From the moment he was handed to me in the delivery room, Alex, my firstborn, seemed not happy to be here. His eyes were bottomless, his expression grave. He spent his first three months writhing and screaming inconsolably, the word “colic” wholly insufficient to describe our collective suffering. It wasn’t until his brother, Sammy, arrived that I realized just how different Alex was compared with other babies. Sammy cried only when he was hungry or wet. He made easy eye contact and loved to be stroked, hugged and kissed—all the things Alex recoiled from as an infant.
Later, when I took Alex to playgroups, he crawled away from the other toddlers to do his own thing, so we quit going. It wasn’t that Alex appeared unhappy. He would sometimes sit and smile with satisfaction for no apparent reason. At age two and three, Alex attended a Montessori preschool. Although he enjoyed the hands-on activities, his teachers often commented that he usually ignored them as well as the other children. His first grade teacher thought he must be hard of hearing because he routinely ignored her directions, especially the daily reading and writing drills she assigned. In one of the first studies ever done with families afflicted with schizophrenia, the Edinburgh High Risk Study, Scottish mothers commonly described children who went on to develop the disorder as occupying a world of their own.