Autism Without Fear: The Last Time I Panicked

by Michael John Carley

We don’t use the word “coward” much anymore. Historically, the word’s role has been that of a weapon, one used primarily on males to “build character” through negative reinforcement; to shame them into a gender stereotype that is often painful, if not for some, traumatic to achieve.

The word has also been a tool used on those with behavioral differences, and non-apparent disabilities, as a punishment for their perceived inadequacies.

Today, fewer people seem to want to use the word. We know so much more about why our emotions can cause us to freeze, to run away, to fail to come to the aid of a loved one, to desert, or to lie. And while explanation is still not justification, our increased knowledge of executive functioning, emotional regulation, and the long-term damage lurking within all negative reinforcements…has granted us infinitely more humane clarification about why “cowardice” occurs.

But the growth hasn’t been without a casualty—that being the desire to be brave. Being brave (perhaps the contradictory—“positive”—reinforcement) is simply not regarded with importance anymore. I feel as though my sons’ generation thinks of it as a labor-intensive “sucker’s game” that yields little reward, and I’m more than bothered by this.

But my disappointment might be revealed as the result of baggage, rather than any wisdom. I am a male, however autistic, who needs to believe there was value, and reason, in going through that painful process myself. And maybe discarding courage as a requisite ingredient for a productive human being …maybe that’s progress. Maybe my grumpy ?“Kids today!…” complaints are a sign of my oncoming irrelevance.

One Prophetic Car Conversation

It was strange that he was worried. My younger son, the star athlete (thanks to a gene pool I married into, not mine), had injured his hand. He wants to be a pro soccer goalie, has played hockey for most of his life, and so his first 15 years of life have made him no stranger to injuries. But despite amazing everyone around him all his life with his high pain threshold and toughness, his concerns over one of the most minor setbacks he’s ever had seemed uncharacteristic.

We were in the car, discussing the mental mechanics associated with the life he has chosen. After the reassurances that his career was not impacted, I tried to explain how (what we refer to in our house as) “messy head” works on us, hoping to deconstruct the human instincts that arrive uninvited, and that can cause such harm and unnecessary shame.

I, of course, parlayed my usual platitudes—the overtold stories and stock phrases—that he and his brother, if not also my individual clients, have heard until driven into the ground. Amongst these platitudes are parables about how fear and anxiety don’t go away, but that we learn to handle them: How wildfires shouldn’t be put out OR allowed to roam free and instead managed; that sometimes it’s only when you become sick to death of being afraid that you stop being so afraid; the wave won’t go away but you can learn to surf it; anxiety won’t leave, but you can cut its balls off…that sort of stuff (I have to find some new ones). Always, the Disney movies tell us to face our fears in the plural; indicating we have to address them all one by one. But what if we have dozens? That’s a LOT of work to do! And what if, let’s say (using my favorite, personal example) skydiving actually doesn’t rid of you of your fear of heights?

The question came up in the car, of when was the last time I, his father, panicked.

As an individual with autism I am no stranger to emotional dysregulation. But my cognitive knowledge of it, as with anything, helps me to feel more in control of it. I’ve also been, by design or accident, the massive exception as an autistic, given the more dramatic opportunities I’ve had with stereotypical male “cowboy culture;” independence, foreign conflict, even gunfire—that all fed, and still feed my unwavering belief in those platitudes.

Not coincidentally I am also surrounded every day by the iconography of my father, a Marine Corps helicopter pilot that was killed in Vietnam when I was two. Over the years, relatives and his friends have instilled in me the belief that while he and I might have had many arguments over politics and religion, he loved me unconditionally. Perhaps in return, I have always wanted to be as brave as him. Whether what you believe in is right or wrong…who today (with something to lose) is really willing to die for what they believe in?

In the car, I answered my son’s challenge:

“In 1995 I ran out of a Native American sweat ceremony because it was too hot for me.”

Son: (Intense laughter) “Wha…?”

(Mutual laughter for about ten seconds.)

“Ok. So, I spent a couple of weeks on the Crow reservation in Montana doing some research. Somehow I lucked out, and a guy named John Pretty on Top took me under his wing to show me around. John was unreal. Not only was he the religious leader there, he was often asked by other First Nations to represent them at various religious conferences. Anyway, one day he said that he and I were going to do a sweat together, which is when you go into a hut and pour water onto these incredibly hot rocks. It’s kind of a purification ritual. It becomes so hot inside that your pores just open up like they never have before and…it’s painful. It’s even more painful in the Crow version, which John was really proud of. He really dug in to tell me how their sweat was the hottest compared to other tribes, how “sweats” were more than the tourist attractions he felt they’d become...(laughing) John was an ex-Marine, like your grandfather. Pain was just his way of communicating with his God, or Gods.”

“So what happened?”

“I started to feel it first in the tops of my ears. It was just heat like I’d never experienced before. The pain, I think, wasn’t anywhere near as panic-inducing as was the newness of it—either a confidence issue or the lack of “How far is this gonna go?” kind of thing. And I just uttered the words “too hot too hot” and in a rush I crawled out of the hut as fast as I could, just minutes after he’d begun the process. The real heat hadn’t even started.”

He smiled, enjoying the image, if only in mind, of his dad freaking out.

“Did you just leave?”

?“No. John actually got me back in. And we finished the sweat.”

As I continued to drive, my son Googled John’s name.

“Dad…I think he just died.”

1995

My contact at the Crow Agency tribal offices was acting more shocked than happy for me.

“I have some good news for you. John Pretty on Top wants to meet with you.” The name meant nothing to me, but clearly not to him. So I said a hearty, “thank you.”

I was 30; four years away from hearing the word “Asperger,” knowing nothing about autism, but more importantly, one year away from fatherhood. John, the same age then as I am now, was stocky, built, and imposing when he ordered me into his pickup.

With mild but transparent cynicism, he asked: “What’s your research?”

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