Plush One Emojis & Text

PLUSH ONE xv (By NeuroFabulous) Hanna's eyes are glued to Plankton's peaceful form, aching for the fear and confusion she's seen in his eye. "What can we do for him?" she asks, her voice a gentle prodding. Karen looks up. "We need to adapt his environment," she says, her voice a soft determination. "Reduce the sensory input, establish comforts." Hanna nods, her eyes still on Plankton. "What kind of comforts?" she asks, curiosity piqued. "Oh, like the plushie? What's the plush..." Karen's voice trails off as she considers Hanna's question. "Well, yes," she says, her voice a soft explanation. "But it's more than that. It's about creating a space that's safe for him, that doesn't overstimulate his senses." Hanna nods, her eyes never leaving Plankton. "How do we do that?" she asks, her curiosity genuine. "We start by understanding his triggers," Karen says, her gaze thoughtful. "The noise, the lights, the...chaos." Hanna nods, her mind racing. "And the plushies?" she prompts, her voice a soft probe. Karen's smiling. "They're... I guess comfort objects," she explains. "For someone with autism, such items can be a lifeline." Hanna nods, her curiosity piqued. "But why a plushie?" she asks, her voice a soft wonder. Karen looks at Plankton, his body curled around the fluffy toy. "It's about softness, and predictability," she says, her voice a gentle explanation. "Plushies have a certain...comfort to them. They're consistent, familiar. And when his world is too much, it's something he can hold onto, something that won't change." Hanna nods slowly, her gaze still on the plushie. "So, it's like a...security blanket?" she asks, her voice tentative. Karen nods. "Exactly," she says, her voice filled with understanding. "But for his autism, it's even more. It's a constant in a world that ca--" But Plankton's eye snaps open, his antennae shooting up. "Karen," he whispers, his voice filled with panic. She quickly turns to him, her hand ready to offer comfort. "What is it?" He points at Hanna, his fear palpable. "Hanna," he stammers. "Hanna new. Too loud. Hanna hurt. Hanna made everything go...spinny." Hanna's eyes fill with tears, her hand reaching out to him. "I'm so—" But Plankton flinches, his body coiling away from Hanna's touch. Hanna's hand stops mid-air, her eyes wide with surprise. "It's okay, Plankton," she whispers, her voice gentle. "I'm not going t---" But he's already retreated to the corner of the room, his tiny body shaking. "No touch," he murmurs, his antennae quivering. "No loud." Karen's heart clenches. "I know," she says, her voice a gentle coax. "But Hanna is our friend, she's just trying to he-" But Plankton's panic interrupts her. "Friend?" he whispers, his voice filled with doubt. "No. Everything changed. Hanna not good." Karen's eyes are filled with pain, her heart breaking for him. "I know it's scary," she says, her voice a soft whisper. "But Ha—" "NO!" Plankton screams, his body convulsing with fear. "No Hanna!" Hanna jumps back, her eyes wide with shock. Her hand had hovered over his plushie, intending to give it a comforting pat before reaching out to give it to him. But for Plankton, that's crossing a line. "No touch," he whispers, his antennae quivering with anxiety. "MINE." Hanna's eyes widen, the plushie still in her hand. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, her voice a soft apology. Her heart aches for him, his fear a stark reminder of the distance between them now. She holds the plushie out to him, her hand shaking. "It's yours," she says, her voice a gentle offer. But Plankton's panic doesn't abate. His eye is a storm of confusion and fear. "MINE," he whispers, his antennae vibrating with tension. Hanna's hand hovers motionless, the plushie dangling between them. She looks to Karen for guidance, her eyes filled with worry. Karen's eyes are understood, her voice a soothing lullaby. "It's okay, Plankton," she coos. "Hanna just wanted to give it back." Slowly, she steps towards the trembling figure of Plankton, her movements careful not to startle him. But Plankton's gaze is fixed on Hanna, his antennae quivering with distress. "No," he murmurs, his voice a soft protest. "MINE." Hanna's eyes are filled with confusion as she looks at the plushie in her hand. She had only wanted to help, to comfort her newfound friend. But now she feels like an intruder in his world. Karen steps closer, her movements deliberately slow. "It's okay, Plankton," she whispers. "Hanna means no ha-" But Plankton's fear has turned to anger, his tiny fists balled up. "MINE!" he screams at Hanna, his voice sharp. Her hand jerks back, the plushie dropping to the floor. "I didn't mean to..." Her words are drowned out by Plankton's cries. Karen's heart aches as she watches Hanna's hurt expression. "It's okay," she says, her voice a soft caress. "We're all just trying to fi-" But Plankton's screams cut her off. His fear has escalated into rage, his tiny fists pounding the floor. "MINE!" he shouts, his voice furious. Hanna's eyes are wide with shock, her hand still hovering above the plushie. She didn't mean to take it, didn't mean to cause such distress. But Plankton's reaction is instinctive, primal. "HANNA GIVE BACK!" he shouts, his tiny body quaking with fear. Hanna's eyes are filled with sorrow as she drops to her knees, setting the plushie on the floor. "Here," she says, her voice a soft plea. "It's yo-" But Plankton's rage won't abate. He stares at the plushie, his breaths shallow. Karen moves closer, her eyes filled with pain. "Plankton, it's okay," she whispers, her voice a gentle caress. "You can have it." Slowly, Hanna retreats, her eyes on the floor. Karen's gaze follows hers, seeing the plushie lying there, a symbol of their misunderstanding. "It's okay," she repeats, her voice a soft promise. Plankton's anger subsides as he watches Karen's approach. He recognizes her comforting strides, her calming presence. Her hand extends towards his plushie, a silent offer to bridge the gap. He looks at her, his eye narrowing. But the fear is still there, the memory of the plushie's theft fresh. His antennae quiver, his body tense. Karen's hand hovers over the plushie, her movements slow and deliberate. "It's okay," she whispers. "You can have it back." Plankton's gaze flickers between the plushie and Hanna's retreating form. He reaches out tentatively, his hand trembling. As he touches the soft plush, his body relaxes, the fear ebbing away. The plushie is a talisman of comfort, a silent sentinel in his autistic world. He clutches it to his chest, his eye closed in relief.

