I’m curious about the potential for co-morbidities in synaesthetes. My interest in the psychological and neurological conditions that are concurrent with synaesthesia is rooted in my own family’s diffuse weirdness, and amplified by the fascinating line up at Trinity College Dublin, Ireland for UKSA2016. Duncan Carmichael PhD (University of Sussex) presented on “The Health of Synaesthetes: What conditions are co-morbid with synaesthesia?” Dr. Carmichael’s work intrigues me; I’m quite certain future research will reveal many neurological, psychological, and somatosensory differences between people who have synaesthesia, and those without this variant. Additionally, Carol Steen, MFA (Touro College) offered a brilliant glimpse into her experiences with hypnagogia via her collaborative paper with Noam Sagiv PhD (Centre for Cognition and Neuroimaging, Brunel University) titled “Synesthestic and Hypnagogic Imagery, a Comparison”. Accompanying Steen and Sagiv’s presentation were immaculately detailed illustrations of hypnagogic imagery created by Ms. Steen. Those images were wondrous in their symmetry and beauty.
Hypnagogia is particularly pertinent to me this evening, December 24th, 2016. I’ve had hypnagogic hallucinations throughout my life, but none of these episodes has been as protracted and as memorable as those from my early childhood. And, there is a specific sequence of hallucinatory images from Christmas Eve, 1971 that continues to awe me with its intersection between the dreamworld and reality.
I went to sleep that evening with my elder sister Elizabeth, the two of us sharing her double bed, both of us positively stoked at the thought of Santa Claus prowling through our home, depositing gifts under the noble fir, and stuffing our stockings with trinkets. We couldn’t stop talking, even though our parents had threatened to part us and send me back to the room I shared with my younger sibling. Eventually, Beth drifted off, as did I. But, at some point that night, I wakened, at least partially. I sat up and gazed out the window, where I envisioned a repeating sequence of imagery, Santa in his sleigh, pulled by galloping reindeer, who traipsed across my visual field from right to left. They looked somewhat like Indonesian shadow puppets, although the contrast was reversed, with my hallucinatory images appearing in bright white against a black background. Every few minutes, Santa and his sleigh were replaced by large blocks that moved from bottom to top and then back. I’d count them off..one, two three four five…and back again…five four three two one. Then, Santa would reappear with his reindeer team, moving across the neighbor’s rooftops in an illusory journey.
When I awoke on Christmas morning I was too excited to tell my mother and father what had transpired the night before. I thought that I’d perhaps seen the elusive St. Nick, although even at six, I recognized that the images I witnessed were not realistic. My visions had a phantasmagoric quality, a transparency and luminosity that stood in stark contrast to the stolid suburban landscape over which they were transposed. I decided to keep quiet, another hallmark of my young life, my tremendous reticence about revealing my disconcerting sensorium. I only recently shared this story with my older sister. Beth corroborated the layout of our early childhood home and a Christmas Eve spent huddled together in her bedroom awaiting a midnight visitation.
Forty-five years later I still have hypnagogic hallucinations, but they seem to be a bit quiescent at this time. When I do have them, they’re most likely to show as form constants, detailed geometric shapes that wake me from early sleep and scintillate in the air above my body. I do occasionally have auditory hypnagogia: ringing doorbells, a phantom voice calling my name, buzzing telephone notifications and alarms. I’ve never again envisioned Santa Claus and his reindeer coursing through a darkened sky. But, perhaps tonight…
December 25th 1971, just moments before my sisters and I awakened…
My mother died 20 years ago this month, on Friday December 13th 1996 just a few minutes before midnight. I never told her about my mirror-sensory synaesthesias, which is perhaps my life’s foremost regret. But, like so many synaesthetes, I didn’t know there was a name for my acute sensitivity. In fact, I thought something must be terribly wrong with me; I was frightened and bewildered by my otherworldy sensations, and I became quite adept at keeping them hidden.
If there’s a second great regret stepping on the heels of the first, it is surely my infrequent visits to the hospital in the weeks leading up to my mother’s death. She was bedridden, aphasic, and fading quickly. My sisters both had young children and lived too far away to make regular visits to Merced. With my father already deceased, and no family on the west coast, the burden for my mother’s care and companionship fell singularly on my shoulders.
