When my son was first diagnosed, the psychologist labeled him with “subthreshold” autism, otherwise known as atypical autism or PDD-NOS. He initially didn’t meet the full autistic criteria because, at the time, he didn’t engage in stereotypy: stimming and echolalia. Back then, I knew very little about autism. The imagery my mind associated with the term subthreshold frightened me. It was as if my child was clinging to a doorway between (what I believed to be) two very different worlds.
Until recently, if someone looked up the definition for stimming, they may have seen: “purposeless” and “pathological” repetitive movements. For echolalia they may have read: the “involuntary” repetition of phrases spoken by others. Through the work of teachers and speech therapists, we’ve learned that echolalia is not only an important exercise in verbal expression, it is communication. Through research, and more notably through the writing of autistic people, we now know that stimming regulates the mind by self-stimulating or self-soothing. Nearly everyone stims in some way or another. Biting your nails, twirling your hair, and bouncing your leg are all common stims.
Pacing is my stim; it helps me focus. In my first round of college, when I was a bit younger, I paced when I wrote. Something within the movement brought clarity to my thoughts and precision to my writing. I composed entire papers and short stories in my head, word for word, before I finally sat down to type. It was rewarding, but I sometimes went too far. After particularly prolific nights when I rapidly paced until morning, I sometimes found that I had bruised the sides of my heels due to repeatedly turning on them.
These days, I find fewer windows of time to pace. When I do, my steps are followed through my home by playful children, nervous dogs, or a husband who believes he must ease some sort of worry. So I sit at my computer with my mind feeling—stifled. With each distraction and interruption, I often have to remind my children, “Let me do my work.”
Stimming can be an important tool for calming anxieties or aiding concentration. So why do we discourage stimming in autistic people? Is it the choice of stim that we find so disruptive? Does rocking or flapping single one out in a way that nibbling one’s lip does not?
Knowing all of this, I still have found myself trying to redirect my son’s stims at times, even when it is not self-injurious. Recently he was flapping and drumming two toys against a chair. His posture was rigid, he was humming loudly and sweating, and because of the duration and intensity of the stim, I impulsively told him to stop. He did, for a moment, and then he repeated the phrase, “Let me do my work.”
A friend once stated that “neurotypical is also a spectrum.” We don’t all think the same way or behave the same just because we share a common neurology, and neither do people who are autistic. I believe, moreover, that neurotypical and autistic are part of the same extended spectrum. There is no metaphysical doorway between one neurology and the next. No pure divergence between Normal and Other.