PLUSH ONE xvi (By NeuroFabulous) Karen's eyes are a pool of understanding as she watches him, her heart aching for his pain. She knows the plushie is more than just a toy; it's a piece of his sanity in a world that's turned too loud, too bright. She moves closer, her hand hovering near his.. Plankton's antennae shoot up, his body stiffening. "No," he whispers, his voice a shaky plea. "No touch." Karen nods, her movements slow and careful. She understands his boundaries, his new sensory needs. "Okay," she says, her voice a soft promise. "I won't touch. But can I sit with you?" Plankton's antennae quiver, his eye still closed. He takes a deep breath, his tiny chest rising and falling with the effort. "Okay," he murmurs. So Karen sits down beside his shaky form. Hanna watches from the doorway, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. The plushie in his hands is a lifeline, a reminder that amidst the storm of sensory input, there is something that doesn't change, that won't hurt him. Karen's presence is another constant, a beacon of comfort. But Hanna is a variable, an unknown. Her eyes are filled with sadness, a testament to the gap that's formed between them. "I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice a soft apology. "I didn't me—" But Plankton interrupts. "MINE," he cries out, his antennae quivering with the intensity of his emotions. Karen's heart breaks for him. "It's okay," she whispers, her voice a gentle reminder of their bond. "It's your plushie." Plankton's grip tightens around the plush, his body a coil of tension. Hanna stands there, hands trembling. "I'm sorry," she repeats, her voice a soft apology in the quiet room. "I didn't kn-" But Plankton's eye opens, his gaze sharp and focused. "MINE," he says again, his voice a fierce declaration. Karen's eyes are filled with pain, her hand dropping to her side. "I know," she says, her voice a gentle coax. "But Hanna meant no harm." Hanna nods, her gaze still on the plushie. "I---" But Plankton's panic interrupts her, his voice high-pitched. "No Hanna," he whispers, his antennae quivering as he shakes his head. "No take." Hanna's eyes fill with sorrow as she backs away, her hand dropping to her side. Karen's heart clenches, seeing the hurt in Hanna's eyes. "It's okay," she murmurs, her voice a gentle coax. "We just need to give Plankton some space." Hanna nods, her eyes never leaving Plankton. "I understand," she whispers, her voice a soft apology. "But what abou–" But Plankton's panic doesn't abate, his body constricting even further. "No," he murmurs. "No more." Hanna's eyes are filled with a mix of pity and frustration. She's tired of his outbursts, of the way his autism controls their lives. Her voice cracks. "What do you want from me!" she asks, her voice a soft cry of exasperation. Plankton's antennae twitch, his eye darting around the room. He's lost in a sensory maelstrom, unable to understand her words. "Quiet," he whispers, his voice a plea. "Everything too mu-" But Hanna's frustration has reached a boiling point. "I've tried!" she says, her voice a sharp retort. "Everything's always about you and your plushies, when all we want is to he-" Her words are cut off by Plankton's wail, his body trembling. Karen's heart clenches, her eyes filled with pain. "Hanna," she says, her voice a soft admonition. "He can't help it." But Hanna's frustration spills over. "I kn-" But Plankton's wail cuts through the room, his antennae vibrating. The plushie clutched to his chest is a silent cry for help. Hanna's eyes fill with tears as she watches, her frustration boiling over. "Why can't you just...be normal!" she asks, her voice a desperate plea. Karen's gaze snaps to her, her eyes filled with a fierce protectiveness. "What do you mean by 'normal'?" she asks, her voice a soft challenge. "Plankton is who he is. His autism is part of him, not something to 'fix'." Hanna's shoulders slump, her eyes welling up with tears. "I know," she murmurs, her voice a soft apology. "I just...I miss the old Plankton you've told me about." Karen's gaze is filled with compassion. "We all do," she says. "But he's still in there, just...different now." Hanna nods, her eyes still on Plankton's trembling form. "I know," she murmurs. "I just... I don't know how to help." Karen's smile is sad, her eyes filled with understanding. "You're already helping," she says, her voice a gentle reminder. "Just by being here, by caring." Hanna looks down, her eyes misty. "But it's not enough," she whispers, gesturing to Plankton. Karen's eyes are filled with empathy. "It's a new journey," she says, her voice a soft reminder. "For all of us." Hanna nods, her gaze still on Plankton. She can see the fear and confusion in his eye, the way his antennae quiver. It's a stark contrast to the Plankton she's heard of, the one with a sharp mind and a love for Krabby Patties. Karen's voice is a gentle guidance. "We need to learn his new language," she says. "Find a way to reach him without crossing his lines." Hanna nods, her eyes still on Plankton's shaking body. "How do we do that?" she asks, her voice a soft curiosity. Karen's eyes are filled with knowledge. "It's about patience," she says. "And learning his cues." Hanna nods. "What do you mean?" Karen's eyes are filled with compassion as she explains. "His autism has changed his communication," she says, her voice a soft explanation. "It's not just words anymore; it's gestures, sounds, and expressions." Hanna's gaze flickers to Plankton's shaking antennae, his eye squeezed shut. "So, what do we do?" she asks, her voice tentative. Karen's hand is a soft touch on Hanna's arm. "We watch," she whispers. "We learn."

