I love to hang out in cafés as much as any neurotypical human. But even in a small and happy environment, there’s still a lot of unfiltered information coming in that takes up a lot of my processing speed. Here’s why I might not always seem like I understand what you’re trying to tell me.
Despite being someone who, at least in theory, is perfectly content to interact with the world online, I love cafés.
The aromas induce minor euphoria. The ephemeral art the clever baristas work in foam invokes delight. I wonder if anyone ever really indulged in such nihilistic hedonism as to spend their house deposit on smashed avo.
My favourite café is close enough to my home for me to presumptuously call it my local. It’s a happy place. It has its own strong and chocolatey house blend, pesto and bocconcini toasties that come in too-generous servings and which I devour anyway, and a bench seat in front of the north-facing window where I can warm my bones in the sun on a cold winter morning. The staff are friendly, dogs are allowed, and you’re equally welcome whether you’re there for a business meeting or to indulge rambunctious kids with babychinos. I feel like a tourist in normal life when I’m there.
The plus: dopamine, oxytocin, and good therapy
I’m blessed with a fiercely intelligent and loyal friend and we have lunch dates in my favourite café on the rare occasions we can make the time. We discuss the things we’re passionate about and the projects we’ve each been working on. One of my friend’s best traits, from my completely selfish perspective, is her fearlessness in confirming when neurotypicals are being arseholes. It’s good therapy to have someone tell you that you’re not the entire source of a problem, especially when you’re not even paying them to say it.
But combined with the much-needed hit of dopamine from the coffee and the toastie, and the too-rare oxytocin rush from being with a warm and empathetic human being, is the sensory overload from being in a busy and noisy place.
The minus: sensory hangovers
When I can’t control the environment, I can’t tune out the stuff that goes on around me. In a place like my favourite café, that means the music, the talk and laughter, the Raskog trolley in the discontinued colour, the whooshing of the steam wand, the whirring of the grinder, the barista’s cool beanie, the Ikea 365+ tumblers stacked neatly next to the help-yourself amber glass bottles with screw necks but no lids, the new sourdough delicacies in the display that must have been sourced from the cult bakery a few suburbs away, the orders being delivered to tables and the empty cups and Duralex glasses being collected, the bikes parked outside and their owners in bright lycra, the scratches in the plywood table, this person’s Macbook and that person’s North Face puffer jacket, all have equal, if not entirely simultaneous, importance to my brain.*
None of it, at least as individual stimuli, is intrinsically unpleasant. But it means focusing on the most important thing – the conversation with my friend – is indescribably hard. By the end of our lunch break, I can barely process, let alone comprehend, what she is saying.
The last time I had lunch in my favourite café, I ended up in bed for nearly two days, barely able to function while I waited for the sensory hangover to pass. As with a hangover of the more conventional variety, the hair of the dog wouldn’t have helped and most likely would have made it worse. Whoever said there was no pleasure without pain surely didn’t account for the disproportionate debt we pay as autists.
Sensory processing doesn’t leave much brain space for social norms
Autistic styles of sensory processing are now recognised in diagnostic criteria[1], although we’re still diagnosed according to how our external behaviours measure up against neurotypical standards. But the effect of an environment on my brain and body takes up far more cognitive load for me than worrying about social norms ever will. At least the research is catching up to the reality that sensory processing is intimately related to how we interact with others[2].
So if you ever meet me in a café, please remember how hard I’m working to understand you. I might seem distracted. I may say the wrong thing, or nothing at all. It’s because I’m picking up a lot of interference while I’m trying to tune in. It’s worth it, occasionally and for a short time, to enjoy a damn fine cup of coffee.
* That paragraph may have taken up a lot of your working memory. Possibly you found it tiring and difficult. If so, I may have just given you a tiny insight into how my sensory processing feels.
Image credit: I don’t know where the meme from Twin Peaks comes from. I hope it’s in the public domain. If you know how it should be credited, please get in touch.
[1] American Psychiatric Association (2013). Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 5th Edn. Arlington, TX: American Psychiatric Publishing.
[2] Thye, M., Bednarz, H., Herringshaw, A., Sartin, E. & Kana, R. (2018) The impact of atypical sensory processing on social impairments in autism spectrum disorder. Developmental Cognitive Neuroscience, 29, 151-167. doi.org/10.1016/j.dcn.2017.04.010.
“We find that altered sensory processing and sensory integration in autism affect language, communication, emotion, response to reward, and interpersonal functioning in individuals with ASD.”