Spline Theory: Deepening my Understanding of Autism

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I’ve long been a fan of spoon theory, and appreciate it as a metaphor, especially one that allows nondisabled folks to get slightly closer to understanding my experience (and stop asking so many pesky questions). The addition of forks (triggers) deepens the possibilities of the metaphor.

But spoon theory doesn’t adequately explain my functioning. How come, even when I have the spoons, starting a task can be impossible? Why does task-switching require a monumental amount of spoons, while doing grueling work for hours may demand very few?

Enter spline theory. I must heavily thank Rachel Gold for introducing this idea to me.

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Table of Contents:

1. What is spline theory?
2. Reticulation and automaticity
3. Reframing “stuckness” through the law of inertia

What is spline theory?

Rather than fully explain the theory here, I will point you to how I learned about it: Luna Lindsey’s blog post on the topic. I highly recommend you give that a read before continuing this post. I’m going to focus more on my interpretation of the theory.

To be honest, I still don’t understand what a spline is. My brain isn’t mathematical enough to grasp it without further examples—examples I don’t have the energy to seek out. But as a metaphor, I understand a spline as a moving piece, one that can fit together with other pieces and form a part of a whole.

Reticulation I get. Making a net or network out of, it’s simple enough. But what in the world does reticulating splines mean?

Now, I’m a big gamer, but I’m not old enough to have encountered this phrase during its height of popularity in loading screens. At the time, it meant nothing; a silly joke. Lindsey gives it more depth.

For each task to be completed—and I do truly mean each task, down to the smallest things like brushing your teeth—there are a number of things (splines) that need to be fit together before the task can be done.

To a neurotypical brain, these splines may all slide into place automatically. The individual doesn’t even recognize the process, completing it the moment they decide to start a task. Or perhaps they don’t even have a pile of splines that need to be networked.

For brains like mine, each and every one of those splines is easily identified as an individual component. I have to spend energy (spoons) gathering all of those components together into a cohesive piece. Only then can the task be started.

Let’s take an example: getting breakfast. First, I need to get myself to the kitchen, which may involve multiple splines depending on where I am. Since it’s the morning, I might need to use the bathroom. If I haven’t showered yet, I might feel too icky for food.

Once all of those pieces are in place and I’m in the kitchen, I need to decide what I’m going to eat. This requires sorting through dozens of splines and choosing the right match of flavor, fillingness, texture, and ease.

Finally, what are the steps to preparing my chosen food? Each step is a spline that needs to be gathered before I can start the process, so there are no surprises along the way.

At last, reticulation complete, I can toss a bagel in the toaster, smother it with cream cheese, and move on.

Reticulation and automaticity

The breakfast example is intentionally drawn-out. Does that sound like a lot of steps for a simple bagel? Good, it should. Because, believe it or not, those are the steps I must consciously shift through.

At least, at first they are. But some tasks that I do with high frequency can be automated, in a way. Sure, on off days, the automation fails, and we’re back to square one.

Automaticity is the ability to do something automatically, without thinking. If I ask you “what’s 2 plus 2?”, there’s a high likelihood you say “4” without much thought. For some, though, answering that question takes time.

I’ve developed automaticity in my breakfast routine because I do it every day. I have few options and already know the steps needed for each one. The amount of choice and effort involved is heavily reduced.

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Don’t get me wrong, I’m still reticulating all the splines. But I’m getting closer to neurotypical functioning, not having to expend as much energy to do it. This means I have more energy to focus on preparing for other tasks.

It also means that my breakfasts have very little variety, because like I said, I have a limited set of options, to reduce reticulation time. And there are so many opportunities for something to go amiss.

What if I’m having something unusual for breakfast? What if someone else is there? I haven’t showered, or I woke up far later than usual? I’m not sure if it’s better to have breakfast or just wait until lunch? Then, we’re back to manual reticulation and spending far too many spoons for far too few calories.

Another part of automaticity is the ability to keep at least parts of more complex tasks loaded up. I read and write emails daily, so I already have the code for that ready to run in my head. Going to the store weekly means that task is already half-ready to start.

But it becomes more difficult when you have to switch between complex things. I have multiple ongoing writing projects at the moment. Each one requires a different state of mind and set of knowledge—meaning I need to reticulate for each. When I fully get into one mindset, I can keep it semi-loaded for days, even weeks. But if I have to switch to another, the whole process resets.

It’s made even harder by the fact that I write for work. My work writing is generally easier, since I keep that partially loaded in my head. Switching to a different writing mindset, though, is more challenging when I remember I have to go back to being professional-writer Ashton in the morning.

Constant switching like this has made it very difficult for me to develop a consistent writing practice, and often led to me feeling paralyzed and ashamed. Let’s examine that more closely.

Reframing “stuckness” through the law of inertia

My journey to accepting autism has been a long one, and it’s far from over. One thing I’ve constantly struggled with is feeling “stuck”, unable to start or switch tasks even when I really want to.

Many of my therapy sessions this year have involved the phrase “if I want to, and I have the energy, why can’t I just do it?”

We’re all familiar with Newton’s law of inertia, right? “An object in motion will stay in motion…” etc. etc. But until reading Lindsey’s post, I had never seen a parallel of this idea as it relates to autism.

Immediately, it resonated with me. We struggle immensely with task-switching—AKA, modifying inertia. And starting a new task, even when the desire is there, can sometimes be literally impossible.

I’ve always felt that. But until recently, I didn’t have the language to explain what was happening.

As we’ve seen, I have to reticulate splines for nearly any task. Some tasks are far more complex than others, taking a much greater number of splines, and more reticulation time. And reticulating takes spoons. In other words, changing my inertia costs me spoons—a limited, precious resource.

I used to (and sometimes still do) feel so much shame when I couldn’t get started on a task. I’ve spent the past two weeks wanting to start this post and being unable to! Often, I’ve felt like I wasn’t trying hard enough, perhaps something was wrong with me, or maybe I really was just lazy.

Since learning about reticulating splines, I now recognize how much has to go into a task like writing. And I recognize how many different tasks I’m reticulating for every day just to keep myself alive. At some point, I have to accept that I won’t have the reticulation power for everything I want to do.

So instead of being ashamed when I feel stuck, I think about my current inertia. Where is it taking me right now? Is that a direction I can modify? Is it better to follow that direction instead, to conserve energy? How much reticulation power do I have in the tank?

Another thing I’m more mindful of is how to reduce the reticulation cost of tasks. Automaticity greatly helps here, but so does removing other barriers or distractions. Getting water is an automatic task for me, so I make sure I’m stocked up before trying to start something. I put my phone away, or perhaps turn on Do Not Disturb, to reduce the temptation of that escape.

I’m still new to thinking about reticulating splines. It’s a metaphor that helps me treat myself with more compassion and grace. It’s also a way to explain the arcane workings of my mind to someone else. And, when I set myself up for powerful, next-gen reticulation, I can sit down and write cool blog posts.

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Do you have thoughts on spline theory? Would you like to see it more widespread? You can leave a comment down below. And if you liked this post, make sure to subscribe so you don’t miss the next one.