PLUSH ONE xix (By NeuroFabulous) Karen's eyes are on Hanna, a silent reprimand. Hanna's hand drops to her side, her screen filled with regret. "Plankton, I'm ju—" But it's too late. Plankton's body is wracked with sobs, his antennae thrashing as his fear overwhelms him. The plushie falls to the floor, abandoned in his desperate attempt to escape the horror Hanna's words have conjured. Karen's arms reach out to him. "No, no, no," she whispers. "You're safe, Plankton. Yo--" But his body is a wild storm of fear, his sobs escalating into convulsions. His antennae whip around, striking the air in a silent scream of terror. Karen's heart shatters as she watches, her own hands hovering, unsure how to comfort him without causing more harm. Hanna's eyes are wide with horror, her own sobs joining the cacophony. "I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice a desperate apology. "I di-" But Plankton's fear is a storm, his antennae a blur of panic. "Karen, make it stop," he cries, his voice a desperate plea. "Make it STOP͏!" The room seems to spin around him, his senses assaulted by Hanna's regret and his own fear. The plushie is forgotten, a discarded comfort in the face of the horror. Karen's gentle voice is a lifeline, a soft whisper in the chaos. "You're safe," she says, her voice a promise. "You're with me—" But Plankton's sobs only grow louder, his convulsions more pronounced. His tiny body is a crumpled mess on the floor, his autism a cage of panic he can't escape. "Make it stop," he cries, his voice a desperate wail. "Please, make it stop!" Hanna's eyes are filled with determination as she retrieves the plushie, carefully bringing it back to his trembling form. "Here," she whispers. "I---" But Plankton is a maelstrom, his body twitching beyond control. His eye rolls back in his head. Karen's heart races as she watches him seize, her mind racing. Her hands hover over him, knowing not to touch. Hanna's eyes are wide, tears streaming down her cheeks. "What's happening?" she sobs, her voice shaking. Karen's eyes are filled with fear as she watches his tiny body convulse, his sobs turning to silent screams. "It's a seizure," she whispers, her voice tight. Hanna's eyes widen, her hand dropping the plushie as if it's a live wire. "What do we do?" she asks, her voice high-pitched with panic. Karen's gaze is focused on Plankton's convulsing body. "Don't touch him," she says, her voice a command. "Just stay calm." She moves swiftly, getting a pillow and placing it under his head. Hanna's eyes are glued to his twitching form, her breath coming in gasps. "Is he going to be okay?" she whispers, her voice trembling. "Do we need to call..." But Karen's eyes are on Plankton, her movements swift and sure. "No," she murmurs, her voice a soft command. "It's overstimulation. We have to calm him down. It's part of his disability. An ambulance will just make it worse, by adding more noise and claustrophobia. Hospitalization will create unnecessary trauma." Hanna's eyes are wide with terror, her hands shaking as she watches Plankton's convulsions. "But he-" Karen's voice cuts through the chaos. "Trust me," she says, her gaze unwavering. "We need to calm him, not add more stress." Hanna nods, her eyes locked on Plankton's distress. "What do we do?" Karen's voice is calm. "Find a favorite blanket," she says, her eyes never leaving his twitching form. "And dim the lights, reduce the noise." Hanna's legs are a blur as she rushes to comply, grabbing the softest blanket. Her hands shake as she gently drapes it over him, his convulsions jolting against the fabric. Hanna's eyes are wide with panic as she watches, her voice a whisper. "Is he going to be okay?" Karen's gaze is unwavering on Plankton, her voice steady. "We need to stay calm," she says, her hands a gentle guide. "It's his autism, it's how he can react to stress." Hanna's eyes are on the floor, her breath shallow. "I'm sorry," she whispers, the weight of her words heavy. "I didn't kn-" But Karen's voice is steady. "It's okay," she says, her voice a calm reminder. "We're here." Her eyes are on Plankton, her body a wall of protection. "Let's help him." Together, they work to soothe him, Hanna's hands shaking as she follows Karen's calm instructions. They dim the lights, reduce the noise, and cover him in the warm embrace of his favorite blanket. Hanna gets the plushie and goes up to him. Plankton's body jerks under the blanket, his antennae still a blur of fear. Karen strokes his head gently, her eyes filled with a fierce determination to keep him safe. "Hey," Hanna says, holding out the plushie. "Do you want this?" Her voice is tentative. "Plankton, can you tell me w---" But Plankton's eye is squeezed shut, his body a writhing mess of limbs. The seizure is a silent scream, a desperate protest. Hanna's hand shakes as she holds out the plushie, her words a plea. "Plankton, it's okay," she whispers, her voice trembling. "You're not unwanted." Plankton's body continues to convulse, his antennae a blur of panic. Karen then turns to Hanna. "You need to let him breathe," Karen says, her voice a soft command. "We can only help him by letting his body do its thing. If you talk, make sure it's quiet and calm, short and sweet, and be truthful with your reassurances. Do not force anything on him." Hanna nods, tears streaming down her screen, her voice a whisper. "Okay." She watches as Karen's gentle touch soothes Plankton, his seizure beginning to subside as she rubs his back in slow, even strokes. The plushie is placed near his hand, a silent offer of comfort. The seizure gradually loosens its grip on Plankton's body, his sobs subsiding into hiccups. Plankton's eye finds Karen's, a silent plea for reassurance. Her voice is a soft caress. "It's okay," Karen whispers. "You're okay." Plankton's antennae twitch, his body slowly calming. He clutches the plushie, his eye on Karen. "Home," he whispers, his voice a desperate plea. "Yes," Karen says. "We're home, in our bedroom." Plankton's antennae still, his gaze searching for the familiar. Hanna backs away, her eyes filled with regret. Karen notices and nods slightly, a silent acknowledgment of Hanna's apology. His body relaxes further, his breathing slowing. The plushie is a warm comfort, but it's Karen's voice that holds his world together. "You're safe, Plankton," she whispers. "You're home." Hanna watches from her distance, her eyes filled with regret. Plankton's antennae twitch, his gaze shifting to Hanna. Her eyes are filled with remorse, a silent apology that he can't quite decode. His mind is a jumble of fears and questions. "Hanna," he whispers, his voice a tremble. "I-I'm not a b-b-baby? Plankton stays living..." Hanna's face crumples, her sobs joining his. "Oh, Plankton," she whispers. "You're not a baby, you're Plankton. And you're not unwanted. