CHIP IN MY BOX iv
(Autistic author)
Chip's door clicks shut upstairs,
the echo resonating through
the house like a gunshot.
Karen takes a deep
breath, her eyes never
leaving the spot where
Plankton had been standing.
With a sigh, she
picks up the sensory box,
carefully placing the
curtain back inside. She
knows her husband's anger
is not directed at their son,
but at his own inability to
control his condition. She
follows him into the kitchen,
finding him slumped over
the kitchen table, his head
in his hands.
"Plankton," she says
softly, setting the box by him.
He doesn't move, his
breathing ragged and heavy.
"I know you're upset."
He looks up, his eye
shimmering with anger
and a hint of despair.
"I can't... I just can't handle
it," he chokes out, his
voice thick with emotion.
Karen approaches, her
movements slow and careful,
as if she's afraid of startling
a wild animal.
"What can't you handle?"
she asks, her voice gentle.
Plankton's shoulders heave
with a silent sob. "The... the
shame," he whispers. "The fear
that... that Chip will think
I'm broken." His words hang
heavy in the air, each one a
droplet of pain.
Karen's seen this battle play
out countless times, but it
never gets easier. She sits
next to him, her hand
resting gently on his shoulder.
"You're not broken," she says
soothingly. "You're just... you."
Plankton's head snaps up, his
eye wild with desperation.
"But what kind of father
am I?" he asks, his voice
barely a whisper. "What kind
of husband?"
Karen squeezes his
shoulder gently. "The best
kind," she says firmly. "You're
the kind who tries, who
fights for us every day."
Plankton's breath hitches, his
eye filling with unshed tears.
He doesn't believe her,
but her words are a balm
on the raw wound of his pride.
"But I-I-I-I… I can't control it!"
He whispers, his voice
shaking with fear.
Karen's voice is firm and
steady as she replies, "No one
expects you to, honey." She takes
his trembling hand in hers.
"What's important is that
we're here for each other."
Plankton leans into Karen's
side, his body shaking with
repressed sobs. He's never felt
so exposed, so vulnerable.
Her warmth is a comfort.
Karen wraps her arms around
his trembling form, her eyes
closed tight. "You're not
broken," she repeats, her voice
like a gentle lullaby. "You just
have something extra, something
that makes you who you are."
Plankton's breathing slows,
his body relaxing into her
embrace. He knows she's
right.
"You're not broken,"
Karen whispers,
her voice a soothing balm.
"You're just... different."
Her words hang in the air,
their truth resonating deep
within him.
Plankton's sobs quieten,
his breaths slowing to
match hers. He nods,
his head resting heavily
on her shoulder. The fight
leaves him, the storm of
his emotions subsiding
to a gentle patter of rain.
Karen feels the weight of
his head increase, his
body going slack as sleep
claims him. She tightens
her embrace with love and
concern. Her husband's
condition is a constant
reminder of the invisible
battles he faces every day.
The kitchen clock ticks
steadily in the background,
marking the passage of
time. Plankton's breathing
evens out, his features
softening in sleep. Karen
kisses the top of his head,
his antennae twitching.
Karen strokes his back
gently, her mind racing with
thoughts of what to say to
Chip. They need to talk,
to explain things better.
Upstairs, Chip sits on his
bed, his eyes fixed on the
closed door. The echo of his
father's anger still rings in
his ears, making him
feel like he's the one who's
wrong. He wipes his tears,
his curiosity tinged with
a heavy guilt. He decides
to go check on his parents.
He tiptoes down the stairs,
his heart in his throat,
each step a silent apology.
The kitchen light is on, a
soft glow spilling into
the hallway. As he approaches,
he sees Karen, her arms
wrapped around a sleeping
Plankton. His dad's head
is nestled into her shoulder,
his breaths deep and
even in sleep.
Karen's eyes meet Chip's,
filled with a mix of
exhaustion and sadness.
