Excerpt - Science, Spirituality, and the Brain

Cognitive dissonance arises when different parts of the brain are active, but struggle to communicate with one another. Inevitably, reality and perception clash. One’s perceived reality becomes like a disjointed blending of mutually exclusive narratives, as though trying to reconcile To Kill a Mockingbird and Moby Dick as the same book. In this analogy, the individual tears out various pages from the two books and tries to bind them into one book which haphazardly shifts from one incoherent narrative to another. Eventually, you loose both narratives in the process.

Polarisation happens when different parts of the brain act in opposition to one another. A person may reject all emotion in favor of logic, or they may reject science and reason in favor of religion. Certain parts of the brain become much more dominant than others. In some ways, parts of the brain may become atrophied, whether from lack of use, damage, isolation from the other parts, or some other cause. This results in very specific areas of the brain becoming heavily fortified and mutually exclusive from the ‘weaker’ parts. The weaker parts continue to fade due to a lack of incorporation. Using the previous analogy of To Kill a Mockingbird and Moby Dick, polarisation would be like asserting that To Kill a Mockingbird is a book, but because Moby Dick is not To Kill a Mockingbird, it is somehow not a book. Polarisation is black-and-white, binary hyper-categorisation.

When a brain incorporates the entirety of its functions and parts, one can finally realise that To Kill a Mockingbird and Moby Dick are both books, that there is no false dichotomy of one book being ‘right’ and the other ‘wrong,’ and that they can coexist without being melded into a single, incoherent text.

Ants

As a kid, I used to just sit outside in the spring and summer in the early evenings, right around when the sun sank beneath the hills and tree canopies. The sprinklers ærosolised the pollens and dust, filling the air with the smell of suburban nature. Soon after, the smell of barbecues would waft from yard to yard. I'd sit in tranquil solitude, watching the ants marching, transporting, and constructing. I imagined the lateral dissection of their seemingless endless, interwoven tunnel systems. I brought myself down to their scale, viewing their societies, their languages, their politics and wars... I imagined their daily lives, their hierarchies, their struggles and accomplishments. I did this until the sun faded, and the lighting became a softer, dimmer blue.

My whole life, I've seen patterns that seemed to zoom in and out infinitely. Human, ant, bacterium, molecules, atoms, subatomic particals... Humans, governments, planets, solar systems, galaxies, the universe. Whichever way I zoomed, be it larger or smaller, I saw the same patterns repeating and repeating: fractals.

It was order. It felt natural.

7 Streets Over

As it turns out, this is a story best told backwards…



I’ve reached my tranquil end at the intersection of J Street and my own. I’ve reached the peak, so to speak, and decided to take some moonlit pictures and recordings of the morning birds. It’s about 04:30, just before dawn, and my legs are warm. I breathe in large lung-fulls of brisk, dark air. I smell the automated sprinklers, shaded lawns, pines, and oaks. Now, I turn around.

I begin my return home. The quiet, wide, residential streets are empty of all traffic. In fact, I blissfully stroll down the middle with no fear, at all. The only sounds are the early birds, the occasional distant dog bark, and my own footsteps. This isn’t like my home just several blocks down. Certainly, they’re calm and quiet compared to the city we hug, but my streets have a car whooshing by every minute or so, in the dead of night, on either side of the block. One side is a major road with a fork, several lanes, and a mini-mart smack dab in the middle of the prongs. The large main road and complex canyon-like arrangement of houses cut through by streets, walled with trees, riddled with slopes, creates a powerful Döppler Effect. If you hear an increasingly high pitch whooshing sound, you know a car is approaching our street. You learn to translate the echoes into specific directions and vectors. Even if cars don’t come down our street often, it’s good to sense when a car might turn onto it and to get out of the way.

These streets are big, though. While my streets can have a car parked on each side with just enough wiggle room for one lane of traffic, mind you on a two-way street, these more isolated, quieter streets I’m walking down boast having cars parked on both sides with easily enough room to fit two free lanes for traffic. My streets have scars, pot holes, whole chunks of loose asphalt bigger than my foot lying crumbling in the road. These streets are black, smooth, and glisten in the moonlight. The houses here are all small and box-shaped with giant oaks, towering evergreens, and tidy lawns. Our houses are clunky, hodge-podge, and of greatly varied neatness. Some of the houses on my streets are vacant, in disrepair, and even overgrown with knee-high grasses, weeds, and unkempt trees. I remind my astonished self that I only walked 7 streets over. I can begin to hear the turbulent rumble of the city in the distance as I get closer.