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it." Karen's eyes are filled with compassion as she looks at Hanna, knowing the depth of her regret. "It's okay," she says softly. "It's new for all of us." She turns back to Plankton, her voice a gentle whisper. "You're safe here. We're all learning." Plankton's antennae twitch, his eye focusing on Hanna's shaking form. His voice is a question. "Hanna?" Her voice cracks as she whispers back, "I'm here." Her hand reaches out tentatively, still afraid to touch him. "I'm so sorry for what I said." Plankton's antennae quiver, his gaze flickering to her hand. "It's okay," he murmurs, his voice a shaky echo. "But...but it's not okay," he adds, his eye filling with confusion. Hanna's hand hovers, uncertain. "What do you mean?" she asks, her voice a tremulous thread. Plankton's gaze is on the plushie, his voice a whispered confession. "I'm not the same," he says, his words a soft acknowledgment. "I'm...different." Hanna's hand stops, her eyes filled with understanding. "You're still Plankton," she says, her voice gentle. "You're still the same person, yet you've some new aspects.." Plankton's antennae still, his eye searching hers. "Different," he whispers, his voice filled with the weight of his new reality. Hanna nods, her hand still outstretched. "But that doesn't make you less important," she says, her voice a soft promise. "Or less loved." Plankton's antennae twitch, his gaze flickering between his plushie and Hanna's hand. He reaches out slowly, his hand trembling, and takes her hand, holding it for a moment before he takes his hand back. Hanna's eyes are wet with relief, her voice a whisper. "Thank you," she says. Plankton's antennae twitch in acknowledgment, his gaze still on the plushie. "It's...it's just...I'm still me," he says, his voice shaky. "But, things are... different, now." Hanna nods, her eyes filled with a newfound understanding. "I know," she whispers. Her hand moves towards him again, this time with more confidence. Plankton's antennae quiver, his gaze shifting from the plushie to Hanna's hand. "I know," Hanna says, her voice a gentle whisper. "But you're still Plankton, and we're here for you." Her hand moves closer, a silent offer of friendship. Plankton's antennae twitch, his eye flickering to her hand, then back to the plushie. "Home," he whispers again, his voice a tremble. Hanna nods, her eyes filled with a newfound respect for the complexity of his needs. "Home," she repeats, her voice a gentle echo. "You're home with your wife Karen. Would you like to hold my hand?" Plankton's antennae still, his gaze shifting to Karen. She nods, her eyes filled with a silent understanding. He reaches out tentatively, his tiny hand grasping Hanna's finger briefly before retreating. It's a small gesture, but it's a start. Hanna's eyes widen with hope, her voice a whisper. "Thank you," she says, her hand hovering in the air.

PLUSH ONE xx (By NeuroFabulous) Plankton's antennae twitch in a way that seems almost thoughtful. "Hanna," he says, his voice tentative. "Hanna, Karen's friend, Karen's friend's okay." Her eyes fill with hope at his words, her hand still hovering. "Thank you," she whispers, her voice a gentle breeze. "May I sit with you, or..." But Plankton's gaze is fixed on the plushie. "Not close," he murmurs, his voice a soft refusal. "Some space, if Hanna sit with space." Hanna nods, her heart racing as she moves to the floor near him, maintaining a respectful distance. Karen's eyes never leave his, her voice a soft guide. "Good job, Plankton," she whispers. "You're doing so well." He starts to rock slightly, in a pattern that seems almost rhythmic. It's a new behavior, one Karen recognizes as stimming. She's heard about it, how it can mean those with autism self-soothe and process the world around them. His eye is fixed on the plushie, his hand moving on it in small, repetitive motions. Hanna watches Plankton's soft rocking with a mix of fascination and fear. "What's happening?" she asks, her voice barely above a murmur. "It's called stimming," Karen whispers, her voice a gentle explanation. "It's how he's processing everything right now. It's like his brain's way of saying, 'I'm okay, I can handle this.'" Hanna's eyes are wide with interest as she watches, her fear slowly giving way to curiosity. "Is it...good?" she asks, her voice tentative. Karen nods, her eyes never leaving Plankton's rhythmic motion. "It's a way for his brain to calm down," she whispers. "It's like a security blanket for his nervous system." Hanna's gaze is still on him, her curiosity overcoming her fear. "Can I do anything?" she asks, her voice a soft offer of help. Karen nods. "You can talk to him, keep it calm and soothing." Her eyes meet Hanna's, her expression filled with compassion. "Use simple words, and let him know you're here." Hanna's voice is soft. "Plankton," she says, her tone gentle. "It's okay to rock, it's okay to feel better." Plankton's antennae twitch, his eye flicking towards her briefly before returning to his plushie. The rocking continues, a gentle sway that seems to calm the storm of his thoughts. "You're safe, Plankton," Hanna whispers, her voice a soothing lullaby. "We're right here." His antennae twitch, his rocking slowing as he takes in her words. His hand still strokes the plushie, his body slowly calming. Hanna watches, her voice a soft echo. "Plankton, I'm sorry," she says, her eyes filled with sincerity. "I didn't understand." Plankton's antennae twitch, his rocking pausing. He looks at her, his gaze uncertain. Plankton's eye blinks slowly, his antennae still. "Hanna talk quiet," he whispers. "It's okay." Her voice is gentle. "I will, I'm sorry," she promises, her eyes never leaving his. Karen watches with a mix of pride and fear, her heart swelling at Hanna's effort to understand. She nods encouragingly, her eyes telling Hanna to keep it up. "Good job, Plankton," Hanna whispers, mimicking Karen's calm tone. "You're doing so well." She takes a deep breath, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze steady on him. "Is there anything you'd like? Something that would make you feel more comfortable? Or w---" "Too much," he murmurs, his voice a whispered plea. "Questions, too much. Not fast, only each at a