It seems terribly ironic that a woman whose career spanned 30 years and 3 different acute care facilities, an expert nurse capable of triaging an emergency room and managing the patient care for a large and underfunded county hospital should be left in the custody of someone so ill-suited. To be clear, I don’t hate the medical field, I’m not squeamish around blood or body fluids; to the contrary, the life sciences positively thrill me. My therapeutic massage clients know that I am a diehard anatomy geek who is passionate about kinesiology and human biomechanics and theories of spatial medicine.
But, I get electric bolts of sensation down the backs of my legs (following the path of the sacral dermatomes) when I see other people’s wounds or injuries. Similarly, I get flashing zaps of pain when I see certain objects: broken glass, nails, tacks, knives, hypodermic needles, casts, crutches. The list of offending objects is long and sundry, with at least a few items of little potential threat. Wooden skewers, for example. And toothpicks, which feel like a great big WTF??? It seems illogical to get painful sensory feedback from 5 centimetres of pointed wood, but there you have it. My sensorium confounds me and it has since my earliest memories.
Hospitals feel like a minefield. I can’t be anymore clear. When I’m in that type of environment, I get waves of synaesthetic pain, not because of what I think about the environment, or because hospitals feels scary or unfamiliar. It always comes back to that strange conflation of my skin, my vision and my mirror neurons, my own little unholy alliance. And so, my visits to my bedridden mother were infrequent. For this, I am sad beyond words.
Two decades ago I had no idea why my sensorial world was so harsh. I didn’t know the word synaesthesia, and I was unfamiliar with concepts of cross-modal perception. What I did know was that it was terribly hard to see my mom in her final days, despite my conscious awareness that she was likely experiencing her own physical pain, sadness, anxiety, and fear. I felt like a horrible daughter for yielding to my own hurt and confusion; sometimes I still do.
My favorite band at the time of my mother’s passing was Counting Crows. They had released an album earlier in 1996, Recovering the Satellites, which I played often as I drove my mother to her chemotherapy appointments. She liked the group and was a bit charmed that I had gone to college at UC Berkeley at the same time and in the same program as the band’s lead singer Adam Duritz. One of the last tracks on the disc is a song called “Long December”; the line that sticks in my mind is this:
The smell of hospitals in winter,
and the feeling that its all a lot of oysters
but no pearls
It’s always a long December for me, wistful and melancholic. I miss my mother more than ever this year. I feel like my inability to be fully present for her was like a whole lot of oysters for both of us. But, twenty years later, learning about synaesthesia, identifying as neurodiverse, and coming to terms with my atypical sensorial world feels like a pearl.
Photograph by Valentina Sadiul
Fall is the harvest season in the northern hemisphere and November represents its apogee in the warmer climates of California. The rush to last harvest has commenced; yams are pulled from the earth and squashes are culled from withering vines while persimmons and mandarins still hang like fiery ornaments, awaiting the first frosts.
It’s no wonder that my grapheme-color synaesthesia has imbued this month with a burnished hue. I see the word “November” in a rich orange, the color of roasted pumpkins, and akin to the warm highlights on the ubiquitous liquidambar trees that adorn gardens in the greater Bay Area. The letter “N” has always been orange, as long as I can recollect. And, as a spatial-sequential and time-units synaesthete, it seems obvious to me that this eleventh month would sit off to my left, warming the waning year with its incendiary glow, one that fades to black as winter arrives.
I have a haphazard pattern of colored months. It’s rather common for grapheme-color synaesthetes to experience a given word as stained by its initial letter. For example, my first name Carolyn, is cerulean, which is also the color of the letter “C”. My last name Hart is chartreuse, as is the letter “H”. But, while the word “October” is white, I see the month of October in yellow. And the word “December” is purple, but the month is inky black.
Perhaps the congruence of my orange letter “N” and the even oranger word “November” is why I’m so fond of late autumn. But, I think those pumpkins, ready for roasting and folding into sweet and spicy pies have something to do with my delight….
Halloween is just a few weeks away and I am planning to follow through with my commitment to the phantasmagorgeous. While I don’t yet have a costume put together, I do have some concepts predicated on the intersection of allure and fear. I also have plans to attend gatherings in San Francisco that offer a platform for expressing the conflation of the beautiful and the spooky. The Vau de Vire Society will present Phantasm, which offers “a midway of careening colors and karni oddities”, while on the same evening the intrepid folks who create the Edwardian Ball will host their own version of pretty terror, The Haunted Hourglass. I’ll most likely attend Paul Nathan’s event at the creepy and mysterious Great Star Theater. And, on November 2nd, I will once again build my fireplace mantel offrenda, then haunt the streets of The Mission bedecked in calavera make up.
