May I, please, remain silent? The Greek philosopher Socrates advised that before speaking, one should filter one's words through three questions: Is it true? Is it good? Is it necessary? Once filtered, silence often proves to be the best choice. Why, then, do we no longer embrace silence?
The very thought of engaging in conversation, even for five minutes, fills me with unease. The upcoming meeting next week, with its overflowing number of unfamiliar faces, already occupies my thoughts, and the anxiety remains for days afterwards. How is this possible? Why does five minutes consume me for so long? I picture the strangers before me, in a rented hall unfamiliar to me, specially arranged for the occasion, and I am at a loss for words. The apprehension before the conversation even begins is akin to reliving a high school exam or waiting in the days leading up to a first job interview. You know the feeling, that strange, queasy sensation in your stomach. The doubt creeps in: How does one start a conversation? What should it be about? Why do I think so much about what I can say or what I should say?
For those on the autism spectrum, social interaction is a battle, a struggle, an exhausting endeavour. Silence is my refuge, my way of coping with this burden. Many individuals with autism encounter frequent challenges in social settings; the so-called social intuition is less developed. Furthermore, not all information is fully received. Conversations arrive in fragmented pieces. Everyone misses information from time to time, but for an autistic person, this happens more often. Processing incoming information takes longer; repetition is needed for proper comprehension. More time is required to think, leading to delayed awareness of what has been said. One might hear an entire sentence, but only the first part registers, while the latter remains obscure. Consequently, a response based solely on that first part can lead to misunderstandings. In such situations, silence is the safest option.
Engaging in small talk is simply difficult. I am happiest when no words are needed and I can just listen. In fact, I prefer speaking only about my field of expertise, avoiding any unrelated topics. When am I allowed to remain silent? When can I stand at the periphery and observe? At gatherings, such as work events with numerous strangers, I seek out groups of at least three people, preferably more. The larger the group, the smaller the chance that I will have to contribute to the conversation. With fascination, I watch as discussions effortlessly transition from one topic to another, as though guided by an invisible current. Small talk unfolds in ways that seem natural to others but bewildering to me. Conversations take unexpected detours, from someone's son to his girlfriend, to the unpleasant principal of her school, all within a single minute.
The anxiety surrounding a social encounter begins long before the event, but the real struggle lies in its aftermath. Once home, I replay the conversation obsessively, dissecting every exchange, trying to recall what was said and how the other person responded. Did I miss something? Did I fail to notice an important cue? This constant reviewing and overanalysing is what drains me the most. Not once, but over and over, for as long as two days. It is hard work! Why did I not remain silent more often?
Individuals with autism thrive on information that is literal. The neural pathways that transmit information in the brain are structured chaotically. The extent varies per individual, but the difficulties lie in the social aspects of communication. Social interactions often contain hidden meanings or require an ability to read between the lines; double meanings can be especially perplexing. Furthermore, these neural pathways contain ‘roundabouts’ where information circulates endlessly, much like a car that never exits. As a result, awareness of what was said arrives too late. A clear and swift conclusion from the available information is rarely possible, causing me to lose track of the conversation. The pathways also contain dead ends, where information simply vanishes. Additional neural activation is required to transmit data, and each time the information follows a different route, it leads to a new outcome. These pathways do not become worn with use; no habit is ever truly formed.
People with autism often struggle with the mundane aspects of daily life. Predictability and routine provide a sense of calm because they allow for pattern recognition. Patterns arise through repetition or through the consistent application of certain rules. In an unstructured conversation, the presence of recognisable patterns is uncertain. In his book Elements of Chess Strategy (1995), Herman Grooten describes an experiment in which chess players of various skill levels were presented with a complex chess position. How does a grandmaster instantly recognise that three specific pieces are crucial? How does he determine the right move so quickly? The answer lies in his trained ability to recognise patterns. Even in more challenging situations, pattern recognition remains the master’s secret. Over time, recognising social patterns and conversational structures becomes more workable, making dialogue slightly more bearable.
How, then, does one navigate a world so dependent on social interaction? With time, one learns to cope with being different. Discussing architecture or Aikido is always manageable; here, the meaning of words is clearly defined. Over the years, I have built my own internal library of social patterns, allowing me to make sense of certain interactions. This helps. But what also helps is silence. For in silence, there is no need for post-conversation evaluation. In silence, there is no hard work.