time." Hanna nods, her heart racing. "Okay," she says, her voice gentle. "What can I do with you right now?" Plankton's antennae twitch, his gaze on the plushie. "Reading?" he asks, his voice a whispered hope. "Book makes good feeling." Hanna's eyes light up, relieved to have a task. "Of course," she says, her voice a soft promise. She moves to the bookshelf, her eyes scanning the titles. "Which one, Plankton?" Plankton's antennae twitch, his voice a soft whisper. "The physics one," he says, his gaze still on the plushie. Hanna's eyes find the book, a faded blue spine among the colorful array. Her eyes widen with surprise, but she doesn't question it. Instead, she opens the book to the first page, her voice a calm narration. "Alright," she says, her tone soothing. "Let's start with the intro..." But Plankton's antennae quiver with impatience. "No, no," he whispers, his voice urgent. "Index. Index is good." Hanna's brow furrows, but she nods, understanding. She opens the book to the back, her eyes scanning the pages. "Index," she repeats, her voice a soft question. Plankton's antennae still, his gaze on her. "Yes," he whispers, his voice a sigh of relief. "Words, titles with their page numbers." Hanna nods, her eyes scanning the dense pages of the index. "Here," she says, her voice a soft guidance. "Let's look at the list of topics together." Plankton's antennae quiver with anticipation, his gaze flicking from Hanna to the book and back again. "Good," he whispers. "Good, good, good." Hanna's eyes scan the index, her voice calm and measured as she reads off the headings. "Wave particles," she says, her voice a gentle melody. "Quantum mechanics, gravity, light refraction..." "No; bad Hanna. Include page numbers!" He interrupts her. Her eyes widen slightly, but she nods, her voice calm. "I'm sorry," she whispers, her finger tracing the words. "Let's start again." She reads out the first entry, her voice a soft lullaby. "Wave particles, pages 47-52." Plankton's antennas twitch with interest, his eye darting to the book. "Is that okay?" she asks, her eyes searching his for approval. He nods eagerly. "Good," she says, her voice a gentle affirmation. "Wave particles, pages 47-52." She continues, her finger gliding over the small print. "Quantum mechanics, pages 104-130." Plankton's antennae dance with excitement, his eye locked on her movements. "More," he whispers, his voice a plea for knowledge. Hanna's voice is a steady rhythm as she reads through the index. "Electromagnetism, pages 173-208," she says, her voice a gentle guide. Plankton's rocking swayed in time with her words, his body still, his breathing even. He's found comfort in the orderly list, the predictability of each topic and its corresponding pages. It's a small victory, but in the quiet aftermath of his seizure, it feels like a monumental one. Hanna's voice is a soft steady beat, her eyes never leaving his. "Gravity, pages 243-270," she reads, each entry a stepping stone back to the person he knows himself to be. Plankton's eye flutters closed, the rocking slowing down. His breathing evens out. "Good," he murmurs, his voice quiet. "Good, good." Hanna reads on. "Relativity, pages 315-360," she whispers, as she can feel his tension ease with each page number she says. "Dark matter," she continues, "pages 402-430." His antennae twitch in agreement, his body relaxing further into the comfort of the blanket. He leans closer to Hanna. "Good," he whispers, his voice a soft echo. "More." Hanna nods, her eyes flickering between the index and Plankton. "Supernovae," she says, her voice a gentle guide. "Pages 512-540." Plankton relaxes even further. His antennae twitch, his eye half-closed. "Good," he whispers. "Good book." Her voice is a soft narration, her finger tracing the words. "Quantum entanglement, pages 623-650." Plankton's body relaxes fully, the plushie still a warm comfort in his hand as his head tilts to Hanna's shoulder. Her voice is a gentle whisper. "Time dilation, pages 701-730." Plankton's antennae still, his breathing now deepening into sleep. Hanna keeps reading. "Particle physics, pages 801-830," she continues. Karen watches from the doorway, her heart swelling with love. This is the Plankton she knows, the one who finds comfort in the ordered chaos of the universe. She smiles at Hanna, her eyes filled with a quiet pride. Hanna continues. "String th-" But she's cut off by a soft snore from Plankton's relaxed form. His antennae are still, his grip on the plushie loose. She looks up, her eyes meeting Karen's. Surprise fills her gaze. "Is he...asleep?" she asks, her voice a whisper. Karen nods, a small smile touching her lips. "Looks like it," she whispers. "Good job, Hanna." Hanna's heart races, his head heavy on her shoulder. Plankton's sleep is deep, his body a testament to the peace he's found in the comfort of the book and their calm voices. Karen approaches them, her movements slow and deliberate, not wanting to disturb him. Hanna looks up, her eyes questioning. "What do we do now?" she whispers, her voice a soft concern, his tiny hand loosely clutching the plushie. "We need to get him to bed," Karen says, her voice a gentle command. "But we have to be careful not to wake him." Hanna nods, her movements mirroring Karen's calmness. They stand slowly, their eyes on Plankton's peaceful face. "Ready?" Karen whispers, and together, they lift him by his blanket-cocooned form, his head resting on Hanna's shoulder. They move as one, a silent ballet of care and precision. Each step is calculated, each shift of weight measured. Plankton's antennae twitch slightly in his sleep, but he remains oblivious to the world around him, even when the plushie falls out of his grasp. Hanna gasps. "Got it," she whispers. Karen nods, a silent thanks. They continue the delicate transfer, the plushie tucked between his body and the softness of the blanket. They lay him down, the plushie nestled under his arm, his body still relaxed in sleep. Hanna helps tuck him in, her movements careful not to disturb the fragile peace. Karen nods, her eyes on Plankton's sleeping form. "Good," she whispers. "Just like that." His antennae twitch slightly, a soft snore escaping him. Hanna's hands are steady as she slides the plushie under his arm, her movements gentle and precise. They stand back, their breaths held, watching as Plankton's chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. Karen's hand reaches out to Hanna's, a silent gesture of solidarity. They've managed this together, his peace a testament to their unity.

