On Stimming

(And loving yourself, I guess)

Photo by James Owen on Unsplash

When I was a kid, I would stim for hours at a time. I’d go into the basement of our Minnesota house and race around, flapping my arms while going on vivid imaginary adventures. Some days I was a Jedi knight, other days an elven warrior.

I didn’t know what I was doing was called stimming, but it happened often enough that my family developed our own term for it. We called it “jumping around” and it became a part of our daily conversation. It was normal for me to tell my mom “I’m going to go jump around” or for one parent to ask the other “Where’s Daniel? Is he jumping around?”

Autistic people stim in different ways. Some people rock back and forth, or jump up and down, or shake an object. While my family called my stimming “jumping around,” the core of how I stim involves my arms (I would run and jump too, but that was just me being a kid thrilled by the imaginary adventure I was on.)

How I Stim

When I was diagnosed, the psychologist described what I do as “flapping”, but that’s not quite right either. Flapping conjures up images of someone with arms spread wide imitating a bird’s flight. My stimming is different. I extend my arms in front of me about halfway, then pull them back to my chest, over and over. I’ll usually combine the movement with a noise deep in my chest that sounds kind of like “unch” although I can enjoy stimming even without the noise.

I can also stim by flipping an object and then catching it. When I would “jump around” as a kid I had a yellow plastic tube I would flip as I “flapped” As an adult, I don’t generally combine the sensations but when I need to covertly stim I’ll flip a pen over and over.

There are a lot of details that are required for an object to be suitable for flipping. The object needs to have some substance but not be too heavy, and I need to be able to flip it with a gentle movement (throwing the object up and catching it doesn’t feel satisfying, nor does flipping by curling my arm instead of my wrist. I have to combine the wrist sensation of flipping with the palm sensation of the object landing.) With my poor handwriting I rarely take notes, which means if you see me carrying a pen it’s probably for stimming and not for writing.

Autistic people stim for different reasons, too. Some autistic people stim when they’re overwhelmed or anxious, or when they’re feeling joyful, or in response to their special interest.

How I Stim

For me, stimming has a particular purpose. I’ll experience a desire to stim, and when I stim in response it feels satisfying, like scratching an itch or drinking a glass of water when you’ve been thirsty for a while. Stimming also makes me feel more present and focused in whatever is happening. If I stim in response to a game, the game feels more exciting and enjoyable. If I’m in class or working on a project and stim, my mind is clearer and it’s easier to avoid distraction.

If I feel the desire to stim and I don’t let myself stim, it’s distracting and uncomfortable, like the way you might feel if there was an insect crawling on your skin and you couldn’t brush it off. It builds over time, so the longer I suppress it, the more uncomfortable it feels. If I don’t feel the desire to stim, then there’s no benefit to me stimming – I can still do the movement, but it doesn’t create any sense of satisfaction.

Sometimes my desire to stim comes out of nowhere, but usually it’s in response to certain types of stimuli or situations. When I was a child, my special interests would cause me to stim, and I have many memories of running around the mall stimming in response to the video games and Star Wars toys.

As an adult, I still stim in response to video games, but my desire to stim usually comes from more unconventional places. One of my unusual triggers for stimming is awareness that something is “processing.” I’ll often stim when watching the timer on a microwave tick down as my food cooks or in front of my computer as a download bar fills up. I’ll also leave ice cubes on the sidewalk so I can be aware that they’re melting, and if I see an hourglass in a store I’ll inevitably turn it over.

Just like my “flipping” motion would only be satisfying if I followed specific rules, there are specific criteria that result in my brain determining that something is “processing.” If they’re not met, I don’t feel a desire to stim. For instance, it doesn’t count if I just set a timer but nothing is actually happening, or if something is happening but it won’t reach a clear point of being “done.”

I don’t have any particular interest in microwaves, downloads, or the physics behind ice melting, so I have no idea why my brain has decided these things processing should prompt stimming. I just know that it adds a lot of happiness to my life.

Dr. Stephen Shore famously said “If you’ve met one autistic person you’ve met…one autistic person.” I’m sure that other autistic people experience stimming differently than me. But I’m also sure that their experience is just as deep and complex as my own.

If you’re autistic, I hope that your stimming brings you a lot of satisfaction. And if you love an autistic person, I hope you take the time to better understand how they uniquely experience their stimming.

Stimming and Shame

This is especially important because deep shame has been attached to stimming. Other autistic people have shared terrible stories of being silenced, berated and in some cases physically abused by caretakers who attempted to stifle their stimming behavior. (A quick search online for “quiet hands” will yield stories that will churn your stomach.)

I never experienced anything like that, but I still internalized the stigma around stimming. Over time, I realized that stimming marked me as “different” and “other.” I was desperate to belong, and I would do anything to fit in. So I silenced myself.

I remember telling my Mom “Don’t look, don’t look” when she came down to the basement. In public, I would push my desire to stim down, even though it felt like letting bugs crawl on my skin.

Eventually, I reached the point where I became incapable of stimming in front of someone else. I can still do my covert stimming of flipping a pen in public – and thank goodness for that (I don’t think I would have made it through college, let alone graduate school without it.)

But my deepest, most fulfilling stimming, where I reach out in excitement and pull satisfaction and the ability to be fully present to myself, where I let out a guttural cry from deep, deep inside myself… Nobody in my adult life has ever seen that.

I have people in my life who love me very much, who I know would absolutely respond with acceptance if I chose to stim in front of them. I’ve even had a partner, someone who I was deeply vulnerable with in many other ways, ask me if she could see me stim.

But I can’t do it. Somewhere along the way, I learned that if I wanted people to accept me, I couldn’t stim in front of them.

I know that’s not true. But on some deep, deep level, it still feels true.

One day, I hope I’ll be able to stim freely in front of the people that love me. But until then, stimming remains a hidden part of myself.

Stimming and You

So again, I’ll speak to my readers who are autistic. I’ll tell you that there is nothing wrong with your stimming. Yes, there might be certain situations when it makes sense to hold it back temporarily, and it’s a good idea to develop a covert stim like I have. But the most important thing is not to learn how to stim “correctly.” It’s to realize that the people who really love you will love you no even when you stim.

And again, I’ll speak to my readers who are not autistic. I’ll tell you that if you have an autistic person in your life and you see them stimming, let yourself be glad that they get to experience such an incredible gift – and let them know that it brings you joy to see them stimming.