12/18/2024                                                                            
                                    
                                    
                                                                        
                                        I’ve talked a lot over the years about my autistic daughter’s scripts, and why it’s so important to understand that they often — very often, in fact — have meaning. (And that even when they don’t, they ALWAYS have a function. Hold on to that.) 
Brooke’s language development was what we now know to call ‘gestalt language processing.’ That’s a mouthful of jargon that means that she learned to communicate by first memorizing and repeating chunks of dialogue rather than individual words. 
To put it differently, she didn’t have the tools to create novel sentences, and was essentially stuck with the limited repertoire of phrases and “scripts” that she had on hand at any given time. 
For the record, it takes incredible creativity to communicate this way, and I remain in awe of those who do. 
Anyway, over the years, she not only began to build sentences brick by brick, but she started to take utterly delicious liberties with language, making up new words, combining old ones in the most imaginative ways, and making our common language dance.  
But she also still relies on scripts. Most often, she uses them as a means to engage and interact (See: function 😉) They are comfortable for her, and nothing brings her greater joy than a familiar and predictable volley, repeated all day long, every day. 
She also defaults to scripts in times of stress. And this is the part that I came here to share. Because this is where so often, autistic people’s communications can be dismissed when they’re actually really, really meaningful. 
In the car this afternoon, we had a bit of a though time and Brooke was struggling. We had to do something that she didn’t want to do (stopping on the way home to pick up a vital medicine) and there really was no way around it. 
When I told her that we didn’t have a choice, she shouted, “I’VE DONE A LOT OF STUPID THINGS IN MY LIFE!”
While that might not have “made sense” in the context of our conversation, it conveyed a lot of information. 
I asked her if it was Linus’s line in “It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.” She told me it wasn’t; it was Charlie Brown’s. 
I asked her if it was the line right before Linus lets loose on Charlie Brown, releasing all of his rage as the screen goes dark and the show ends. She said it was. 
I asked her if she was telling me that she felt frustrated. She nodded. 
The stress of the moment had blocked her access to words as individual building blocks, and she viscerally defaulted to her catalogue of scripts, each associated with feelings, and grabbed the perfect one to say, “This is making me feel frustrated and angry and impotent and I don’t like it one bit.” 
Scripts always have a function, my friends, and they very, very often have a whole lot of meaning. 
❤️
{image is one of a million photos that I have of Brooke and me mid-script. We took it at Children's Beach this summer, when it was chilly and windy. She's wearing my denim jacket backwards (more accurately, “Brookeward) and we're laughing at a Blue's Clues script.}