PLUSH ONE v (By NeuroFabulous) They sit there in silence, their hands clasped. Karen can feel the steady rhythm of his breath, his hand twitching slightly with each exhale. She squeezes his hand, a silent promise of support. "I'm here," she whispers again, her voice a balm to the raw edges of his fear. Plankton's body relaxes into hers, his gaze fixed on their intertwined fingers. Karen's mind races, trying to understand the complex web of sensory input that now dictates his reality. Every touch, every sound, every sight could be either a comfort or a cacophony. "I'm gonna go clean up the metal container." Karen says, giving him a kiss on the forehead before going. After she left, Plankton thought about his rivalry with Krabs. He didn't want Krabs to be suspicious if he suddenly stops trying to steal his formula. He doesn't want Krabs to find out or figure out about his autism. So he wrote down "I went across the street" on a note if Karen came back. Then, he went to the Krusty Krab restaurant. The bright lights and the noise of the kitchen now overwhelms him. He found a corner and sat down, his eye squeezed shut. His heart raced as he tried to think about the mission. It's a place he's been in countless times, but he's autistic now. Yet he knew and remembered the environment, despite the new sensory experience. Plankton took a deep breath and forced his eye open, his gaze darts around, trying to find the safety vault he knew so well. He saw the familiar soda machine, the greasy counters, and the gleaming spatulas, but everything felt wrong. The smell of cooking oil was too intense, the clatter of pans too loud. His mind raced, trying to process the cacophony of sensory input. He needs to focus on getting the recipe out of that safe! Slowly, Plankton stood, his legs wobbly from the effort to filter out the chaos. He knew he had to keep moving, to complete his task. Now to figure out the combination. He approached the safe, his hands trembling with the effort to block out the noise. The buttons on the safe were cold under his fingertips, and he felt the familiar thrill of a challenge. His mind raced, trying to remember his past schemes and the patterns that had always come so naturally to him. But it was like trying to recall a dream. The numbers and sequences danced just out of reach, taunting him with their elusiveness. His eye darted around, catching sight of the menu board, the colorful condiments, and the glint of the cash register. It was all too much. He stepped back, his breaths coming quick and shallow. He needed to find his center, to focus on the task at hand. He closed his eye and thought of Karen, the feel of her hand in his, the sound of her voice. It grounded him, calmed the storm in his head. With renewed determination, he opened his eye. The safe was a monolith, a silent witness to his tumultuous thoughts. He studied the buttons, the cold metal under his fingertips. He knew the pattern had to be simple, something Krabs would think secure. Plankton's mind raced, trying to decipher the sequence that had once come to him so easily. He closed his eye, trying to concentrate, but the sounds and smells of the kitchen crashed over him like a wave. The cacophony was unbearable, a stark contrast to the quiet orderliness of his laboratory. He took a deep breath, focusing on the cool metal of the safe. He had to get the Krabby Patty formula. For Karen, for himself. This was a purpose, his obsession. But now, everything felt different. The familiar had become strange, the simple complex. With trembling hands, Plankton started to press buttons on the safe, his mind racing with the patterns of his past attempts. But his brain didn't respond in the usual way. The numbers jumbled, the sequences slipped away. He felt the weight of his failure pressing down on him, the kitchen sounds amplifying his anxiety. What numbers would Krabs put in? He took a deep breath and tried to visualize their conversations, the tiny details that might hold the key. But every memory was now filtered through the lens of his new autistic brain. It was like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. His hand hovered over the dial, his eye blinking rapidly. "Krabs," he murmured to himself. "What would Krabs say?" The name echoed in his head, a beacon in the fog. Plankton knew his rival's patterns, his obsessions. He thought of Krabs' parsimony, his love for his secret formula. It had to be something significant to him, something that made sense in his own peculiar way. Plankton's thumb tapped the side of the safe, his mind racing through memories. And then it clicked. Krabs had always talked about his mother's birthday, a sacred number, a key to his heart. Plankton tried the combination, his heart pounding. The dial spun smoothly, the clicks sounding like a symphony in his heightened hearing. 14-6-82. The safe whirred to life, the door popping open. Plankton's eye widened in amazement, his heart racing. He'd done it. He reached in and grabbed the precious envelope. The Krabby Patty formula, in Krabs' own scrawl. It was within his grasp. Now to get out of here! But how? What's made him always get caught before? The chaos of the kitchen faded away, and he saw the pattern. It was his lack of disguise, his hasty exits. This time would be different. He needed to blend in, to become part of the background. He needed to calm down, to think through his actions logically. He couldn't let his excitement overwhelm him. Plankton had to get out without drawing attention to himself. He thought back to the times he'd seen Krabs interact with his employees, the casual way he'd moved through the kitchen... Plankton then spotted the air vent! Sure enough, he and the recipe both fit through. He emerged into the alley, his heart racing. The cold air was a slap in the face, but it also brought with it a sense of clarity. He knew his sensory overload would make a hasty retreat impossible. But he's out of the Krusty Krab! He ran back to his own place across the street. Plankton stumbled into his lab, his eye taking in the familiar sights with new intensity. The colors were too bright, the smells too potent, the sounds of his own inventions too loud. But here, he knew he was safe. He laid the envelope on his workbench, his hand shaking with excitement. This was his life's work, the elixir to his problems. But now, with the Krabby Patty formula in his grasp, he wasn't sure what to do next. His mind raced with the sensory input from the kitchen, making it difficult to think clearly. The lab's chaos seemed to calm him, though. The familiar sounds of beeping machines and the faint scent of chemicals soothed his overwhelmed senses. He took a deep breath, his hand steadying. The envelope sat there, a symbol of his old life. His obsession with the Krabby Patty formula had been the driving force behind their rivalry for so long. Now, his autism didn't erase his past, it just colored it differently. The desire to be successful, to have what Krabs had, remained. But the way he approached the world had changed. He knew the taste, the smell, the very essence of a Krabby Patty. It was a part of him now, a memory that could never fade. He stared at the envelope, his heart racing. Plankton took a deep breath, his eye focusing on the paper. His hands trembled as he opened it, the formula's secrets were written in a made up code by Krabs. But Plankton's autism made it decipherable to him! The letters and numbers danced on the page, but instead of the jumbled mess he'd expected, they formed patterns, beautiful patterns that his brain craved. He saw the structure, the order, the way each ingredient intertwined with the next. It was like a symphony of flavors, and he was the conductor. His heart raced as he read through the document, his mind whirling with the possibilities. He threw away the handwritten note from before as he brought the formula into the bedroom with him. Plankton sat on the bed, his mind racing. The code was complex, but he could see the patterns. It was like the universe had laid bare its secrets to him.

