Hey, there! It’s Joe Harman again with some more thoughts on the autism experience and common words and concepts within the neurodivergent community. I’d like to say that I’m doing this because I was so inspired by the positive responses to my previous piece, which is true but not the entire reason. I’m writing this because my last essay reminded me of who I am: a stand-up comedian terrified of doing stand-up comedy. If you’re wondering what my comedian credentials are, so am I! When you google my name, make sure to add descriptive search words like “autism”, “comedian”, and “rakishly good-looking”; you should find me pretty quick. Why am I terrified of doing stand-up comedy? That’s actually a very fair question that I hope you were actually wondering as you read this instead of letting me control your narrative. In truth, it’s not the stand-up that’s scary; stand-up is actually good for my autism as it gives me my preferred social structure: I get to info-dump about whatever I want without making eye contact while everyone else has to be silent or get asked to leave. (10/10 social structure, would recommend.) It’s everything around it not yet corrected to be welcoming to neurodivergent folk that terrifies me: loud crowded bars and clubs, confusing neurotypical social rules for networking, and the eternal threat of microphone feedback triggering a meltdown so bad I have to go stim dance for five minutes just to calm down. Yes, I look great dancing—years of flapping have really improved my shoulder work—but that’s not the point of stimming. What is the point of stimming? I hope you’re asking yourself (instead of me because this is an essay, not a “Dora the Explorer” episode). Like so much of the neurodivergent experience, it depends on who you ask, and it looks like we’re asking me right now. It’s almost as if that was by design (sarcasm).
First, we need to understand what the wider community refers to as “stimming”. “The dictionary defines…” is a terrible speech writing faux pas, but it serves a purpose (besides making you think the writer regularly consults dictionaries). Having objective definitions is how we reach common understandings and editorializing those definitions is how we communicate our personal understandings. For example: I would say the definition of a Muppet is one of any variety of puppet characters whose design follows the edicts of the “Henson style” and are owned by any of the franchises legally allowed or previously allowed to use the Muppet designation. Dictionary.com says it’s simply “a stupid person”. I thought my definition was pretty accurate, but now the dictionary has me feeling like a muppet. But I digress (on purpose to make that muppet joke). What is the definition of “stimming”? A quick google search will tell you “Stimming is a term for self-stimulatory behaviors, often repetitive actions or movements, that individuals engage in to regulate their sensory input, manage emotions, or express themselves.” [Google Ai overview] As I’ve learned from people trying to understand my own needlessly fancy word choices (notice how I didn’t say “pompously loquacious vernacular”), you shouldn’t use flowery language when the people who experience what you’re describing have much simpler ways of describing it.
If you ask a limitedly verbal person what stimming is, they might say “this” and start flapping. If you ask a fully verbal or device-assisted ND person what stimming is, they might go into their favorite incense or other sensory distractions. If you ask me, which we’re already pretending you did, I will write a needlessly long essay about my personal experiences with stimming. My early stimming behavior is what clued therapists and doctors into my seemingly subtle autism; well, that and methodically dismantling toys in their office while avoiding eye contact.
In acting classes, my teachers would ask me why I was rocking back and forth for my entire monologue—I genuinely thought I was standing perfectly still (and still maintain that maybe they were the ones moving due to being rocked by my performance). I was notorious for ruining grade school slumber parties by hiding under beds when I got overwhelmed (why were they being so loud at midnight!?). This is how stimming develops; a stressor is introduced, sensory confusion triggers an unrelated compulsive response, and for whatever reason it in turn triggers a comfort response. When I experience social anxiety, my compulsive response is to turn and walk away from the situation while also not wanting to be rude to the folk unintentionally causing panic. As a result, I’ve developed a sort of convulsive twitch—my body trying to bolt while forcing itself to stay. The conflicting actions have become their own response. A “comfort response” is not exactly comforting; what I’m describing here is more like an itch that can almost be scratched but never completely satisfied so the action itself becomes the outlet, even if the itch never fully goes away. Clenching my chest muscles as a basic panic response doesn’t make me feel safe or prepared for danger because I’m not technically in danger, but my OCD is satisfied that my body is doing something. Unfortunately, this is where my body and I have irreconcilable differences, and I don’t know how to divorce myself from my body (or even what kind of alimony I’d have to pay if I did). All stimming is valid, but the initial reactionary forms of it can be disruptive and disrespectful like any primal coping mechanism: passing gas, scratching itches, or really digging into your nostril to get that booger. Establishing healthy stim responses is a natural part of autistic neurodivergent development regardless of diagnosis, so early intervention can help identify who needs guidance developing that form of coping, rather than being forced into neurotypical alternatives. It’s been a few sentences since I’ve made a joke (the nose picking comment is just honest), so we better move on to my personally developed stim techniques before you get bored and fall aslee– WAKE UP! I STILL HAVE PERSONAL STIMS TO DISCUSS!