Suddenly, I feel as though going from walking in secluded, tranquil woods to a vast and open expanse with a mostly unobstructed view of the sky. In the near distance of about two city blocks, I see two giant, broadleaf trees towering over a wall of smaller trees of varying shapes and sizes. They appeared as though a looming gate to a mystical kingdom.

WHOOSH! A car passes from left to right just beyond the looming tree gate. The car was soaring down the main road. I look up the vast opening to the sky and watch the stars, fading as sunlight gradually intrudes into the atmosphere from over the hills. 05:00 nears and I’ve just a bit further to go to return home. Street lamps illuminate the seemingly endless streets in the north, south, and east. To the west, from whence I return, it is darker and seemingly insulated from the city it skirts the edge of.

Another car whooshes by quite predictably, alone, and I cross the multi-lane north-south arterial. The sky is relatively open, the suburban skyline scraggly and uneven, the yards greatly varied, the constant hum and periodic whooshing of cars in the background: I am home. I walk up the two aggregate steps to my door, open my wallet, slide out my key, and unlock my front door. I walk down my stairs, open my bedroom door, and sit on my bed. It’s good to be back…

Even if it was just 7 streets to and fro, and about 30 minutes.

Overload

I wake up, groggy, and walk out of my bedroom. I walk down a dark hallway into a dark alley. The alley opens up to a cold, rain-drenched cobblestone road with gas lamps in either direction. Each direction is a mirror of the other, parallel wherever I go. I make it to a vast wooden bridge which crosses a moat, and I arrive at a fortress. They ancient stonework nearly crushes me, creating an opening through the fortress wall, so I enter. A vast citadel looms high above a seemingly endless maze, and so I enter the Labyrinth. Roars, hisses, growls, and hellish sounds echo indistinctly from all directions, but I move onward. I go forward, but return where I began. I retrace my steps and find myself somewhere unfamiliar. A supernatural dark cloud forms a wispy ceiling above me. I try to climb the walls, but the climb never ends, so I try to climb back down. Only a few feet down, and I can see the ground again. I chisel through the walls for days, but the walls have infinite depth. As I try to crawl backwards, dreading the rearward journey, but I find myself returned to the path in only a few motions.

Looking forward, I close my eyes, and I begin to slowly walk backwards, dismissing all of my senses.

I open my eyes, and before me is the great citadel. Months spent on this journey, tears well up in my eyes, for I have finally arrived. The doors creak eerily open and I enter. Spiral stairs, millions, go on and on, but I ascend. The slit windows reassure me that I am indeed getting higher in elevation. I finally reach the top, open the door, and find myself on a balcony. I can see my entire journey clearly, from start to finish…

There is no reward, no achievement, no satisfaction. The door slams shut behind me, my heartbeat quickens, and I’m trapped. I pull, I slam, I pound, I kick the door, but nothing happens. I have no tools, no supplies, stranded atop a tower. Days go by, isolated, cold, and hungry. Finally, I lean over the balcony, climb upon the stone wall, and look down.

“Jump…” it whispers. “Jump…” I give in, one foot over, and I fall. A feeling of relief flows through me as I close my eyes and slowly become weightless.

As I wake and open my eyes, I am once again in my bed.

Vee

It always amazes me just how easily a person can leave a life-long impression on a person... One moment, I'm browsing Facebook, reading a bit about critical thinking and science, glancing off to the side looking at the 'Suggested Pages' that I never click or actually show any significant interest in, and then—

BAM!

—it hits me...

A dedication page to a person I once knew online, from a whole other side of the world, South Africa, whom I've never even seen the face of.

Years ago, in my turbulent, early adolescence, hormones going crazy, bipolar going crazy, schizo going crazy, bouncing off and on the rails, I sought out an online support group for mental illness, in general. And I found one, Walkers in Darkness, and I liked it. The community was great, a worldwide chat room for people with mental health issues to seek help and community from moderators and administrators who also had mental health issues, but who always seemed so 'put together,' despite that fact. The admins and mods would give little insights into their own struggles, but they mostly held themselves together to support everyone else who came to them for help and support.