PLUSH ONE ix (By NeuroFabulous) They sit in silence, their hands a bridge between their worlds. She can feel his pulse beneath her thumb, the steady beat of his heart. Plankton's eye flicks to the plushie in his other hand. Karen notices the change in his expression, a flicker of something she can't quite read. His grip on her hand remains steady, but the plushie seems to have captured his full attention. She wonders what thoughts are racing through his mind, the patterns and sensory inputs he's processing in his newly autistic state. Plankton's eye narrows, and his hand twitches. She can see the determination in his face, a reminder of the man she fell in love with, still present beneath the layers of fear and confusion. "What is it, Plankton?" she asks, her voice gentle. He stares at the plushie, his eye flickering with thought. "Need still," he murmurs. Karen nods. His autism craves structure, predictability. She moves slowly, her eyes never leaving his, and reaches for the plushie. "May I..." But Plankton's hand tightens, his body tense. "MINE!" he snaps, his voice sharp. Karen's hand stops mid-air, her heart racing. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "It's just a..." But Plankton's voice is steady. "MINE," he repeats, his gaze unwavering. She understands now. The plushie is more than just a toy; it's a comfort object, a piece of his new reality that grounds him. "Okay," she says, her voice calm. "It's yours. You can hold it as long as you like." Plankton's antennae stop twitching, his breaths deepen. He nods slightly, his grip on the plushie unyielding. Karen's mind races, trying to think of ways to ease his fear without overwhelming his senses. "Would you li—" "NO!" he shouts. She's learned the importance of his sensory needs, of not pushing too hard. "Okay," she says, her voice calm, knowing better than to interrupt. Plankton clutches the plushie, his eye squeezed shut. "MINE," he whispers, his voice a tremble. She wants to comfort him, to tell him that she loves him, that she'll always be there for him. But she knows that words might not be what he needs right now. Instead, she sings a soft lullaby. Plankton's hand squeezes hers, his breaths slowing with each note. He opens his eye slightly, his gaze finding hers. "Karen," he whispers. The fear is there, but so is the love, unspoken but as real as the air they breathe. She sings as his body relaxes, his antennae still. Karen watches him, his eyelid fluttering closed. His hand in hers is still, the plushie pressed to his chest. Her screen swells with love and sadness. The man she knows is exhausted from the day's sensory bombardment. His new autistic brain has been working overtime to make sense of a world now too loud, too bright, too much. Plankton's eyelid flickers, his antennae drooping. His grip on her hand loosens, his breaths deepening with each verse. Karen's voice is a soft lullaby. Plankton's grip on the plushie loosens, his eyelid fluttering shut. Karen sings, her voice a gentle hum in the quiet room. Plankton's antennae droop slightly, his grip on her hand softening. The plushie rises and falls with his deepening breaths, his body finally at ease. Karen's eyes fill with tears of relief as she watches him slip into sleep, his hand still clutching the plushie as he starts to snore lightly. Her screen is a mix of emotions: fear, sorrow, and a fierce love that won't let her look away. Karen watches Plankton's chest rise and fall with each breath, the plushie a pillow beneath his cheek. The room is quiet, save for the distant hum of the city outside. Her mind races with the day's events, trying to process the sudden shift in their lives. But for now, she'll just be here, present in this moment of peace. Karen gently squeezes his hand, the gesture small but significant. Her love for him unchanged, though their relationship has taken a new form. The plushie rests between them, now a symbol of his autism's comforting embrace. She's heard about the importance of routine and familiar objects for those on the spectrum. Karen watches Plankton, his sleep deep and peaceful. Her mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and fears, wondering what tomorrow will bring for him. But tonight, he's just Plankton, her Plankton, asleep beside her. Their hands still entwined, his antennae finally still. Karen sighs, her eyes closed. She's tired, and the quiet hum of his snoring is a comfort. Her thoughts drift to their life before, to the days when his plans were more about Krabby Patties than patterns. A tear escapes, tracing a path down her screen. She misses those days, but more than anything, she misses his touch. Plankton's hand twitches in his sleep, and she wonders if he's dreaming of the ocean, of their underwater world. The world he used to navigate so easily, now a labyrinth of sensory overload, but she refuses to let the weight of the day crush her spirit. They'll figure this out together, find a new rhythm..

PLUSH ONE xi (By NeuroFabulous) Hanna nods, her smile gentle. "It's okay," she says, patting his shoulder. But Plankton flinches, his antennae shooting up. "NO TOUCH!" he cries out, his voice piercing the quiet. Hanna's hand jerks back, surprise etched on her screen. "It's okay," she murmurs, trying to ease the tension. Plankton clutches the plushie to his chest, his body shaking. "MINE," he repeats, his voice quivering. Karen understands his fear, his desire for sameness. His autism has turned a simple act of kindness into a threat to him. "I'm sorry," Hanna whispers, backing away. "I just di-" But Hanna backed into a desk of Plankton's books, which now fall misaligned to the floor with a thud. Plankton's eye widens in horror, his antennae twitching in fury. The disrupted order sends his senses into overdrive. Plankton can't take it. The loud thud, the mess... He jumps up, the plushie falling to the floor, forgotten. He starts to pick up the books, his hands shaking as he hurls them angrily at Hanna, who gasps. Karen sees the panic in his eye, the overwhelming sensory assault of the unexpected noise and movement. She moves to intervene, racing. "PLANKTON, STOP!" she shouts, her voice firm but not harsh. She doesn't want to startle him further. The books fly through the air, one hitting Hanna's arm with a thump. "Hey!" she cries, but Karen's focus is on Plankton. His body is a storm of jerky movements, his autistic mind struggling to cope with the sudden chaos. Karen's eyes are filled with fear and sadness. This isn't the Plankton she knows, not the one who would actually hurt someone. "PLANKTON!" she cries, her voice a thunderclap in the small room. He stops, his body trembling with rage and confusion. His antennae quiver, searching for the source of the disruption. Hanna stands back, her arm rubbing where the book had hit. "What's happening?" she whispers, her eyes wide with shock. But Karen's focus is on Plankton, his body a taut wire of anger. "It's okay," she says, her voice steady, though her heart is racing. "Let's just... let's clean up." Plankton's eye darts around the room, his