, and Kristen would be awake the rest of the night with her. The next morning, I would wake up and leave for work, while Kristen stared down the barrel of another day alone.

To my surprise, I grew increasingly disappointed in her:
She wanted to have children. Why is she miserable all the time? What’s her problem?
I also resented what I had come to recognize as our failing marriage. I’d expected our marriage to be happy, fulfilling, overflowing with constant affection. My wife was supposed to be able to handle things like motherhood with aplomb. Kristen loved me, and she loved Emily, but that wasn’t enough for me. In my version of a happy marriage, my wife would also love the difficulties of
being
my wife and
being
a mom. It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d have to earn the happiness, the fulfillment, the affection. Nor had it occurred to me that she might have her own perspective on marriage and motherhood.

Spring finally arrived, and Kristen started taking Emily out for walks. The sunshine illuminated something important for her—it wasn’t normal to sit in the dark and cry all day. She brought this up one afternoon while we were out for a walk together with Emily. “That’s all I do,” she said. “I sing to her, I play with her, and I cry. I never feel like getting dressed, I never feel like doing anything. Ever.” We walked a few blocks in silence before I said that it seemed she hadn’t been herself in months. Sobbing, she admitted that she felt the same way. We had been living with her symptoms but had misidentified their source. It was not unlike the discovery that I was an undiagnosed Aspie.

Kristen eventually sought treatment and started taking medication for her depression, and she bounced back almost immediately. It was a relief to see her come back so quickly. It was a relief to see her come back, period. She felt better, but her medication couldn’t alleviate her resentment toward me for not displaying even a shred of empathy during that period of loneliness. I showed compassion at times, and I showed concern. But neither of those are empathy.

“You got your life back the moment you returned to work,” she often told me. “This is so hard for me, and you just don’t get that.”

I would respond the only way I knew how—egocentrically and analytically: “My job pays for everything and gives us health insurance. I have to work, Kristen. Never mind that I hate my job, and that it makes me miserable, and then I come home to total anguish. My life’s hard, too.”

Responses like that did a lot of damage, as did my subsequent attempts at guidance: “So, if this is all too much for you, then let’s figure something out. Let’s schedule our days so we can be sure you’re getting a break when you need one.”

She tried (God, how she tried) to explain that she wasn’t looking for solutions. She wasn’t looking for sob stories about my job. All she was looking for was this: “Mmm-hmm. I totally hear you.” That’s all.

“Emily wouldn’t sleep today? Mmm-hmm. I totally hear you. That must have been rough.”

“You’re mad because I got to go golfing with customers today and we had sushi for lunch? Mmm-hmm. I totally see your point. It’s not fair that I get to do those things and you don’t.”

“You need a few minutes to yourself when I get home? Mmm-hmm. I get it. You must be exhausted.”

It should have been that simple. She didn’t need me to fix anything for her (but when she did, she knew how to ask). She didn’t need me to coddle her. She just needed me to listen and appreciate her situation. But you couldn’t tell me that back then. Not without a few hours of analytical follow-up discussion.

Everything changed when we discovered that I have Asperger syndrome. My diagnosis gave Kristen a new perspective on things. Finding it too painful to concede that her husband wasn’t willing to put himself in her shoes, she instead put her faith in the bullet point: because of his syndrome, my husband isn’t
able
to put himself in my shoes. This made things much more bearable for her. Dave doesn’t understand my feelings . . . because his brain can’t process them. Dave didn’t put my needs above his own . . . because he didn’t see I was depressed. Dave makes hurtful comments about my abilities as a mom . . . because he doesn’t understand how difficult motherhood is.

Prior to my diagnosis, Kristen often told me in frustration, “You
just don’t
GET IT, Dave.” Now that we know I have Asperger’s, Kristen still finds herself saying those exact words all the time. The difference is that she now says them calmly, as a matter of fact. “You just don’t get it, Dave. Your brain doesn’t work that way.”

A diagnosis is not a cure, of course. It’s a starting point. My hope was that I could hone some of the cognitive processes associated with empathy, such as perspective switching and behavior prediction, as a skill of sorts, and find other ways to compensate for the lack of affective prowess. Things like keeping a Journal of Best Practices.

Kristen believed that I could cultivate certain social skills that would pass for empathy in a pinch, and I was excited when she agreed to work with me to develop them. She suggested that we start with listening skills. “You’re doing awesome with the talking,” she told me one morning as we were cleaning up the kids’ breakfasts, which were all over the kitchen floor. “But sometimes, all I need is for you to listen. Let me vent so I can feel better.” I tore a page out of the
New Yorker
that was sitting on our countertop, grabbed a pen, and scribbled down
Empathy—sometimes she just needs you to listen.
I said that seemed easy enough and asked what else we could work on, and she smiled. “Let’s just get you listening. I think that’s enough for now.”

With Kristen’s help, I dabbled for a few months in the art of listening. She had been right—it wasn’t easy. My natural tendencies were hard to overcome. Kristen would start talking about frustrations at her job, and I’d interrupt her with unsolicited practical advice. She would stare blankly into her day planner and mention, as if to herself, “I just don’t know when to schedule this new kid on my caseload.” I’d get involved, saying something like, “How many kids do you see on Wednesdays? Where are they located? I can help you make a spreadsheet that includes travel times and then we can pinpoint the optimal time slot for him.” Other times, she made not-so-subtle hints asking for help, which I blew off. “Ugh!” she’d growl, tripping over a tower of wooden blocks. “This toy room is a mess!” I’d stand next to her, nodding: “Mmm-hmm. I know what you mean.” Then I’d go watch TV, leaving her to deal with the cleanup.

The misinterpretations of Kristen’s needs were nonstop, as were my attempts at drawing out relevant discussions. Her shoes were kind of hurting her toes; she wished she knew how batteries worked; she was feeling a little groggy lately. These situations didn’t require immediate action or extended dialogue. Just a nod. But how was I to know? Never mind the fact that I had just mastered talking again; around Kristen, I was like a golden retriever who had suddenly learned how to speak English. I had so much to say about every topic. “Tell me more about your paper cut! I’ll heat up some coffee!”

We inevitably argued as frustration over the process and over my shortcomings manifested itself. “There’s nothing to sort out, Dave,” she’d say, rolling her eyes. “I was just mentioning that my normal route to work was slow today.” And I’d wonder,
If you didn’t want to hammer out a solution, then why did you bring it up?

Frustration was to be expected. Like a wobbly, newborn fawn, I was having trouble getting on my feet. It might have been cute the first few times I messed up, but we’d been at it for a couple of months and I was starting to get upset by my lack of progress.
Screw this empathy.
But Kristen kept encouraging me. “You have to remember that your brain doesn’t process this naturally. This may never come easily for you, but you’re doing great.”