𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖠𝖫𝖫 pt. 4
(𝖻𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌)
𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗 : ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ
ᴡᴀʏ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟ
ʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ/ꜰᴀᴄᴛ-ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ
ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴛɪᴇꜱ.
ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇ
ᴏʀ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴏᴛᴇ ᴀɴʏ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ
ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ. ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ
ᴀ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴀʀɪᴏ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴍᴇ
ꜰᴏʀ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴘᴜʀᴘᴏꜱᴇꜱ.
sᥙρρort to thosᥱ ιmρᥲᥴtᥱd
ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴩᴛ- 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳
𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 ➸ 𝐏𝐆-𝟏𝟑
ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ🙂ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴅᴀʏ
Karen, ever the calming
presence, moves closer to
Plankton, her movements slow
and deliberate. She knows
his triggers, his signs of
distress. She whispers,
"It's okay, Plankto-"
But Plankton's body
doesn't seem to hear. Only
his arm shoots out, his
hand slapping as he tries
to grasp something,
anything, from the bedside
table. Karen's eyes dart to
his hand, and she knows
exactly what he wants.
She reaches over in
to the bedside drawer and
pulls out a box of sensory
needs. She gently hands him
a fidget squishy before putting
the sensory box back into the
bedside drawer.
Plankton's movements
slow slightly as he
compresses it in his grip.
Karen knows Plankton's
autism like the back of
her hand. She's studied
his tics, his stims, the way
his body reacts to stress.
It's been a silent dance
between them for years,
his unspoken needs met
with her quiet understanding.
But now, Chip's in the
picture, and he's curious.
Plankton squeezes the
fidget squishy in his hand,
his breaths coming in
short gasps. Karen watches
his antennae, the way they
twitch with each inhale,
slower with each exhale. It's
a pattern she's come to
recognize, a sign he's
coming back to them.
"It's okay," she whispers.
She knows his limits.
Chip watches,
his eyes wide with
wonder. He's never seen
his dad this way before.
Karen's eyes never leave
Plankton's. She can read
his every move, his every
tic. She's his anchor.
Plankton's antennae start to
quiver, his voice murmurs.
"Must... the... yes... it...
it's all..." Chip doesn't
understand what's happening,
but he knows his dad's in
distress. Karen's voice is a
soothing balm. "Just let
it pass, Plankton," she
whispers, her hand
steady. She's seen this
before; she knows.
The words continue to
tumble from Plankton's mouth,
disjointed and disconnected.
"The... the... it... has to
be... must... yes..."
Karen watches with a
mixture of sadness and
determined calm. She's been
his rock through these
episodes countless times,
his safe place when the
world gets too loud. But now,
screen sees the fear in her son's
eyes, the questions he's
too afraid to ask. She knows
it's time to explain.
Plankton's antennae stop twitching
as he squeezes the fidget squishy
tightly. The words come out in
spurts, a jumbled mess.
"The... the... it's okay," he says,
his voice barely above a murmur.
"Just... it's okay." Chip watches
his father, his mind racing.
What's happening? Why is he saying
these random words?
Karen's eyes never leave
Plankton's, her screen filled with
understanding. "It's part
of his autism," she whispers
to Chip. "Sometimes when
he's overwhelmed, words just
tumble out." Chip stares at his
dad. "But what does
he mean, 'the it'?" Chip asks,
his voice barely above a
whisper.
"It's not about us, Chip,"
Karen says, as more
nonsensical words spill out.
"The... it... no... must... yes..."
Karen sighs. "It doesn't always
make sense," she admits.
"It's just his brain trying to
process everything." Chip
swallows, watching his
dad with a mix of curiosity
and concern of
his neurodivergence.
Plankton's eye is glazed
over. "The... it... not... can't,"
he whispers to himself.
Karen's hand is warm
against his. Chip is watching,
his curiosity piqued.
He's never heard his
dad's voice like this, so
soft, so... lost. Plankton's
tongue flaps in his mouth,
his brain trying to form
coherent thoughts, but all that
comes out are jumbled syllables.
"It's okay, Plankton," Karen
soothes. "You're okay."
The room feels like it's
spinning around him, a whirlwind
of sounds and colors. Plankton's
eye is unfocused, but he feels
their presence. "Tck tck," he says
quietly, his head bobbing slightly.
Karen's hand tightens around
his. "Just let it come," she whispers.
"D-Dad?" Chip stammers.
Plankton doesn't respond.
"It's okay," Karen assures
Chip. "He's just... dealing. It's
like he's stuck in a loop, trying
to make sense of things. And
he does that with sounds,
sometimes. But he'll come back
to us." Karen's seen this before, the
way his mouth moves, forming
sounds of wording that don't quite
match up.
The room is a symphony of
Plankton's tics, the tapestry
of his neurodivergence.
"Tck tck," he murmurs, his
eye flickering. Chip watches.
He's never seen his dad so
vulnerable.
"Why does he do that?"
Chip whispers, his voice
shaking. Karen takes a deep
breath, ready to explain.
