My Afterglow Moment: “Don’t Think it Over” and Life on the Spectrum
Being on the autism spectrum, I never show my love through physical affection, words of endearment, or the usual honeyed advice people give friends when they’re going through a tough time. Instead, I give the people in my life songs that say more than I ever could.
My Afterglow Moment is a series where staff writers and editors share their favorite music-related memories.
Written by Rachel Joy Thomas
Illustrated by Izabella Padilla
I remember the tears of my friend as she gasped for air, telling me about her most recent plight: Her boyfriend broke up with her. “How could he hurt me like this?” A part of me wasn’t sure how to respond or what to do. I didn’t particularly know why he would end things other than to date someone else, and my 15-year-old latent emotional intelligence wasn’t exactly well-developed. Through continual cries, she told me that he wanted to date someone else, just as I thought. What I believed would be a kind explanation and good advice wasn’t comforting at all. The more I told her my thoughts, the angrier she became. Her bottled-up rage wasn’t obvious to me, but I was stoking a fire that had been burning for a while. She went from being devastated to creating a revenge plot, step-by-step. Eventually I told her it would make things worse, and she became even more frustrated, ending lunch period by storming out of the cafeteria.
After school that day, I sent her a Her’s song, “Don’t Think It Over,” which I had found a few months before. The song is a winding, indie-pop explosion of bright chirpy sound, filled with the strong voice of Stephen Fitzpatrick, the band’s lead singer. I was hoping she’d understand something I was trying to communicate without knowing the words to say myself. I had recently developed a love for the band Her’s, feeling it was a reprieve in a world of awful, horrible feelings. Along with the joyful song, I messaged her that I was hoping everything would feel “alright” soon. The happy, indie-pop beat of the song came with my passive attempt to show her that I was hoping for her world to brighten up. “I hope your world feels like this Her’s song soon,” I texted. Sometimes, I try to imagine what she thought when she listened to the calming lyrics, “Hold tight / Feelin' bad only adds weight to your mind / Knows that / Get it back / Loosen that grip on your pride.” It took an hour or two for her to answer my text. She replied saying it was a good song and thanked me because it was a bright spot in a sea of feelings she had been culling. I felt like I helped at least a little bit, in the only way I seemingly knew how to. I realized, then, that one of the best ways I could understand what was outside of me was by relating through music.
Since then, music has been how I have equaled the playing field, allowing me to socialize at the same level as people who aren’t on the spectrum. On the autism spectrum, the world has always been confusing and lonely in a way nearly impossible to describe. Everything is overwhelming and messy, with very little to make the constant noise feel like idle chatter. Early on, I realized I had struggles that were not on par with others’. I was developmentally behind as a kid, struggling to crawl while other toddlers started walking. I had a strong distaste towards food while other kids seemingly ate whatever was on their plate. I disliked loud spaces. I needed to be alone more often than with people. I screamed when people touched me, opposed to the slightest sensations that weren’t in my control.
As a 15-year-old, I struggled to communicate with everyone. I didn’t understand the hidden punchlines of jokes during friendly outings and parties. Afterwards, I was prone to flights of tears in the comfort of my home. I forced my way through endless books on the art of charisma. I watched Youtube videos chalked full of tips on how to “mimic people around you.” I just smiled and played coy for most of my teenage years, trying to act the same as the person to my left or right. If someone near me waved to a friend, I waved to that friend. If someone stood up, I stood up. I played Simon Says for years. Everyone was Simon, and I always pretended to know the game's rules even though they were foreign to me.
This game continued until I started interpreting society through music. If someone told me they loved me, it felt superficial. It suddenly came together if someone told me they loved me the way the devastating “With or Without you” by U2 sounded, which was entirely different than loving me the way the hopeful, blissfully romantic “Yellow” by Coldplay felt.
For me, the easiest way to relate to others is by telling them what they sound like. Are they happy songs filled with energy in every single punch and beat? Are they sad and slow like the melancholy heartbeat of a Duster song? Do they remind me of something in between? I began to describe what was happening around me through lyrical interpretations rather than using everyday language. I didn’t love my friends the way other people did. I knew them as songs and the lyrics that fit them best. Often, I would tell my therapist about the devastating reality of song shifts: when a person would go from “Waiting Room” by Phoebe Bridgers to “Night Shift” by Lucy Dacus. For her sake, I started translating how people shifted in my mind from songs to words, journaling the ebbs and flows of each person separately and uniquely. When giving friends advice, I would scour through songs to figure out what was best to say, finding inspiring lyrics and turning them into paragraphs of “amazing advice.”
Music became my ultimate communication device, my most formal love language, and the only way I knew how to feel out the more hazardous parts of life. In my most challenging or exhilarating moments, I stimmed to songs that perfectly described my agony or joy.
The song I return to the most when I need to calm my mind is the same recommendation I gave my friend years back. Her’s “Don’t Think It Over” remains my ultimate soothing melody that quells the most heartbreaking days. Whenever I want to calm down, I listen to this mantra of a song and fade back into a place of calm, where everything feels right. This track represents who I am, which fills me with a sense of connection in a jarring, overstimulating world of sound.