For more than a decade I’ve been disturbed by the increasingly gruesome imagery that has overtaken celebrations on October 31st. I’m a mirror-touch synaesthete, and I feel pain in my own body when I see wounds on another person’s body. It doesn’t matter if this blood and carnage and ruptured flesh is real or imagined; I experience painful sensations the nanosecond my brain perceives “hurt”. My mirror-sensory synaesthesias are so flagrant, I consider myself to be “built for hurt”. But, the lovely underbelly of this reactivity is my sensitivity to sumptuous fabrics and aquarelle colors. The sight of burgundy silk chiffon makes my fingers warm; the orange petals of a late autumn chrysanthemum are as threatening as teeth. Put them together in a strange and fascinating headpiece and I’m captivated.
I’m building my All Hallows Eve ensemble on a framework of texture, color, and transparency, a formula that’s hardly novel to fear mongers. Guillermo del Toro combines these elements masterfully in “Crimson Peak”, a haunting, ethereal ghost story. Similar images are evoked in Edgar Allen Poe’s poem Annabel Lee and the haute couture of Thierry Mugler. I’ve plenty of experts to consider as I build my own bewitching disguise. And as always, I’ll let go of the gory and elevate the eerily pretty.
Photograph by Valentina Sadiul
Photo of Carolyn “CC” Hart, CMT by Annetta Kolzow
The trees are turning all yellowy-gold here in California, and I can’t help but think of my mother. Autumn was her favorite season, and tomorrow marks her 81st birthday. She’s been gone for almost twenty years, but her impact on my life lingers on, particularly in regard to my vocation.
My mother helped me get my license to practice therapeutic massage, and I’m forever indebted to her for her generosity and support. I’ve been a Certified Massage Therapist for more than two decades, a career that continues to spark my intellectual curiosity. I love the body sciences…anatomy and kinesiology and biomechanics…and I feel well suited to a job that helps other people feel their best. While most massage therapists wash out of the occupation before their seventh year in business, my manual therapy practice is thriving in its twenty-fourth year. For all of this, I’m thankful.
But I am most grateful for the strange conflation of the senses that is mirror-sensory synaesthesia. I was born this way, with my vision and my mirror neurons and my skin all entwined together. When I give people therapeutic massage, I feel as if I am the one getting a massage. When I work with tight muscles and my hands palpate their shape beneath the skin, my own muscles quiver and twitch in response to the knots and trigger points uncovered by my fingers. And, when I see my clients injuries…their bumps and bruises and cuts…I immediately feels shocks of pain akin to electricity that shoot down my dermatomes from my hips to my heels. This synaesthesia-for-pain facilitates my sense of empathy.
My grapheme-color synaesthesia is immensely helpful in my career as well. My dirty little secret is that I never write any of my appointments onto a calendar. Instead, they appear like a vibrantly colored hologram that surrounds my body. I know who is on my schedule on what day and time simply by the colored patterns created by that appointment when it was booked, whether in person, on the phone, or by email. And, that colored pattern occupies the three-dimensional space around my body, so it’s quite easy for me to find my upcoming appointments.
Friday October 7th, is the prettiest shade of pale ocher punctuated by a stripe of deep scarlet. I will think much of my mother tomorrow, and once again wonder if I got my synesthete genes from her.
Our lovely IASAS logo, created by Christina Eppleston.
My inquiry into synesthesia has connected me with some truly intriguing people; I can’t think of another neurological phenomenon that fosters such an odd and compelling community. Through a decade spent exploring my own synesthetic perceptions, I’ve met neuroscientists of all stripes, from developmental neurobiologists studying the genetic underpinnings of cross-modal processing to anthropological psycholinguists documenting the global frequency of colored graphemes. I’ve met artists who paint vivid soundscapes on canvas that depict their own chromesthesia, and I’ve re-read Nabokov, looking for clues to the tints of his synesthetic alphabet. The Synesthesia List has introduced me to a teenager in Asia who hears shapes and a senior in America who tastes words. I’m beyond honored to be part of this wonderfully inclusive group who reveal the experience of synaesthesia through their personal stories, creative endeavors, and research.
