Sensing What Others Cannot: Anomalous Experiences and Autism

In 1954, Theodor Geisel, under the penname of “Dr. Seuss,” released Horton Hears a Who, a story about an elephant, Horton, who sees and hears things others in his jungle cannot (or refuse to) experience.

Horton starts communicating with tiny people who live on a speck of dust (“The Whos”), but when he presents this information to others in his community, they laugh at him and call him a lunatic. Feeling misunderstood, Horton sings “Alone in the Universe” alongside one of the smallest Whos in Whoville—Jojo.

Source: nappy/Pexels

Why are we talking about a children’s story? Well, for one, my daughter is Jojo—figuratively and literally. She’s playing Jojo in her school play, Seussical Kids. But beyond that, Dina is similar to Jojo. She’s the smallest girl in her class, and her mind tends to trail off into the deepest notes of her imagination. Dina also shares that short-lived sense of wonder that all children have—that openness and curiosity that allows her to observe untaintedly.

Sitting in the third row of the school’s auditorium for one of Dina’s rehearsals, I counted the minutes until I could go back home. I was restless, my tummy was rumbling, and I started to envy the father in the row behind me because he thought ahead and brought his laptop with him. Life was a basic hellhole in my ADHD head.

But then I caught some of the words to “Alone in the Universe” as they echoed through the auditorium, and they inspired me. Horton starts:

"I've been guarding this clover for over a week
Getting laughed at
For thinking that dust speck can speak
Well, let them all laugh
I'll try not mind, for I have found something they'll never find.

There are secrets on a leaf
In the water
In the air
Hidden planets, tiny worlds
All invisible

Not a person seems to know
Not a person seems to care
There is no one who believes a thing I say
Well, I'm fairly certain at one time or other
Great thinkers all feel this way.

I'm alone in the universe
So alone in the universe
I've found magic, but they don't see it.

They all call me a lunatic
Okay, call me a lunatic
If I stand on my own, so be it.”

There is so much wisdom packed into this 1950s children’s story, but the moral behind it, like a tiny speck of dust, floats past the ears of scientists and practitioners. Take the study of anomalous experiences in autistic individuals.

Recently, PT contributor, Dr. Jeff Tarrant, wrote about his experiences on the set of The Telepathy Tapes podcast. Tarrant was on the research team, collecting EEG data from nonspeaking autistic individuals who appeared to demonstrate the ability to communicate telepathically. If you have not listened to The Telepathy Tapes podcast before, please take some time to listen to it before deciding this blog post or anything it touches is pure lunacy (as Horton was misjudged).

Beyond Tarrant’s explanation that he believes (based on what he observed) that it would be beneficial for more formal research to be conducted on telepathic abilities in autistic individuals, researchers have already displayed a close link between autistic traits and anomalous (unusual) sensory experiences.

Source: Nataliya Vaitkevich/Pexels

One better-accepted unusual sensory experience commonly associated with autism is synesthesia, wherein sensory input is mixed. Examples of such experiences include seeing a color or a letter when one hears a sound.

Synesthesia is typically not associated with distress or dysfunction, and people who experience it often enjoy having it or benefit from it for memory and learning. In his theoretical article on autism, hallucination, and synesthesia, Gennaro (2021) argues that synesthetes "experience an enhanced form of conscious experience" because they can tap into something that is above and beyond typical sensory input.

There is a growing body of research showing significantly more self-reported accounts of anomalous experiences in autistic versus non-autistic individuals. In a Swedish study of 17 autistic adults and 17 non-autistic adults, those who were autistic reported significantly more incidents of "sensing presence, feeling touch, and seeing visions without input of somatosensory stimuli" (Visuri, 2019).

Moreover, the autistic individuals who reported having these experiences tended to explain (or make sense of) them as encountering ghosts, spirits, or demons. Although this study includes a small sample, the effect size was large, suggesting the results showing a significant difference between anomalous experiences reported by the autistic vs. non-autistic group was robust.

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Visuri (2019) explains that past research shows that up to 95% of autistic individuals have unusual sensory or perceptual experiences. This is unsurprising, considering that sensory sensitivities are common for those who are autistic and are included in the DSM-5-TR diagnostic criteria.

There is also a relationship between sensory integration issues and hallucinations. In a 2024 cross-sectional study including 335 youth aged 6-18 at a psychiatry outpatient clinic, there was a significant positive association between sensory processing difficulty scores and hallucinations (even after controlling for autism symptoms).

In another (2017) study assessing anomalous perception (i.e., hallucinations and/or out-of-body experiences), researchers compared 30 autistic adults without a known psychotic disorder (5 with co-occurring ADHD) to 30 neurotypical controls and found that autistic participants reported having significantly more anomalous experiences compared to non-autistic adults. Autistic adults also reported higher levels of distraction and distress associated with anomalous experiences, suggesting these events require clinical sensitivity and attention.

Some questions asked of participants on the Cardiff Anomalous Perception Scale (CAPS) included:

“Do you ever feel that someone is touching you, but when you look, nobody is there?”

“Do you ever have the sensation that your limbs might not be your own or might not be properly connected to your body?”

“Do you ever hear voices commenting on what you are thinking or doing?”

Some of these studies also asked autistic participants whether they ever talked about these experiences with others, especially given the experiences’ apparent likelihood to introduce stress or even suicidal ideation into their lives. Most of the participants said they don't share these experiences with anyone "to avoid negative reactions."

All of this begs the question: Are we too busy tending to “pathology” to notice or even think to ask about the possible "magic" that some autistic people have found?