Mirror mirror
Mirror mirror
Echolalia, echopraxia, and scenes from the inner and outer world of a neurologically different brain.
The day before New Year’s Eve 2023, our younger two kids had a playdate with their two closest friends—siblings, how lucky. What’s even luckier is that the parents are also fantastic, so we’ve now got a new set of wonderful couple-friends who are incredibly enjoyable to hang out with.
Before we headed out for dinner together, Brian noticed that the mother also has rather expressive eyebrows like I do. “You and Sara would kill in an eyebrow-raising competition,” he said. We looked at each other and rolled our eyebrows like ocean waves, doing a The-Rock-the-wrestler brows as if psychically linked. The room cackled.
Someone brought up Brian’s inability to wink (probably me 😁). We all winked a few times, laughing, and I encouraged Brian to do his closing-of-both-eyes-and-leaving-one-squinting-while-opening-the-other as a faux-winking attempt. We call it “the Rihanna.”
(I find it adorable.)
We had dinner at the delicious Hatch Cantina. Arriving just in time for Happy Hour drinks and appetizers, I ordered two margaritas since I knew I’d drink two anyway, and why not get them for five dollars off?
Although I’m not someone who winks at people, generally, I found myself winking constantly throughout the evening.
I winked at the dad a few times in place of an agreeing or encouraging nod to several things he said—that’s why I took notice.
At restaurants, I usually write, Thanks so much! or something kind on the back of the signed server-copy receipt. Brian said, “No wonder you get free stuff all the time: they think you’re flirting with them.”
I gasped. “No! You think?”
Brian’s voice entered my mind, They think you’re flirting with them. HE thinks you’re flirting with him.
Fuck, I thought. I’ve become friends with the mom, and now she’s going to think I’m flirting with her husband.
Per usual, someone else did the action: winking, so now it’s stuck with me for the rest of the day. (I say that while writing this two weeks later, and I still catch myself winking here and there. But nothing like the night-of, thank goodness.)
At a coffeeshop I’ve become a regular at more recently, a barista teased in front of the two other baristas that I’m the “Freeze Mom”. They see me, and they think, three mocha freezes—which are apparently a pain to make. (Was this appropriate for him to share with me? No. But, I’m used to it by now.)
My kids just tolerate the freezes because it was my favorite place to work from, and they wanted to come out with me so they dealt. (They prefer Starbucks Frappuccinos, apparently.) Now, most every time I go in to that particular coffeeshop, Freeze Mom, Freeze Mom, Freeze Mom echoes in my head on a loop until I can summon enough focus to get anything done. This “favorite space” has become one of anxiety. But, I’m attempting to push through it since it’s literally one of the best spaces to work out of that I’ve found in half a decade of coffeeshop hopping, so.
The only person I have control over is myself, I hear my therapist say. But I find that comical in and of itself, at times. I often can’t control what I say, and there’s frequently a physical aspect I have no control over either.
I often behave like a physical or auditory mirror.
Words repeat in my head, sometimes worming their way out of my mouth. Freeze Mom. Freeze Mom. We end a hangout with a brief winking session, and I can’t stop winking for the rest of the night+.
This happens with accents, too. I remember a trip to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee as a kid. My brother and I were in the back two rows of seats in our family’s minivan. We’d spent a few days in the area, and both picked up the drawl of a Southern-U.S. accent. While driving to dinner, we really hammed it up, doubling-down on even deeper Southern intonations, and rolling with laughter at how over-the-top we pushed it—sorry to any Southerners here, we were (stupid) kids. By the time we got to dinner, I couldn’t shake the accent. Having a heavily country-sounding server didn’t help. My dad’s eyes bore a hole through me as I clammed up while ordering. I understood that it sounded like I was mocking the server, but it’s like I forgot what I sounded like and couldn’t drop the drawl.
My dad was furious. He thought I was trying to cause trouble.
It took about three weeks after returning home to finally rid myself of the accent. I’m sure it would have taken longer had it not been for my peers alienating me for being annoying and “not knowing when to stop” after it was no longer funny to them.
Echolalia is the repetition of words just spoken by another person.
A Healthline article by Heaven Stubblefield states, “All children experience echolalia when they learn a spoken language. Most develop independent thought as they age, but some continue to repeat what they hear. Children with communication disabilities hold on to echoed expressions much longer. Autistic children are particularly susceptible to echolalia.”
The article goes on to say, “Some people experience this issue only when they are distressed or anxious. Others experience it all the time, which may eventually cause them to be mute because they can’t express themselves.”
A person doesn’t have to be Autistic to experience echolalia, or echopraxia—the physical imitation counterpart to echolalia.
I didn’t realize until last year that I do both. In my case, it seems to be most common under stress. It still occurs while I’m relaxed, although less frequently, and it is circumstance-dependent. Like, when Brian or the family I are watching a show or movie, and I’ll immediately repeat a line that stands out to me that was just spoken.
I realize, too, that the presumed-Autistic-but-never-officially-confirmed character, Abed Nadir, in the show Community started the rapid-phrase use of, “Cool, cool, cool, [cool].” It was likely a form of echolalia, and one that absolutely, immediately comes out of my mouth every time the character says it.
Whether spoken aloud or looped in my head, my repeating of words, phrases, and sometimes sound used to frustrate me. It’s an uncontrollable self-stimulatory behavior, or “stim,”1 as we Autists refer to the self-soothing behaviors and actions we frequently engage in unconsciously.
(I used to make a dolphin-like noise when I was excited as a kid. It still ekes out of me when I’m ecstatic over something.)