Writing my Vox Synaesthetica blog has fostered connections with several individuals who are committed to developing a global collective focused on cultivating interest, understanding, and acceptance of synaesthesia as an expression of human neurodiversity. I’m delighted to serve as secretary of the board for this nascent organization. The past few weeks have been a flurry of activity as I help to develop the International Association of Synaesthetes, Artists, and Scientists into a bona fide 501(c) 3 nonprofit corporation. I’ve set aside some of my own creative writing projects in order to draft our nonprofit documents, and I’ve left my social media mostly quiescent while I’ve constructed an electronic presence for IASAS. While we aren’t yet ready to bring members into the International Association of Synaesthetes, Artists and Scientists, our board is actively building what promises to be a diverse and dynamic community.
I believe IASAS will encourage collaboration among synaesthetes, (people who have synaesthesia), the artists who create from their own synaesthetic perceptions, and the scientists who study cross-modal processing. But I’m equally curious about the fascinating and varied permutations this organization nurtures: scientists who have synaesthesia, artists who aren’t synaesthetic but who create works that promote conflated sensations in their audience, synaesthetes who aren’t scientists but who participate as subjects in research studies. IASAS represents tremendous possibilities for cooperation and unity; I look forward to my opportunity to both witness and participate in the rise of an unprecedented alliance.
Pantone 448C, aka “opaque couché”.
Is Pantone 448C the world’s ugliest color? Many people think so, including the 1000 smokers who participated in an Australian research and marketing project aimed at creating an unappealing but compulsory plain package for all cigarettes sold down under. I picked up the story of Pantone 448C, aka “opaque couché”, as reported by UK newspaper The Guardian. But, I’ve long known this color as a component of my synesthesia. And while I agree that it’s not a particularly alluring color, I’m convinced opaque couché helped me learn to read and write.
My grapheme->color synesthesia gives each of my letters and numbers a distinct, unique-to-me color. My “A” is a deep aquamarine blue, my “B” a scarlet pink, etc. Like many synesthetes, the first letter of a word colors the rest of that word. For example, the word “book” is scarlet-pinkish-red. Although its comprised of a scarlet “B”, two white “O”s and a seafoam green “K”, when I see the whole word, it appears to me in scarlet.
My letter “T” is a light warm brown, and my letter “H” is a shade of green that leans toward chartreuse. But something funny happens when they are side-by-side in a word like ‘though” or “thought”. When I see T and H next to each other, they both turn a weird brownish-greenish-grey, almost the exact shade of Pantone 448C. And while, I find the color kind of ugly, it begs me to notice it. That odd color really stands out in a way that made it quite simple for me to differentiate between words that are easily confused by early readers, words such as ”tank” and “thank”, or the words “though”, “thought”, and “through”.
A few weeks ago, I wrote about the misconceptions that accompany public perceptions of synesthesia. One of those misconceptions is the idea that synesthetes experience a world of exquisite rainbow hues. In truth, many people with grapheme->color synesthesia have really hideous colors that inform their synesthetic perception. Though I find Pantone 448C to be pretty ugly, I like it, through and through…
Photo courtesy of Roberto Vongher and Wikimedia Commons
I’m delighted to have my essay “Built for Hurt” published in the inaugural issue of qualia, an “experimental journal dedicated to creative and critical thinking at the intersection of the arts, humanities, and medical sciences. With a focus on lived experiences, embodied encounters, phenomenological investigations and unusual perspectives, qualia publishes personal, theoretical, scientific, sonic, and visual responses to particular themes: this inaugaral issue of qualia explores the theme of pain.”
Qualia is edited by Dr. Elinor Cleghorn, who has conducted research on the scholarly and artistic implications of mirror-touch synaesthesia at Oxford’s Ruskin School of Art. I was fortunate to participate in some of Dr. Cleghorn’s inquiry into experiences of mirror-sensory synaesthesias, and I’m honored that she encouraged me to pen an essay about my encounters with synesthetic pain for the first issue of qualia.
I am indeed built for a certain type of hurt. My synaesthesia-for-pain is triggered every single day on multiple occasions, often by the most mundane objects. But sometimes my mirror-touch synaesthesia and synesthesia-for-pain go into overdrive; one such example of this sensory overload was witnessing (via electronic media) the wreck of the Costa Concordia. My essay Built for Hurt explores this tragedy from a synesthetic perspective. I’m grateful for the opportunity to share my essay with you via qualia journal.
