Autism Monologue, Jibber-Jabber, Info-Dump, and Word-Vomit

The Autistic Trait That Everyone Hates

Autism and Monologuing

What is an Autistic Monologue?

There is a particular tendency among many of us who have High Functioning Autism Spectrum Disorder (HF ASD) to often speak incessantly about our own special interests, all the while being inherently clueless of non-verbal cues of of disinterest from the listener.

There are several aptly described words for this trait within the Autistic Community, such as: Monologue, Info-Dump, and the more distastefully graphic phrase, Word-Vomit.

The Big Bang television series if off the air now, and although the show’s creators Chuck Lorre and Bill Prady have always denied writing Sheldon as having High Functioning Autism or ¹ Asperger’ Syndrome, they have always denied it.

That is hard to believe as the character Dr. Sheldon Cooper had so many obviously HF ASD/Asperger’s traits that it seems that the writers literally used the DSM as a reference book in writing their script.

Sheldon Monologues

If you were a Big Bang Theory fan, you may remember a scene from Series 04 Episode 23 – “The Engagement Reaction”, where Penny refers to Sheldon’s tendency to monologue as “jibber-jabber”. What is relevant to this story and hilarious, is that even after this tendency is brought to Sheldon’s attention, he is still totally clueless and and continues with his Monologue even to the point of Monologuing about the origin of the word “jibber-jabber”. Penny had apparently had enough by now and interrupts Sheldon with the punch-line: “Oh, my God, you’re about to jibber-jabber about jibber-jabber.”

Monologue about Monologuing/Jibber-Jabbber about Jibber Jabber

Bazinga! – They are one and the same!

Listener Beware

Even more baffling to the listener, is that in addition to these Monologues about our special interests, they can actually be about any subject of any kind, and we can even about Monologuing itself, and we spontaneously spout the words out without warning.

As one of my Autistic traits, I monologue often. And I totally miss all the body language and non-verbal cues of disinterest, going on, and on and on, unti the listener is either bored out of their mind, in dismay at this display of non-stop wordiness, exceptioanlly irritated, or they just walk away from me mid-sentence as they just cannot get my attention ti stop talking already!

Rarely am I able to catch myself while in the process and realize that I am Monologuing, but it is the the realization of the effect that this info-dump has on other people that is downright embarrassing.

To illustrate the impact and severe degree of tedium that this Jibber-Jabber about Jibber-Jabber/Monologue about Monologuing can have on other people, just try to read the following excerpt from my Journal without becoming severely exhausted with word overload.

My Monologue About Monologuing

That awkwardly odd Autistic social faux pas – an over scrupulous point-by-point enumerated info-dump loop of ridiculously repetitive rhetoric, shrouded in a ranting possessing a pathology of boundlessly boring banter, rat-a-tat splattered, absent bulls-eye no matter, but still bullets shatter, splatter the page with slight rage, the holes take their toll, row after row, after row, after row?

Yet another borderline-dissociative daunting didactic dissonant display of essay – no more than an enigmatic encyclopedic dissertation of meticulous minutia.

Word-after-word-upon-word-after-word – whether heard or unheard, it’s never your turn, so absent of pause it’s painfully flawed – the missing refrain leaves others so drained.

A randomly roaming Möbius maze of untimely tangential thinking –a sententiously senseless over-thinking mixed-up milieu of tedious word tinkering with no clue where it’s leading – so factually formal, it’s oh so not so the normal.

An unrelenting non-stop circuitous trap of over-speaking that defies common reasoning – so abundantly redundant it’s obvious where all the fun went – so insipid and senseless – countless cues of disinterest, yet I’m clueless – I missed it.

So irrepressibly irritative – so self-overrated – the laughably literal meandering of mindlessly monotonous dribble, once again stuck in the middle of an unanswerable riddle.

That gratuitously grating trait that everyone hates – The runaway train of a too-busy brain – The dreaded and regretted – The obnoxiously monotonous monolithic mountain of unnecessary detail delivered in such vehemently voluminous verbosity that it baffles all it befalls – Social protocol begone – There’s not one at all, and there’s never enough time for the Autistic Monologue.

Peculiar isn’t it? No? Is this not the pitter-patter pondering of pathetically pedantic, frighteningly frantic, dysfunctionally prosodic, impossibly pretentious, irrationally iterative, pitifully literal prose that I chose? Or, who knows?

Was it not oh-so awkwardly delivered in a disturbing jibber-jabber jerking caterwauling cadence? Like nails-on-chalking, don’t-stop-keep-on-walking, do you hear yourself talking? Squeakily squawking? And by the way, if I may say: “Who am I to be talking?” Word up indeed!