I received an autism diagnosis as a teenager, but the medical community’s unfamiliarity with the struggles of seemingly independent autistics at the time meant none of the supports offered were right for me. It was like giving the care regimen of a husky to a pug; one needs strong boundaries and a lot of exercise while the other needs a calm place to chill while they desperately try to just breathe evenly. (It’s me. I’m the pug.) I struggled for a long time as my need for safe healthy stimming grew, but thankfully there are plenty of commonly accepted neurotypical coping mechanism that can be adapted for neurodivergents. Headphones, mobile video games, and fidget toys have ALL been demonized by whatever generation was already old when they were popularized only to go on to be social norms. And that demonization would often lead to bans of otherwise innocuous behavior, only to have those bans be lifted due to the positive effect on neurodivergents (you’re welcome).
Constantly wearing headphones was my first conscious adaptation for my neurodivergence and the behavior has stuck with me through all of my evolutions. (I like that phrasing; it makes me sound like a Pokémon!) You might be wondering why I’m including this in a list of stim techniques instead of sensory devices (thank you for knowing the difference if you were). As with many fellow AuDHD folk (autism + ADHD), headphones are usually pulling double duty, like a librarian who had to become an IT expert in the mid-00’s. While noise cancelling technology has been a game-changer in achieving quiet, that’s not what I originally used headphones for. Often when a neurodivergent brain struggles to tune out insignificant sensory input, having a specific familiar or comforting sound to focus on forces their brain to prioritize other inputs behind it. Like many neurodivergents, I use headphones to allow for a constant stream of audio input as is appropriate for the situation. By keeping my overactive brain partially distracted, I can give full attention to a task. When I’m writing, I listen to lofi music without lyrics so that I don’t confuse what I’m writing with what I’m hearing; when I’m playing video games, I listen to D&D comedy podcasts; and when I exercise, I listen to my favorite bands. (I listen to a LOT of lofi and podcasts.)
For some reason in 2020, my sensory needs hit an all time high (something about crows and ravens; I know it involved almost 20 corvids), and cheap outlet store headphones simply weren’t doing the trick anymore. Like many accommodation-dependent folk, I had already discovered the classic disability advice “always spend at least $50 to get dependable headphones” and spent $60 on more “economically priced” (read: cheaper) noise-cancelling headphones. Now, I’ve never personally entered the Matrix, but that’s what I imagine it felt like the first time I had experienced real silence in years. All at once it clicked that I couldn’t automatically hear the loudest motor in the building that everyone else just drowned out (usually a central air conditioner but recently opened freezers can be a little louder). And what sweet relief it was! Finally, I had a solution that wasn’t just a louder distraction because now the original distraction was removed. Very often, the best stim is not needing to stim at all.
