𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖠𝖫𝖫 pt. 5
(𝖻𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌)
𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗 : ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ
ᴡᴀʏ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟ
ʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ/ꜰᴀᴄᴛ-ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ
ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴛɪᴇꜱ.
ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇ
ᴏʀ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴏᴛᴇ ᴀɴʏ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ
ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ. ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ
ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴍᴇɴᴛ.
sᥙρρort to thosᥱ ιmρᥲᥴtᥱd
ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴩᴛ- 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳
𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 ➸ 𝐏𝐆-𝟏𝟑
ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ🙂ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴅᴀʏ
Plankton's nods become less
frequent, his tongue clicks
slower. "I don't... tck tck, I don't
mean to be tck tck... to be like
this," he whispers. "It's okay, Dad,"
Chip says. "I won't tell anyone."
Karen smiles sadly. "You
don't have to hide it, Plankton,"
she says.
But Plankton looks away.
"I can't help it," he murmurs.
Chip's never seen his dad
so lost, so vulnerable. "Dad,
you can tell me anyth—"
"No," Plankton snaps. "It's
none of your business, Chip."
Karen's eyes flash with
sorrow, but she remains
silent. She knows Plankton's
pride. The tic starts again,
his head jerking slightly.
"Tck tck," he murmurs.
Chip watches, his eyes
wet with unshed tears. He
doesn't understand why his
dad is pushing him away.
But Karen does. She's seen
it before, Plankton's fear
of being seen as weak, as
different. "Chip," she says gently,
"it's not something he can
help. It's part of his
autism. Sometimes, his
brain just needs to... to
tic. He's aware when it
happens."
The room is silent except
for the faint click of Plankton's
tongue. "But why?" he whispers,
his voice cracking. "Why does
his brain need to do that?"
Karen looks at him with a
sad smile. "It's his brain's way
of communicating, Chip.
Sometimes it just needs to...
move, to make sounds. It's like
his way of saying, 'We're ok,
Plankton, you're here'."
Chip watches his dad's head
nod slightly. "But it looks
so... painful." Plankton's
eye finally meets his.
"It's not painful, Chip," he says,
his voice strained. "It's tck...
tck it's none of your concern."
Karen's eyes are filled with
concern as she looks at
Plankton, who's visibly
tired. She knows he's trying
to regain control, to keep
his walls up. "It's okay, Plankton,"
she says. "Chip just wants
to understand." "I don't
want him to think I'm... tck tck,
I don't want him to think I'm weird."
The desperation in his voice
mirrors the erratic movements
of his head.
"You're not weird, Dad,"
Chip says, his voice firm.
"You're just... different." Karen nods.
"That's right, Chip. And
different is not wrong, it's just
part of who your dad is." "You're
the best dad ever."
Plankton's head nods slower
now, the tic subsiding. His
eye flickers as he looks at
his son, his antennae drooping.
"Tck, tck," he whispers. "I just tck... tck I
don't want Chip to tck, tck think
I'm broken." "You're not broken, Dad," he
says. "You're just... special."
Karen swells with pride.
That's her son, trying to find
the right words, trying to
comfort his father.
Chip's hand reaches for his
dad's, but Plankton flinches.
The simple touch feels like
fire against his skin. "Dad,"
Chip says, his voice full of
concern. "Please, let me he--"
But Plankton can't handle it.
He jerks away. "No, Chip," he says,
his voice tight with anxiety. "Your
touch is tck... it's too much."
Chip's eyes fill with tears.
He's never felt so lost, so
helpless. He just wants to
comfort his dad, but his
dad won't let him. "But..."
Karen sighs, taking Chip's hand
instead. "Your dad needs some
space right now," she whispers.
"He gets triggered by sudden
movements and sounds, and
your touch can be too much."
Chip nods, his eyes brimming
with tears. "But why doesn't he
want me to help?" he asks.
Karen looks at Plankton, who's
lying down with his body
twitching slightly. "Because
his autism makes it hard for
him to communicate how he's
feeling," she explains. "Sometimes,
his brain gets overwhelmed,
and all he can do is tic."
The room is quiet, the air
thick with unspoken
understanding. Karen knows
Plankton's pain, his fear of
being seen as less than. She
knows his tics are his way of
navigating a world that's too
loud, too bright. And she knows
Chip's hurt, his need to connect
with his father in the only
way he knows how.
But Plankton's walls are
up. His antennae twitch, his
body still. He's retreated into
his own mind, trying to find
his calm. Karen watches,
aching. She's the only one
who truly gets him. She's seen
his tics, his moments of
overwhelm, his quiet battles.
And she's always been there,
his rock, his sanctuary.
"Tck tck," Plankton murmurs,
his tongue flicking against his teeth.
