𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖠𝖫𝖫 pt. 14
(𝖻𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌)
𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗 : ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ
ᴡᴀʏ 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
Chip sits beside Karen, watching
his dad sleep. He's quiet, his mind
racing with questions. How can
someone so strong, so in control,
be brought to this? The room feels
heavy with silence, the air thick
with unspoken fears and love.
Plankton's snores are a comforting
reminder that he's okay, that the storm
has passed. Chip's screen flickers
with the memory of his dad's
favorite pranks, his laughter echoing
in the quiet room. But now, his dad
looks so small, so fragile.
Karen notices Chip's distant gaze.
"Remember, Chip, he's still
the same person." She pauses,
searching for the right words.
"His autism doesn't change who
he is, just how he experiences
the world." Chip nods, but the doubt
lingers. How can he understand
a world so alien to his own?
The silence in the room
is broken by Plankton's sudden
mumble.
"Karen?" His voice is a whisper,
his antennae slowly rising.
Her screen lights up with
relief and love. "You're okay,"
she says, her hand stroking his.
Plankton's eye opens,
unfocused and tired. "Chip?"
He sees his son, sitting
on the bed, his screen filled
with uncertainty. "Dad?"
Chip whispers.
Plankton's antennae twitch
as he tries to sit up. "I'm okay,"
he says, his voice hoarse.
Karen's hand on his shoulder
steadies him. "Just tired."
The weight of sleep lifts
from his eyelid.
Chip watches, his screen
reflecting the hope that
his dad is okay. "Do you...
Do you remember?"
Plankton's eye widens,
his antennae quivering.
"Chip," he murmurs, his voice
filled with regret.
"It's okay, Dad," Chip says,
his voice firm. "You had
a meltdown." Plankton's antennae
fall, his gaze dropping.
"I'm sorry," Plankton whispers,
his voice thick with guilt.
"It's not your fault," Karen says,
squeezing his hand. "We know it's
not."
But Chip is full of questions.
"What can I do?" he asks,
his screen eager. "How can I
help?" Karen smiles, her eyes
filling with pride.
"You're already helping,"
she says. "Just by being here,
just by loving him."
But Chip wants more. He wants
to understand, to help in
the way Karen does. "What are
his triggers?" he asks.
Karen's screens flicker with
thought. "Well," she says, "it's different
for everyone. For him, it can be
sudden noises, changes in routine, or even
his belongings being moved without
his knowing." Chip nods, his mind racing.
"But what about his stims?" he asks.
"Those are his way of coping," Karen
explains. "When he flaps his arms,
spins, or repeats words, he's trying
to regulate his sensory input.
It's like he's tuning in to the world."
Karen says. "And when he repeats
words or phrases, it helps him
make sense of what's happening.
Let him do his thing. Sometimes
he'll need help to calm down,
like with the squeezy ball or
his fidget toy. And sometimes,
just being there, quietly, is all
he needs. As long as you
listen and respect his boundaries,
you'll be his best helper."
Chip's curiosity is
piqued. He looks at his dad,
now easing himself onto
the pillow. "What types of
touch does he like?" Chip's
voice is soft. Karen's screens
flicker with memories of
trial and error, of finding
the right balance. "Some
autistics like deep pressure,"
she says. "It can be soothing.
But he's different. He usually
prefers light touches, like strokes
or holding hands."
Plankton's antennae twitch
at the mention of his
name. "What do I do if he
has another meltdown?"
Chip's voice is earnest.
"Just be there," Karen says.
"Sometimes, just knowing
you're there can make all
the difference." She sighs.
"But if it's really bad,
we'll have to get the medicine
again, as a last resort. It's hard,"
she admits. "But I love him.
And I'll always be here for him."
Chip nods. "I love him too,"
he says, his voice barely
above a whisper. "I want
to help him."
Karen's screens glow with
pride. "You already do,"
she says. "But I know
you want to understand more."
Chip nods. "What about when
he's really happy?"
Karen's screens light up with
a smile. "Oh, his laughter
is the sweetest sound.
But if he reaches for you,
if he wants to share that joy,
just be there, okay?"
Chip nods, eager to learn.
"What if he starts repeating
things again?"
Karen's screen softens.
"It's called echolalia,"
she says. "It's his brain's
way of processing. Just
let him finish, and then
you can talk." She pauses, her
thumb tracing a pattern
on Plankton's hand. "And if
you repeat something with
understanding, it can help
make him feel heard."
Chip nods, his mind racing.
He's seen his dad do this before,
but never knew what it meant.
"What about his rocking?"
he asks. Karen's screens flicker
with knowledge. "That's his way
of self-stimulating," she says.
"It helps him regulate his
nervous system. Sometimes
it's soothing, sometimes it's
how he thinks. Remember,
his body's his own. If he
pulls away, it's not personal.
It's just his way of saying
he needs a break." "How
did you learn all of this?"
Karen looks down at their
intertwined hands, her screens
reflecting the journey. "Trials and
errors, love," she says. "And
listening to him. Everyone's
autism is different. What
works for one might not work
for another. We just have to keep
trying, keep learning."
Chip nods, his mind racing
with questions. "How do we
know if he's about to have
a meltdown?" Karen looks at
Plankton, his antennae still.
"Look for the signs," she says.
"Sudden agitation, avoiding eye
contact, flapping his arms, or
repeating words. That's when
you know he's overwhelmed."
He nods, trying to picture it.
"What about his box?"
"That's sensory aids," she explains.
"They help him cope with stress.
It's important we don't touch
it without asking first."
"What's in there? Dad, can I see?"
But Plankton cuts him off.
"Absolutely NOT!" he says.
Karen's screen flickers with a smile.
"It's his personal space,"
she tells Chip gently. "Those
things are special to him,
his tools to stay calm."
Chip nods, his curiosity
still unquenched. "Can I..."
But Plankton's antennae shoot up.
"I just said no, Chip!"
He's alert, his voice sharp.
Karen's grip on his hand tightens.
"Remember," she says calmly,
"his box is his sanctuary."
Plankton's gaze locks with Chip's,
his eye wide with agitation.
"Okay, okay," Chip says, his
hands up in surrender.
He can feel the tension in
the air, the unspoken
words heavy between them.
"What if I just peek?" he asks him.
Plankton's antennae quiver. "No,"
he says firmly. "It's not for playing."
"Dad, I--" "How about NO?"
Plankton says, his voice still
a little rough around the edges.
Chip nods, his curiosity
now mixed with respect. "Okay,"
he says. "But can you show me?"
Karen looks at Plankton,
his antennae still. "It's okay,"
she says softly. "We can show
him together." Plankton's
eye narrows, but he doesn't
resist as Karen opens the box.