I was nearing the end of my clinical fellowship, and my autistic 6-year-old client bolted right towards the fish tank. He submerged his hand to grab the fish before I could block him, and the fish tank water soaked all the way to his pants. I firmly grabbed his wrist and pulled it out. Once he appeared to settle, I briefly stepped away only for him to submerge his hand once again grasping for that fish. Then I looked at his expression.
This child’s eyes were sunken and swirling. His body was rigid. I realized he wasn’t scared of what I might do—he was scared of what he might do. He was scared of himself. He didn’t want to be doing this.
“Oh my god,” I thought. “What if this whole thing was an accident?”
I gently guided him to the bathroom where I would wash the fish tank water from his clothes.
I’ve had my fair share of fish tank accidents over the years. I say “accidents” because they feel accidental, akin to dropping a plate or bumping your knee.
There was the time in fourth grade time a peer directed verbally hostility at me by saying “Who do you think you are, my mom?” I was suddenly terrified, and I responded with script after script as if I was 90’s sitcom mother—the bossiest most “mother” response ever with the tone and mannerisms and facial expressions. I had no bodily or mouth control but was fully aware and didn’t know why it was happening. At some point I blacked out. My teacher later held a meeting with my mom to discuss my “mocking” of peers.
There was the time in middle school a frenemy had bullied me for weeks, then out-of-the-blue during lunch she was kind. She laughed, and I hated that laughter. I then saw my hand halt in the air an inch from her face. She looked shocked. It dawned on me that a few milliseconds prior my hand was going to slap her, and only when my brain caught up was I able to halt. Neither of us ever acknowledged it.
Just three years ago I was anxious and exhausted at a Hanukah party, fearful of bringing up my healing professional bitterness I held over the past year. At the drink table I met someone new named Patrick, and I accidentally repeated back “My name is Patrick.” Later that night I was talking to a former friend, aiming to reestablish that friendship. He told me his aunt was a speech-language pathologist. My mouth said I hated SLPs, a ruminant script of my once bitterness that no longer ringed true to what I thought or who I was. Both of these speech-language events were surprising and embarrassing, with the latter taking a year to fully repair.
The worst of the worst of my accidents—those both described here and kept to myself—happened when I was in first grade.
That year the assignments were too hard, or I couldn’t talk to the kids talking to me, or I talked, but it was not from my head. I cried, and no adults consoled me. I grew scared of crying in class, and crying in class became its own self-reinforcing trigger. By the time January came, I never remembered what my body did—and still don’t—but I figured it must have been really really bad. Now an adult was physically pinning me down and back or placing me alone in a small secluded area.
For a long time, it felt like I was perpetually soaked in fish tank water because my body or mouth might have accidentally killed the fish. Today I understand that I never deserve to be soaked in fish tank water. No one does.
These kids display frantic laughter, running around the playground trying to kiss peers, repeatedly knocking over the same item, a sudden hitting a peer, increasingly dysregulated repetition of a word, and other common autistic behaviors—but what if they don’t want to be doing all this? What if autism professionals are interpreting an autistic person's actions as evidence of intent when we haven't actually established what that person intended?
Because when I look back at my own experiences, it is far more logical to interpret it incorrectly than correctly. But really, when I was a 90’s sitcom mom, I was a passive participant as my body acted out a full-body gestalt before completely dissociating. When I almost slapped the peer, my hand followed my emotion before it followed my brain. At the Hanukah party, my present speech-language involuntary repeated past speech-language. And in first grade, starting in January, I suspect all of these different versions of the same accident happened at the same time.
The involuntary bodily and mouth experiences I’ve described are hard to imagine unless you’ve experienced them yourself. And even if imagined, it is easier to ignore or deny the possibility than to consider we can’t always trust observable autistic actions at face value. It takes humility, open-mindedness, skepticism, and in some sense, bravery, to pause and wonder if this human in front of you even wants to be doing this in the first place.
Without some pausing and giving oneself time to reflect and ponder, responses from autism professionals might be grossly misaligned with their own intent. And at the very worst, it opens up faulty premise for adults to respond with extreme forms of behavioral management. With these statistics (McDonnel et. al, 2018) and these local statistics (Massachusetts Department of Elementary and Secondary Education, 2026), I am not exaggerating.
So, what if it is an accident? Since there is a distinct possibility it is, my recommendation is to operate as such.
Give these kids the benefit-of-the-doubt, gently lead them to the bathroom, and get them a new damn pair of clothes.
References
Massachusetts Department of Elementary and Secondary Education. (2026). 2024–25 student restraints report – All schools. https://profiles.doe.mass.edu/statereport/restraints.aspx
McDonnell, C. G., Boan, A. D., Bradley, C. C., Seay, K. D., Charles, J. M., & Carpenter, L. A. (2019). Child maltreatment in autism spectrum disorder and intellectual disability: Results from a population‐based sample. Journal of child psychology and psychiatry, 60(5), 576-584.