Chip's eyes are wide with
worry. "It's his way of
trying to find his balance," she
whispers. "Just let him be."
Plankton's tic changes, his
head bobbing again.
"Tck tck tck," he murmurs. Karen
can see the storm brewing in his
eye, the internal struggle. "It's okay,
Plankton," she whispers. "You're safe.
Just let it out," she soothes. "It's okay."
Chip watches, curiosity piqued. "What are
those sounds, Mom?" he asks.
Karen's eyes never leave Plankton's.
"It's his brain's way of releasing
pressure," she says. "Like when
you hiccough, it just happens."
"But why doesn't he say
actual words?" Chip's question is
filled with innocence, his mind
trying to piece together the puzzle
of his father's condition.
"Sometimes, Chip, our brains
can't find the right words, so
it makes sounds instead," Karen
explains. "It's like when you
hum a tune without knowing
why, it's just something that
happens. It's his brain's
way of talking without words,"
she says. "It's his autism."
Plankton looks at the blanket
and rubs his hand over it. Karen
knows he's listening. Karen nods. "It's
his way of saying he's okay,"
she says, her voice calm. "It's his
brain's shorthand."
Plankton's tics continue,
his head bobbing, his antennae
twitching. "Tck tck tck," he murmurs,
his voice barely audible. Karen
smiles sadly. "It's okay, Plankton,"
she whispers. "You don't have
to explain." Plankton's body relaxes
slightly. The tic subsides, his
head still. He looks at Karen,
his antennae drooping. "Thank
y-you," he says, his voice filled
with relief.
The room is quiet, except
for the soft click of his
tongue. "It's... it's just..." he
starts, his voice trailing off.
Karen nods. "I know," she says.
"It's your brain's way of talking
to you." Plankton nods, somewhat
absent mindedly. "It's like when you're
trying to think of a word,"
Karen says, "but all that comes
out is 'uh' or 'um'." Chip nods.
Plankton's antennae twitch,
his body still. "But these
sounds," Chip says, "what do
they mean?" Karen looks
at Plankton, who's lost in
his own world again. "They're
just sounds," she says, her voice
soft. "Like when you tap
your foot to the beat of a
song. It's his brain's way
of keeping rhythm."
"Tck tck tck," Plankton says,
his voice a quiet murmur.
Karen nods. "It's his brain's way
of saying, 'I'm okay, Plankton.'"
Chip's eyes widen. "But...
why doesn't he just say it?"
Karen's smile is sad. "Because
his brain doesn't always
work the same way ours does,"
she explains. "The sounds
are his brain's language,
his way of talking to itself."
"But what about the... the
random words?" Chip asks.
Karen looks at Plankton,
his antennae twitching slightly.
"Those are called 'echolalia'
and 'palilalia'," she says. "It's
when he repeats words or
phrases. Sometimes, it's to help
him process what's happening.
Other times, it's just his brain's
way of filling the silence."
Plankton's head nods slightly.
Karen smiles. "Sometimes, it's just
his brain playing back a
something he's heard," she
says. "Other times, it's like he's
trying to find the right words,
but they just don't come out
right."
Plankton's eye flickers. "Tck tck, yes,
yes," he murmurs. Chip looks
at his mom, his heart racing.
"Does he know what he's saying?"
he asks. Karen shrugs. "He's
aware of it, Chip. It's just his
way of... coping."
The sounds change, morphing
into a gentle hum. "Mmm mm,"
he stims.
Chip looks at his dad,
his eyes full of questions.
"What's he doing now?" he
asks. Karen smiles gently.
"Sometimes, he'll make sounds
that aren't words," she says.
"It's his brain's way of soothing
itself. Some call it 'stimming',"
she explains. "It's a way for
autistic people to find comfort,
to self-soothe." Chip nods,
his eyes on his dad. "Mm mm,"
Plankton whispers. Karen's
hand finds Plankton's, giving
it a gentle squeeze.
"It's his way of saying, 'I'm ok,
I'm here,'" she whispers. "It's
his brain's way of letting him know
he's safe." "Does everyone with
autism do this?" Chip asks.
Karen shakes her head. "No,
sweetie," she says. "Everyone's
autism is different."
Plankton's humming turns
into a soft, rhythmic "bub bub."
Karen's smile widens. "It's like
his brain's version of a lullaby,"
she says. Chip nods, his curiosity
outweighing his fear. "But why
does it change?" he asks.
"Sometimes his brain needs
different sounds to find its
calm," Karen explains. "It's like
how you might prefer one song
over another when you're sad or
upset. His brain is just choosing
what it needs in the moment."
Chip watches, his eyes
glued to his dad's. "It's like he's
talking to himself," Chip murmurs.
Karen nods. "In a way, he is,"
she says. "He's reassuring
himself that he's okay."