The most memorable echopraxia moment of mine was our last New Year’s Eve in Florida six years ago. Our neighbors across the cul-de-sac invited us over for wine and fireworks. The wife shared about her oldest daughter’s father, who apparently looked like a “Greek god”, but wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.
“I should’ve known he was too young for me when he kept high-fiving over everything,” she said. We all laughed, and her husband high-fived her across the table. (While writing this, I mentioned to Brian that I’d include the NYE story as an example for echopraxia, sharing what she said about him being too young for her because of the high-fives he doled out regularly. Brian said, “That doesn’t mean he was too young for her. It just means life hadn’t sucked the joy out of him yet.” I prefer Brian’s take.)
For the rest of the evening, I couldn’t stop throwing my hand up to high-five over most anything positive. The first couple of ones got laughs, which probably didn’t help the repetitive behavior. But, soon, I could tell it was starting to annoy them, yet I couldn’t stop. My hand would shoot up automatically, and I’d hold it there until someone’s hand met mine because I was too embarrassed to just lower it and verbally acknowledge that I couldn’t help the action.
Vocal stimming2 is the most common for me. The vibration from my vocal cords calm my nervous system.
I talk a lot, and sing as often as I can, sometimes starting unconsciously and frequently feeling unable to stop unless I’m asked to, which is painful and tickles that childhood-trauma nerve.
What I thought was an anxious behavior of not being able to stop talking when I’m in a room with someone was recently pointed out to me as a form of self-soothing by my Autism-expert therapist. Feeling and hearing my own voice in public, especially, is like a warm blanket on a brisk night.
I wish I could package encouragement up for younger neurodivergent people who worry over the future, or are chronically frustrated with their own behaviors. But what I can do is note that, for me, understanding why and even how something happens is calming and settling. Understanding that talking when people are around isn’t actually a sign of insecurity as many in the neurotypical3 community, especially, believe. Viewing it as the self-soothing stim that it is for me has been like a direct injection of peace into my brain and body. Now, when myself or someone else notes how talkative I’m being, instead of shutting down, or feeling like the topic or space, or even the person I’m talking to is “ruined” to me, my brain launches me into the comforting understanding that my talkativeness isn’t a flaw, it’s a form of self-care.
“Forcing individuals with [Autism] to stop vocal stimming may cause them to feel anxious, frustrated, or overwhelmed. It can also lead to increased aggression or self-injurious behavior,” states an article on vocal stimming from Cross River Therapy.
“Furthermore, suppressing vocal stimming can be detrimental to their mental health and well-being. Vocal stimming is a way for individuals with [Autism] to cope with their sensory input and express themselves. By suppressing this behavior, they may feel like they are not being heard or understood.”
As someone who’s still working to overcome trauma from childhood seemingly mostly related to being an undiagnosed Autistic in youth, I know this to be true from firsthand experience.
Singing lifts me up and helps me focus on physical tasks. Talking helps me to feel balanced and present in the presence of others.
Recently, I started implementing a three-second pause practice to infuse calm into how I converse and respond. Simply put: wait three seconds before speaking or responding. Although this YouTube Short example is designed more for the impact of what you’re saying, it’s the video that made the practice stick with me:
Life’s an expedition we’re all on. There’s no point in comparing myself or others to anyone else. Everyone’s path is different, therefore, there’s nothing to compare.
One of my kiddos is also a vocal stimmer. If the two of us are in a room together, anyone else in that room may suffer from auditory overload—likely even us, too. It can be overwhelming.
When I notice we’re in a verbal spin-out, I’ll take a moment to offer them an observation followed by a question to help slow the conversation down, or to create a conversation out of two people talking at each other. If I see Middle is struggling to sit still, for example, I’ll say, “I noticed your knee is bouncing around a lot. How is your body feeling right now?”
It presents them with the space to check in with themself. Instead of shutting down the vocal stim, I’ve invited them into a conversation, starting with a self check-in. How is my body feeling in this moment? How am I feeling right now?
Taking a few seconds before answering a question, letting myself repeat phrases and words just spoken by others without internal self-shaming, and acknowledging the physical mimicry verbally to people as soon as I notice I’m doing it is giving me power in my own experience and in social situations, not the less-attainable “control” I used to chase as if my life depended on it.
Echolalia and echopraxia can’t be changed or “fixed.” They just are—just like most self-stimulatory behaviors. We shouldn’t chastise others, or be reprimanded for in-the-moment self-soothing practices that aren’t harming other people. As neurodivergent people, it’s not our responsibility to make everyone else around us comfortable at the sacrifice of ourselves. However, showing each other compassion and kindness, and openly taking care of our own needs are beautiful lessons anyone of any age can take something away from.
My best,
Sara
P.S. I predominantly write from my personal experience as an Autistic person with ADHD, chronic illness, Anxiety, and more. Each of these factors can influence my individual experience overall, as well as my experience of each condition.
What I share is not a substitute for medical advice.
Self-identification of Autism and ADHD (what many call “self-diagnosis”) is perfectly valid. If a personal Autistic experience I write about resonates deeply with you, consider these resources on Embrace Autism (starting with the Autism Quotient Test) as a first step. If professional assessment is important to you or your life has been impeded enough that you may need to qualify for Disability, you can print your results to bring to a diagnostician. (Having all those tests completed in advance saved me a lot of money!) Although there are many more diagnosticians available, here is a comprehensive list to get you started.
Lastly, some of my opinions may have changed since I first wrote the piece that lead you here.
Comment with any questions, and I’ll respond as soon as I can.
Vocal Stimming in Autism: Understanding (and Managing It), Cross River Therapy
Neurotypical: Meaning, Traits, and Neurodiversity, VeryWellHealth