Diagnosis: Spiritual Autism

This is my column which will run in tomorrow morning's Echo. I suppose you could say I'm scooping myself. :)

Sometimes, I can relate to the Rainman.

While only 10 percent of all autistic people display special talents like Dustin Hoffman’s character, Rainman poignantly reveals the dimensions of this tragic disorder.

Autism is characterized by an inability to relate and extreme aloneness. Doctors can usually identify autism before a child reaches the age of 3. It affects five out of every 10,000 children.

We watched a video clip in Abnormal Psychology where UCLA’s Dr. Ivar Lovaas taught Lisa, a young autistic girl, to sit down in a chair. Children like Lisa don’t look into people’s eye. In fact, they don’t acknowledge other people’s existence. They stare into space, completely unaware of a world beyond themselves. When touched, they scream and contort their faces. They seem impossible to get through to.

Lovaas continuously pushed Lisa down into the chair after commanding, “Sit, Lisa.” He would reinforce her good behavior with an edible treat and a hug. For a long time, Lisa screamed at the hugs and the pressure to sit in the chair. Then Lovaas made a breakthrough; he kissed her on the cheek.

Suddenly, Lisa was conscious. Her eyes brightened and her mouth transformed from a scream to a full-on smile. She looked Lovaas in the eyes as he praised her for “good sitting” and “good looking.” A simple kiss changed Lisa from a vacant shell to a bright-eyed girl. Such is the power of love.

Sometimes, I feel autistic. I’d never be diagnosed by the psychological definition, but when it comes to the reality of the spiritual realm, I lack an awareness of God and his power. I long for connection, but I’m trapped inside this vacant shell.

For so long I’ve lived in my own little world, content to arrange and rearrange the aspects of my life most familiar to me. I’ve been afraid to reach out, to look God in the eyes. I guess I wasn’t sure what He’d see there.

What Lovaas did in Lisa was indescribably beautiful. He woke her up with a kiss! Isn’t that a dream all us sleeping beauties share?

If Lisa could break free from her autistic stupor, so could I. This summer, I looked God in the eyes. Instead of shrinking at His touch, I gave in to it. The simple act involved considerable vulnerability, but He didn’t abandon me. He pushed me down in my chair, told me I was good and kissed me.

Now, don’t get me wrong. That Date-With-God stuff is nonsense; He and I are not romantically involved. It was a Fatherly kiss, an “I will never leave you nor forsake you” kiss, a Megan’s-heart-is-good kiss.

Without early, consistent intervention, autistic people do not recover from their disorder. I still struggle with wanting to control my own familiar space and sink further into myself, but through God’s power, I know I can beat this spiritual autism. As I stare wide-eyed into the future, I know I’ve made a connection beyond my self-absorbed prison. I can hear God saying, “Good sitting, Megan. Good looking.”