When I first received my autism diagnosis, I was sent to KU Medical Center’s new-at-the-time autism program, where they insisted the only way to manage being autistic was to follow a rigid schedule and never play video games again. I respectfully disagreed and never went back. I think that’s when I first figured out what has become my entire professional thesis: it doesn’t matter how much research an academic professional does; autistics know ourselves better than the “experts” (unless they are the academic expert, of course). That might sound a little petty, but that autism program has been phased out and replaced while I’m here 20 years later (still with no college degree) being asked for my expert opinion; I think I might have earned a little pettiness. I had insisted that video games were the only thing that kept me centered and that taking my Gameboy everywhere I went was vital to my comfort; they had insisted that plenty of “normal” people could get through a day without any video games. Decades later after the release of the iPhone and Angry Birds, and almost every single “normal” person has a video game device with one game they’re addicted to in their pocket. I didn’t have a behavior problem; I was a trend-setter!
Video games are an easy enough to understand stimming behavior: recognizing patterns and rhythms is rewarded with either points or continued story with minimal physical effort. For many neurodivergents, this is like having a “free dopamine” button for behavior we automatically participate in. While that can definitely lead to perseveration (inability to shift focus), that’s not something unique to neurodivergents. Video game addiction is just dopamine addiction with a specific external trigger, something every neurotype is susceptible to. There were a lot of discussions with my parents about how video games were rotting my brain, and then those discussions would stop so that they could relax playing free cell and tile-matching games on their computers for hours at a time. Please, by all means, manage your children or your screen-time to healthy levels; just also recognize what positive effects video games can have on comfort and focus. A good portion of this very essay was conceived while playing Marvel Rivals and listening to a “cartoon lofi” spotify playlist!
Fidget toys became a real topic of discussion when the “spinner” variety gained infamy as a “classroom disruptor.” Speaking as someone who has also gained infamy as a classroom disruptor (as many neurodivergents do), I can confirm: the fidget spinner did nothing wrong! What set it apart from its banned predecessors—pogs, slap bracelets, yo-yos—is that its bans were actually reconsidered after people noticed how much it helped neurodivergent students focus. The best we ever got before that was when schools lifted the yo-yo ban just long enough to host a “professional yo-yo artist” assembly and run a Duncan-branded fundraiser… only to re-ban them once they remembered they were basically selling kids concealable plastic flails. And the thing that’s especially hypocritical is that continued fidget toy bans (despite neurodivergent benefits) are often done by neurotypical-identifying adults who disparage pop-its while chain-vaping and playing Candy Crush behind their emotional-support Stanley cup full of coffee on the teacher’s patio. All stimming is valid, it’s just not always appropriate in certain social contexts, like screaming in a theater or breakdancing at a funeral (wakes and visitations are grey areas). Being a mature neurodivergent means learning which stims are appropriate when and where. (Being able to avoid inappropriate stimming is an entirely different ability altogether).
However you might stim with your fidget toy; stretch it, rub it, twist it, (pull it, bop it); that stim is indicative of what makes us feel comfortable in everyday situations, which is incredibly vital for neurodivergent self-advocacy and personal management. An autistic person might have insomnia until their staff notices they stim with soft smooth fabric swatches and switch their sheets to high-performance cotton, an ADHD person might struggle with memory patterns until they learn new mental tricks playing with their light and sound memory game, and a sensory-seeking AuDHD-er might finally focus on homework after gnawing on their chewlery (mouth stimming toy) like it’s a steak that you swore you knew how to reverse sear without googling and now have to save face. Fidget toys are the (metaphorical) ice cream tasting spoons that let us experience new sensory input in a safe isolated way to decide if we like it. As it turns out, many of us (metaphorically but sometimes literally) love the feel of the spoon itself (small concealable comfort) rather than the ice cream flavor (squishy, bumpy, etc).
So, what does any of this have to do with me being a stand-up comedian scared of doing stand-up comedy? Because it is prohibitively disruptive to be wearing my noise-cancellers, playing Zelda, or squeezing a sensory clicker 3 times per second into the microphone while onstage. The healthy appropriate stims I’ve painstakingly developed are still not enough to professionally practice my best skill (not being pompous, just honest about my lack of other skills), and I can only do so much to change the industry that scares me. So, for now, until I can figure out a better stim for stand-up comedy, my best option is to write this essay, try and teach people a little something, and hope I’ve made you feel guilty enough to produce a show for me (sarcasm). Thanks for reading!