One of them was simply named, "Vee." Everyone liked Vee, everyone knew Vee (some even knew her in-person, if I remember correctly.) Vee was really quite great. But this group had trouble with funding, and they'd have to close shop now and then. Me being me, I usually came and went for long intervals, regardless of funding and if the site was running. I do that. I come, I stay for a little while, then I go for a much, much longer while. Well, one time, I went to look into the group again, some years later.

I found a Facebook page. They still had funding troubles. Okay, I joined the Facebook group. Then I heard. "Vee committed suicide." Maybe not phrased exactly like that, but it hit me just as unceremoniously...

I burst into tears, and I kept thinking, "I didn't even really know her. Why am I so overwhelmed by this? I'd completely forgotten about her..." Well, Vee prevented a few potential suicide attempts of my own. Vee got me through the suicidal thoughts. She helped me when I felt completely alone and hopeless. They may have been very brief interactions, only moments out of my whole life, but they mattered more than anyone could know. They made a difference. They kept me alive.

My mom came into my room, that day I first heard, and I was already consumed by my own tears, unable to catch my breath, unable to talk, barely uttering that someone I once knew online committed suicide, and it was a while ago, and I was just learning about it, so it was hitting me really hard and really suddenly. About every year since, only one or two days a year, I very briefly remember Vee and I burst into tears all over again.

How can you completely forget a person for most of your life, and then so spontaneously, out of the blue, become crushed and overwhelmed by this tremendous, profound, inexplicable weight, cracking your ribs and drowning your airways? How can three letters - V-E-E - so suddenly turn on this long-forgotten switch inside of me where an entire ocean pours forth from reserves I keep becoming so oblivious of for so long at a time?

And so, today, I'm listening to one of my favorite soundtracks from one of my favorite animes from that time in my life when I met and spoke with Vee. I had just happened to think of it earlier in the week and tracked it back down, downloading it. I put that on immediately before, not knowing what was to come just moments later...

"Can you feel?" the singer shouts at the top of his lungs.

"Can you feel that hybrid rainbow?"

Yes, I feel it. Too much. Too strong. I feel it all, like ripping stitches out of an old open wound I thought healed and scarred over, but is just as fresh as the first time... Like being punched as hard as can be in the gut, your gut wrapping and wrenching around the fist, the breath completely gone. You struggle to get your breath back, gasping, choking, feeling like you got sucked into outer space with no air to breathe, blood boiling, eyes getting ready to burst like grapes...

I'm alive, thanks in no small part to her. She took her own life. Life is sad, and gruesome, and some people die, and some people keep living, and there's absolutely no sense why. It's just is how it is...

It fucking sucks.

On the Folly of the Person/Identity-first Rhetoric

This conversation may very well change from language to language, but - particularly in English - the Person/Identity-first rhetoric is largely pedantic and causes turmoil where none is needed. Both 'sides' often claim their view to be superior, and many even get offended if you use the other way, whatever 'side' one may be on. This is primarily an issue in the autistic community, but it can and does extend broadly to other uses where a qualifier might be used to identify a person, such as bipolar, disabled, and possibly sexual orientations, ethnicities, or anything else someone can find a way to get offended based on how one chooses to word what is basically the same sentence.

This is how it works: 'person-first' language would be "a person with autism, they have autism," while 'identity-first' language would be "an autistic person, he is autistic." The idea is that person-first rhetoric is supposed to avoid defining a person with a label, while identity-first rhetoric is to avoid dismissing a pivotal aspect of an individual's identity. This is what they're supposed to do, in the eyes of those who make such distinctions.

I'm perfectly fine with people having their own preference, particularly when referring to themselves, but when you push either on someone as being the 'correct' or 'superior' way, you're causing unnecessary turmoil and potential conflict that never needed to be there, in the first place. It's largely a distinction without a difference: pedantic. The primary difference is between the usage of the verbs (and their different forms) 'to be' and 'have.' One can be autistic, or one can have autism. The primary difference is that one is a noun and the other an adjective. It's a bit misleading to say someone is autism, and it simply makes no sense to say someone has autistic. Therefore, grammatically, it is the semantics which determines which verb you use.