"Because it helps his brain cope
with the world, Chip," Karen
says. "Sometimes, his brain
can get overwhelmed. And
these little movements, these
sounds, they help him find
his calm." Chip's gaze
remains on his father, who's
still lost in his own
thoughts, oblivious to the
conversation happening
around him.
"But why can't he just...
stop?" Chip's question is
innocent, but it cuts deep.
Karen looks at him with
patience. "It's not something
he can control," she explains.
"It's like his brain's
way of expressing itself."
Chip nods, but the
questions keep coming.
"Does he even know he's doing
it?" he asks, his voice low.
Karen shrugs. "He's aware of
his tics, but sometimes they just
take over." She pauses, her gaze
on Plankton, who's still lost in
his own world. "It's like when
you get really focused on
a video game, and you don't
notice anything else around
you."
Chip thinks about it, his
mind racing with questions.
"But what's the point of the sounds?"
he asks. "Is he... will he
even know we're here?"
"Sometimes he does, sweetie.
Sometimes he doesn't. But it's
good to be here for him."
Plankton's tics subside
slightly. He's coming back.
"It's like a... a pressure
valve," Karen tries to explain.
"When his brain feels too
full, the tics and sounds help
to release some of that...
pressure." Plankton's antennae
twitch again. He's aware of
them now, watching him.
Karen's gaze is soft. "It's just
a sound he makes, Chip. It's
not for us, it's for him to
release tension. He may not
even know he's doing it right
now, nor may he later recall
what's been said or happened."
Chip nods, trying to
understand. Plankton's eye
finally focuses on them.
"What's... what's going on?"
Plankton's voice is groggy.
Karen smiles gently. "You had
an episode," she says. "Do you
remember?"
Plankton's antennae droop.
"I don't know," he says. Karen nods.
It's not unusual for him to
forget. "Chip was worried
about you," she adds. Plankton
looks at his son, his heart
heavy. "Chip grabbed my hand,
and it was too much. I'm sorry,"
he says, his voice barely above
a whisper as he puts the fidget
squishy back. "It's okay," Chip
says, his voice small. "I just..."
But Plankton cuts him off. "Just
leave me alone!" Karen sighs.
This is the part she's always feared.
The moment when Chip
would find out, and Plankton's
fear of losing him would spike.
He's always been so good
at hiding his autism, but now
his son has seen it in full force.
Chip takes a step back,
his eyes wide. "Dad?" Plankton
doesn't look at him. "Please,
Chip," Plankton says, his voice
sharp. "Just... just go." The
sting of his words is like a
slap in the face. Karen sees
the hurt in Chip's screen, but
she knows Plankton's just
trying to regain control.
Karen puts a hand on
Chip's shoulder. "Let's give
Dad some space," she whispers.
But Chip's eyes are still
glued to Plankton. "But I..."
he starts.
"Chip," she says firmly, "now's
not the time." Plankton's
body is still, his antennae
drooping. He looks... broken.
It's a sight that makes Karen's
ache, but it's one she's
seen before. Chip nods
reluctantly, his gaze never
leaving his father's. He takes
a step back, his eyes still
full of questions. Karen
sits beside him. She knows he
doesn't mean to push Chip
away, that his fear of being
seen as less than has always
been his greatest burden.
Plankton's tic starts again,
his head nodding. "Tck tck,"
he says. Karen knows that
for Plankton, it's completely
normal for him to tic like this
after such seizures.
Chip watches, his curiosity
melding with fear. Karen
sighs. "It's just his brain, Chip,"
she says, her voice steady. "It's
his way of coping. The tics are
okay, and he might continue to
tic for the rest of today."
Plankton sighs. "Chip, you better
not blabber about this to anyone,"
his voice is low and gruff. Karen nods
understandingly. "He won't," she says,
turning to Chip. "It's our little
secret." "I won't," Chip whispers, watching
Plankton's bobbing head.
"It's a tic, Chip," Karen explains, her voice
soft. "It's like when you have to
scratch an itch that just won't go
away." Plankton nods, his eye
still unfocused. "It's something
his body does when he's trying
to calm down," she adds. "There's
nothing wrong with it. The tics are
with his head movements and his
tongue clicking, which is how he tics."
Chip stares at his dad. "Why does it...
why does it happen?" he asks,
his voice barely a whisper.
Karen's eyes are filled with
sorrow. "It's part of his
autism," she says, her voice
gentle. "When he's stressed or
anxious, his brain sends
mixed signals. And his body
has these... involuntary
responses." She takes a deep
breath. "It's like... it's like
his brain's doing a little
dance to keep up. It's not in
his antennae, nor his limbs. Only
his head and sometimes mouth
tics, being the jerks and sounds. It's
something involuntary."
"But why can't he just...
not do it?" Chip asks, as
Plankton's head continues
to nod, his tongue clicking
against the roof of his mouth.
Karen's eyes are filled with
patience. "It's not that
simple, Chip," she says. "These
tics are like... reflexes.
You can't just turn them
off. It's part of it."