She stands, Plankton's weight
barely a burden to her, and
guides her son to the couch.
With gentle movements, she
sets Plankton down, his body
slumping into the cushions. His
snores are the only sound
that breaks the heavy silence.
"He'll sleep now," Karen
whispers, her voice a
soothing lullaby in the
quiet room. "His episodes
can be draining." She sits
next to Chip, her eyes
never leaving her husband.
Chip nods, his own eyes
swollen from crying. "What's
wrong with him, Mom?" He
asks, his voice small and
scared. He's never seen
his dad like this before,
so lost in his own mind.
Karen sighs, her eyes
filling with a mix of
sorrow and love. "It's not
something that's easy to
explain," she starts, her
hands fidgeting with her
apron. "But I'll try."
Chip nods, his curiosity
still a live wire, but now
tempered with concern.
"Dad has something called
sensory overload," she
explains gently. "Sometimes,
his brain gets too much
information from his
surroundings, and gets
overwhelmed."
He looks up at her, his eyes
searching for understanding.
"It's like when you have too
much on your plate at dinner,
and you just can't eat another
bite," she continues, trying to
make the abstract concept
more tangible for her son. "Except
for him, it's all the time, with
everything he sees, hears, feels..."
Her words hang in the air,
suspended by the gravity of
the situation. Chip nods
slowly, his eyes wide with
realization. "And the box?"
He asks, his voice a whisper.
"The box," Karen says, her
voice a soft sigh, "contains
things that help him cope,
things to help calm him down
when the world gets too loud."
Her gaze lingers on the
closed wooden box, the
secret it holds now a little
less mysterious.
Chip nods, his curiosity
dimming in the face of
his newfound empathy. "Can I
see?" He asks, his voice
hopeful.
Karen looks at him, her
expression torn. "Not now,
sweetheart," she says gently.
"Your dad's not feeling well.
But maybe another time,
when he's ready."
Chip nods, his curiosity
now tinged with sadness.
He looks at his father,
his chest tight with the
knowledge that he's caused
this pain. "But why was he so
angry?" He asks, his voice
small.
Karen takes a deep
breath, choosing her words
carefully. "Your dad's
not angry at you, Chip.
He's angry at himself, and
scared of what you might
think. This isn't something he
wants to share with anyone."
Chip's eyes never leave
his father's still form.
"But why?" He whispers,
his voice thick with tears.
Karen's hand finds Chip's,
giving it a gentle squeeze.
"Because, Chip," she says,
meeting his gaze, "it's hard
for him to admit he needs help.
His personality is..." she
pauses, searching for the right
words, "It's like he's a superhero,
trying to hide his kryptonite."
Chip's eyes widen, his
thoughts racing. "But everyone
has something they're not good
at," he says, his voice
small. "Why can't he-"
Karen's grip on his
hand tightens. "Your father's
not just anyone, Chip," she says,
her voice filled with a mix of
pride and concern. "He's a strong
man, and he's used to being in
control. Having something that
makes him feel vulnerable,
something he can't fix, it's hard
for him to accept."
Chip nods, his eyes never
leaving Plankton's sleeping
form. He's beginning to
understand, but it's a lot to
process. "What can we do?"
He asks, his voice barely
above a whisper.
Karen's smile is sad but
determined. "We can be
there for him," she says,
squeezing his hand. "And we'll
find a way to help him
manage his... moments."
Chip nods, his eyes still
on Plankton. "How can I
make it right?" He whispers.
"How can I help him?"
Karen looks at her son,
seeing the man he'll become.
Her heart swells with pride.
"You already are," she says,
squeezing his hand. "By being
curious, by caring enough to
ask." She pauses, her gaze
softening. "But sometimes,
helping is just giving
someone space to be."
Chip nods, his eyes on
his father's peaceful face.
Plankton's snores are a
comforting background to
their quiet conversation.
He feels a knot loosen in
his chest, his curiosity
giving way to understanding.