People who identify with the diagnosis of 'Asperger's' can find themselves in a bit of a pickle, regarding this distinction. On the one hand, it's grammatically proper to say someone has Asperger's, but it doesn't make any sense to say someone is Asperger's. There is a term, 'Aspie,' which can be used in lieu of a better term for this, leading to sentences like "she is an Aspie," but it's inaccurate to say someone is aspergery, which isn't even an official word, but primarily a slur used to describe people perceived as having Asperger's-like stereotypes (socially awkward, nerdy, even as an alternative form of 'dumb' or 'retarded.') But 'Aspie' can, in some contexts, also be used adjectivally, such as, "I feel an aspie meltdown, coming on..." People, however, are seldom describes as being aspie. It's not out of the question, but it's rare.

In conclusion, the distinction is primarily of personal preference, while pushing any as truly 'superior' is merely pedantic. I was once verbally attacked by someone for calling myself an 'Aspie,' because they felt it was apparently offensive. There are people, both within and without the autism community (though they seem few and far between, in all) who consider 'Aspie' a slur, despite having both it's origins and propagation of use centred in the heart of the autism community. That person thought they were defending the honor of those diagnosed with Asperger's by and large, while simultaneously attacking any who self-identified as 'Aspie,' which is a bit like saying, "How dare you call someone gay! They're obviously a homosexual." While 'a homosexual' certainly isn't the most endearing phrasing, neither is really incorrect.

Learn what others prefer to be called, and try to call them that. Identify what you prefer and call yourself, and call yourself that.