Psychiatrists Sometimes Just Don’t Get It

So, I go see my psych in my jammies, and psyched like I am I hope for a slam. I stayed up all night and I crammed, to stand where I stand, all in my way be damned, and show her just who I am – though still half-asleep, barely able to think, finally ending my speech, the real topic now reached, this now what I seek…

“These symptoms I read, they speak to me. They speak to me and speak to me ever so loudly. They shout at me like they know me, know that I’m lonely, say I’m not the only, as others there are out there somewhere, be it here or be it there, or just anywhere, but it makes me feel good to think: I’m not alone.”

“They don’t know my name, but it sounds like my game. Not just words to reorder in some random order, but of a personality that is mine, like those of my kind, so answer me please: Am I ASD?”

She’s patient with me – Though I never really know. My words spill out frantically until I run of breath to blow out any more of the words in my head, then she turns and she speaks, as it nothing I’ve said is at all that unique, my words said before, revolved through the door from others before, she responds as if bored, my words now contrite, seem small and so slight, the life has been drained, like teardrops in rain, as if they were lain in a cold and dark plane buried deep in my brain, as deep as they must, then left there to rust, before dawn turned to dusk, they died in the dust.

She says: “You don’t want yet another label do you?”

I look at her blankly. I spoke to a wall. It replied back and it spanked me. Still, she doesn’t outrank me.

I don’t tell the wall this, but the truth is: I like labels.

Labels identify things. They let me know just what things are – And that means something. Labels are words, and words tell you something too. It’s the exactness that just feels right and makes my world stay in line in a perfect way. Somehow, I feel enabled.

I mean, there are labels on jars, and the bumpers of cars, on booze in the bars, and people that are, and people that aren’t, whoever they are or whoever they aren’t, all prejudice aside, it all just aligns, gives names for my rhymes. And I like rhymes. So read, or why bother? Either way, I feel unlabeled — and even that’s just a label.

So, labels give identity to things; and that’s one thing I lack — an identity. “Who I am” is a hack. A monkey on my back, until it gets sacked, and that’s where it smacks, slaps, and it snaps. It feels so surreal. I don’t know how I feel, which words to steal, to tell what’s real, to only unveil that what’s real to me is not what’s real to you. What do I do? I’m coming unglued, and once again so I lose, this is not what I choose, but there it is.

And there it is again, and again, and again – Unmet expectations. Unmet expectations and invalidation. Still, there’s more I have to say. I have no choice, and…

Pre-diagnosis Journal Writing

I wrote the above in my Journal pre-diagnosis while in post-meltdown recovery mode after an exceedingly frustrating and deeply deflating visit with my then-regular therapist.

You might find the above confusing to read – but after a serious Meltdown, this is just the way my mind works.

In that session with my therapist, she wasn’t listening – likely because I Monologued all the listening out of her. I found her terse response odd. After all, it was she who had suggested to me that there was a strong likelihood that I was Autistic. Since my question left me with no real answer, from then on I was dismissive of the subject and it never came up again in therapy with her.

Misdiagnosed For Way Too Long

Regretfully, I reluctantly relented – Judged, juried, and sentenced to a crime not committed – The glove didn’t fit, but I still took the hit, backed into a corner of Bipolar Disorder misordered.

I resigned to this misdiagnosis for far too long, and it took a serious toll on me. At one point I was prescribed a daily cocktail of 31 heavyweight psych pills a day l leaving me in a pervasive zombie-like state, which resulted in a manifestation of terribly disturbing Tardive Dyskinesia side effects that to this day are still are just too painful for me to think about.

It wasn’t until years later, with a new and very astute therapist, did I get my Bipolar rap sheet expunged. Within the first few sessions, she quickly spotted the obvious Autistic traits that were always there right in the face of all my previous and apparently oblivious psychs and therapists who missed them. I took several preliminary tests in her office and scored nearly as high a score as possible in the “Extremely likely to be Autistic” category.

Finally, Formally Tested!

Fast forward several months later just before Christmas, and I underwent a battery of extensive tests by a Neuropsychologist, which resulted in my final official diagnosis of High Functioning Autism Spectrum Disorder. Along with ASD – Comorbid conditions of Epilepsy, Anxiety, Depression, and ADHD, and I had me an early Christmas stocking chocked full of Mental Health treats!

Happily Autistic

Since then, it’s been an ongoing struggle with acceptance, but I think I’ve finally reached there. Throughout all my years of wondering why I never really fit in the way others do, I now have an answer – And that’s powerfully enabling.

Conclusion

I’ve always said to myself: “If I can see it, I can fix it”.

While I can’t actually fix Autism per se – I can manage it.

And I can see it now with such vivid optimistic clarity that it gives me hope.

I now have my label, and the truth is:

I still like labels.

And, by the way – Tell this to the wall: “Sometimes when you suspect ’em, they really are on the Spectrum”

Footnotes

¹ As of the DSM-5 (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Version 5), which took effect in May 2013, Asperger’s Syndrome and High Functioning Autism, and all other forms of Autism are now under the unbrella term: Autism Spectrum Disorder.