Chromesthesia is one of more than 60 forms of synesthesia.
I was on Pintrest this morning, working on my Synaesthetic Alphabet Project, when I kept encountering the same pin: “I see colors when I hear your voice”. There are many different versions of this meme, most featuring rainbow-hued abstract art. While I recognize that the popularity of this pin is likely due to its romantic connotations, I think the meme perpetuates some myths about synesthetes and synesthesia:
- All people with synesthesia experience colored sound: Chromesthesia, or sound-to-color synesthesia, is indeed one of the more common forms of conflated senses. But not every synesthete has chromesthesia. And even among people who do have sound-to-color synesthesia, their experiences are unique. I’ve really enjoyed looking at the sound-to-color paintings of artist and synesthete Melissa McCracken, who appears to have much more blue in her colored hearing than I have. My own chromesthesia tends toward faint yellows, pinks and greens.
- Synesthesia is a beautiful experience: While many synesthetes do enjoy their synesthesia, it isn’t always pleasant. Earlier this year, the NPR program Invisbilia profiled a woman whose mirror-touch synesthesia made it impossible for her to be in the presence of people who were eating, as it would make her choke and gag. My own mirror-touch includes synesthesia-for-pain. And some grapheme-color synesthetes dislike many of the hues in which they see their letters and numbers. Syn isn’t always pretty.
- Synesthesia is a disease: It’s a neurological phenomenon, not an illness.
- Synesthesia is really rare: It’s actually somewhat common, affecting approximately 4% of the global population.
- Synesthesia isn’t real: At the dawn of modern psychology, interest in the study of synesthesia was quite high, with some researchers gathering extensive narratives of synesthetic experiences. Unfortunately, there were no means to scientifically validate these experiences, and research into synesthesia declined for decades. With the development of functional magnetic resonance imaging, synesthesia research has increased dramatically. fMRI studies are documenting how very real synesthesia is.
- There are no tests that prove synesthesia: see above. Also, the Synesthesia Battery is an online test developed by Dr. David Eagleman. While it only tests for a few different forms of synesthesia, it’s considered to be quite accurate.
- Synesthesia is like tripping on drugs 24/7: I’m not the best person to address this fallacy, with my very limited encounters with psychedelics. But I can speak for the experience of synesthesia, and say that my conflated senses are so tightly interwoven into my perception of the world, it hardly feels “trippy”. It’s not like I walk around all day in the equivalent of a hallucinatory stupor. I believe this is true for other synesthetes as well. Even if our synesthesia is sometimes confusing, alluring, or frightening, it’s not the same as tripping on LSD or mescaline.
I’ll likely add to this list as I encounter additional myths about synesthesia. If you’re a synesthete who’s encountered misconceptions about your experiences, I’d love to hear about it. Please leave a comment below.
Today, May 9th 2016, marks one year since I launched my Vox Synaesthetica blog. I’m delighted to have this opportunity to write about my experiences with synaesthesia, and honored that my posts have been read in 42 different countries. It’s been fascinating to connect with an international community of fellow synaesthetes, and to witness the growing global interest in the neurodiversity movement.
Vox Synaesthetica has fostered some really lovely opportunities for me as a writer and synaesthete. I’ve had an essay about mirror-touch published on neuroscience blog braindecoder.com. Writer and international mental health advocate Rodger Hoefel profiled me in his Like-Minded Magazine. And just a month ago I presented at the United Kingdom Synaesthesia Association annual symposium at Trinity College in Dublin, Ireland. It’s been an exciting year!
I’ve several creative projects in the works, including an essay that will be published this summer focused on my obsession with the wreck of the Costa Concordia and its ability to trigger my synaesthesia-for-pain. I’m also collaborating in the creation of an international exhibition focused on the art and neuroscience of synaesthesia. This project is currently in development, and I can’t wait to share more details. I’m also working on a book-length memoir about my experiences with neuroweirdness, and hope to have a draft completed by August.
Outing myself as a synaesthete has been a liberating experience. I’m coming to terms with my aberrant brain, and writing about my experiences with synaesthesia has made space for me to explore the scary caves and turbulent rivers of my mental landscape. Vox Synaesthetica has also served as a springboard for creating connection in the larger neurodiversity community. I’m incredibly grateful for this opportunity.
Many thanks for reading Vox Synaesthetica. I so appreciate your companionship on my journey of neurological discovery.