Unconditional Love

     I've been fond of the CTV television show, Flashpoint, for a few years, now, but I never really got into it, from the first episode onward in marathons, as any decent show should be watched. Well, Netflix has been egging me on to watch it, so I started. My favorite aspect of the show is the compassionate, empathetic, psychological side. From the very first episode, they stress understanding, replace 'suspect' or 'perp' (and like terms) with 'subject,' always try to humanise and empathise with the subject, and try to end things peacefully to the fullest of their capabilities. Lethal tactics are always the last resort.
     This show gives a whole other perspective to the world of crime and policing. I think it in its own league apart from the vast majority of other crime dramas. Many of the episodes have simply brought me to tears because of the incredibly uncommon empathy displayed by the characters, and thus the creators, writers, and actors, as well. Each character struggles with their own biases, their own clashing and contradicting views, and their prejudices. In order to be a cohesive unit that goes beyond simply SWAT, they continually have to overcome these distortions and oversimplifications of their realities.
     Flashpoint also shows the more biased, more prejudiced, more distorted views that people have, which regularly define, color, and filter our realities. They show the full range and potential of human emotion, both good and bad, as well as all the grey areas. They show how good people can do bad things, how all people can be driven and pushed to extremes. Each episode allows you to step not only into one person's shoes, but several people's, as you see intimate and raw moments, both in the most relaxed and tense situations. Love, hate, confusion, contempt, anguish, euphoria; it isn't just both sides of the pendulum swing that is displayed, but the full range and motion of that broad arc.
     So... that is when I was surprised by the episode, “Unconditional Love,” and not pleasantly. It started out without surprise: high-strung chronic criminal, car chases, volatile circumstances, et cetera, et cetera... But, then, a new character – Paul – was introduced. He was immediately depicted as the weaker personality, nervous, restless, scared. He was first depicted more as a victim caught up in a crazy situation. Later, however, it is found out that the chronic criminal gun procurer was obtaining a gun for the Paul. They found out that Paul was obsessing over and researching serial killers. They found out he was obsessing over multiple girls who looked very similar to his sister. They started to put the pieces together and steered in the direction of suspected psychopathy.
     That is when I got unpleasantly surprised and even a little disgusted. Of course, I saw more than the characters. Being the viewer of a greater narrative, knowing more than the characters, I saw things they couldn't possibly have seen. I saw Paul's demeanor, his expressions (most would say 'lack of expression'), body language, lack of eye contact... I immediately sprang to, “He has autism!” Within the first few seconds he appeared on screen, I got that autism feeling. I thought, “Great! An episode which can show a more realistic perspective of autism and its relation to law enforcement!” For any who don't already know, there are countless cases of autistics getting bullied, brutalised, and berated by classmates, teachers, kids, teachers, parents, strangers, and – all too often – police. The vast majority of these incidences are simply a case of ignorance gone very wrong.
     Too often, I see people call autistics 'psychopaths,' which is a radically different condition, but which – to the untrained eye – can present similarly on the surface. I've known several clinical psychopaths, and some of them are really great people. There are tremendous differences between violent and non-violent psychopaths, and its the non-violent I prefer to associate with, of course. But that could be truly said about anyone, any group, right? “I prefer the non-violent men to the violent ones; I prefer the non-violent addicts to the violent ones; I prefer the non-violent religious folk to the violent ones.” It's really a given. But, in a criminal sense, 'psychopath' doesn't include non-violent, or non-criminal psychopaths. In the terms of the law, and of law enforcement, 'psychopath' only refers to the violent, criminal types.
     So, yes, I was upset to find out that this wonderful show that I'd grown to love would depict a kid as autistic, yet having their main characters calling him a psychopath! In the context of the crime drama, that obviously pointed toward violent psychopaths. They didn't get all the information right away, and what little they did get initially suggested that he might be a psychopath. Parker, the unit leader, negotiator, and the head of the psychological aspect of the unit, kept saying, 'until we find out more.' He didn't want to jump to the conclusion that Paul was a psychopath before all the facts were in, even when the rest of the team had just about settled on him being one. Most of the characters had taken their biases and jumped to conclusions, but Parker – the real compass and centre of compassion for the team – held out, digging and digging, trying to find out more about the kid.
     Eventually, Parker suggested that Paul might have some kind of autism. Jules, a sniper in the tactics part of the unit, pointed out that autistics aren't violent by nature. She pointed out that autistics don't lack empathy, compassion, and emotion. Parker was cautious, saying it was only another suggestion until they get more facts. Paul helped release a baby taken hostage by the gun dealer. He non-fatally pistol-whipped the gun dealer and escaped. He hadn't been making particularly violent decisions. He did show genuine concern for others. Giving a history on Paul, the mother says how Paul didn't take pleasure in others' pain so much as be the sufferer of pain inflicted upon him. He was often the victim, he knew he had trouble connecting with people, he knew he couldn't read people, and tried to study facial expressions. But the fact that he didn't seem to show any emotions with the passing of his father made the mother fear for the worst, yet still clinging to the belief that her son wouldn't hurt anyone. It was the unit's assumption that her son was a psychopath that planted any idea or fear that her son might be one.
     But the facts, in the end, pointed to the truth. It became clearer and clearer that he was on the spectrum. Paul had researched his own experiences and symptoms and mistakenly concluded – like quite a few other autistics I've come across – that he was actually a psychopath. He researched psychopathic serial killers, because that was what he believed he was doomed to become. Misinformation, misunderstandings, and miscommunication all turned into this perfect storm of identity crisis. He knew he was different, but didn't know exactly why or how.
     In the end, Paul never killed anyone, only injured the gun dealer in an attempt to escape, and even ended up saying to Parker, “I don't want to hurt her [one of the lookalikes of his sister.]” Parker replied with a smile, “No, I know that. I knew that the minute we started talking.” Paul then non-threateningly handed the gun forward asking, “Do you want me to give the gun to you?” Paul, a kid with verbal autism, was good at heart, just like the mother knew, and didn't want to hurt anyone. But in a culmination of confusion, rage, and anxiety, he'd been driven to believe he was a psychopath, and thought he had to follow through like one. He didn't; he couldn't, because he was never a psychopath.

Jules (Amy Jo Johnson): Undiagnosed low-spectrum autism, a little obsessive compulsive...
Parker (Enrico Colantoni): Maybe a borderline personality disorder... And a mother who only sees the son she loves. He's brilliant, but different.
Jules: Do you ever get the feeling that we only scratch the surface?
Parker: Hmph. All the time.
Jules: You know, you were right today, though, about digging deeper.
Parker: We do what we can with the time we have, right?
Jules: Yep.

     And the show resumes being a dear favorite of mine, also continuing the long line of tear-inducing, heart-warming episodes.