antennae still quivering. He looks at her, his expression a storm of emotions she can't quite read. But she sees the fear, the confusion. And she knows she must act. Karen moves towards him, slowly, her hands up in a non-threatening gesture. "It's okay," she repeats, her voice the calm in the storm. "Let's clean up." But Plankton's autism doesn't understand calm. It sees only the mess, the disarray. His body shakes with frustration, his eye wild. He throws another book, this time it misses Hanna but hits the wall with a crack. Karen's eyes fill with tears. "Plankton," she says firmly, but with love. "This isn't you." But Plankton's rage doesn't subside. He throws another book, the spine snapping with the force. "PLANKTON, NO!" Karen shouts, but he doesn't hear her. His autism has taken over, his brain unable to process the sudden influx of stimuli. He throws another book, his body a blur of motion, Karen's eyes never leaving his face. She must get him to a safe space before he hurts someone, before he shatters the fragile peace they've built. "PLANKTON!" she shouts, louder this time. "STOP!" Her voice pierces the chaos, and his movements falter. His eye finds hers, and she sees the storm in his gaze, the fear and confusion. Karen's knowing she must act quickly. With a deep breath, she moves closer, her arms outstretched, her voice steady. "It's okay," she says, her tone a gentle lullaby. "Let's calm dow—" But Plankton's fury isn't easy to tame. He throws another book, his aim now erratic. The room is a whirlwind of paper and panic, the air thick with his distress. Karen's eyes never leave his, her voice the only constant in the chaos. "PLANKTON, PLEASE!" she calls, her desperation clear. She needs to get through to him, to the person she loves beneath the tumultuous autistic rage. But Plankton's autism has hijacked his mind, his body a vessel for fear and anger. He throws the last book, his arm slinging it like a weapon. It sails through the air, headed straight for Hanna. Karen's instincts take over, and she leaps forward, her hand catching it mid-flight. The room falls silent, the book in her hand a stark reminder of the chaos that was just moments before. Her eyes are on Plankton, his body heaving with frustration. Hanna's eyes are wide, fear and confusion etched on her screen. Karen aches for the man she loves, his world now a minefield of sensory overload. Hanna stands frozen, her eyes wide with shock. "I'm sorry," Karen murmurs, turning to her. "This isn't usual for him." But Plankton's fury doesn't subside. He lunges at her, his tiny body a blur of rage. Karen steps in, her arms spreading wide to protect Hanna. "PLANKTON!" she cries, his name a plea. His antennae slap her face, stinging with the force of his anger. She stumbles backward, her eyes never leaving his. "It's okay," she whispers, though she's not sure if it is. Plankton's body convulses, his legs flailing. Karen moves closer, trying to soothe him, but he's beyond reason. His tiny fists clench, his face distorted with rage. Hanna stumbles backward, fear in her eyes. "What's going on?" she asks, her voice shaking. Karen's a drum of worry. "Plankton," she whispers, her eyes pleading. "It's me, Karen." But his autism doesn't hear her words. It sees only the chaos, the invasion of his space. Karen's mind races, searching for a way to calm him. "PLANKTON!" she says, her voice firm but calm. "Look at me." She holds out her hand, her palm open, a silent offer of safety. But Plankton's anger doesn't abate. He swipes at the air. Karen knows she must act quickly before someone gets hurt. "PLANKTON, STOP!" she says firmly, her voice a steady drumbeat in the chaos. She holds out her hand, her movements slow and deliberate. "Look at me," she repeats, her screen filled with love and determination. But his fury doesn't abate. His body jerks, his antennae slapping the air as he tries to push past her to get to Hanna. Karen's eyes flicker to the plushie on the floor, then back to Plankton's wild gaze. Her voice remains steady, though fear tightens her throat. "Plankton, remember the plushie?" she asks, her words a soft whisper. "It's still here. It's still yo-" But her words are cut off by his shriek. Plankton's tiny body is a tornado of rage, his fists flailing. Karen's eyes never leave his. Her mind is a blur, searching for the right words, the right action to soothe his distress. Her voice is a lifeline, a steady beat in the storm. "Look at the plushie," she says, desperation coating her words. "Remember ho-" But Plankton's autism doesn't heed her pleas. His body writhes, his eye wild with fear and anger as he suddenly swings his fist, catching Karen off guard. She must get through to him. "PLANKTON!" she cries out, but he's deaf to her voice. Her eyes search his, looking for the man she loves, but all she sees is a tempest of sensory overload and confusion. With a tremble, Karen drops the book she'd caught and reaches out, her hand slow and gentle, offering comfort in the chaos. But Plankton's autism interprets it as an assault. He lunges again, his fists a flurry of pain. Karen's body is a shield, her eyes filled with tears as she tries to keep him from Hanna. Her voice remains calm, a beacon in the storm of his anger. "PLANKTON, PLEASE!" she shouts, but her voice is drowned by his screams. But she won't give up, not on him. With a tremble, Karen reaches for the plushie, her hand shaking as she holds it out to him. "Look," she says, her voice a soft whisper. "Your plushie, remembe---" But the sight of the toy doesn't calm him. Instead, it fuels his rage. He snatches it from her, his antennae whipping around in a frenzy. "MINE!" he shouts, the word a battle cry as he swings the plushie wildly. The room fills with the sound of fabric ripping, stuffing flying. Karen's eyes widen with horror. This isn't the Plankton she knows, the loving man who cherished his quiet moments with her. This is someone lost in his own world, a world of overwhelming sensory assault. The plushie, once a symbol of comfort, is now a weapon in his hands. He swings it wildly, the fabric tearing under his frenzied grip. Feathers and stuffing fill the air, the chaos a stark contrast to the silent tears sliding down Karen's screen. Hanna's eyes are wide, her body pressed against the wall, her mind racing with uncertainty. Karen sees the question in her gaze: What's happening? But there's no time for explanations. Plankton's autism has taken over, his fear a wildfire that she must extinguish before it consumes them all. Karen's eyes dart around the room, searching for something to help, something that might bring him back to her, to the reality where his world isn't falling apart. Her eyes land on the plushie, now a sad, torn mess on the floor. But she won't give up, not on the man she loves. Karen's mind races, searching for a way to break through the barricade of his fear. The room seems to spin, a whirlwind of panic and pain. Her eyes lock on the plushie, now a tattered mess at his feet. With a quick breath, she crouches down, her movements slow and deliberate. "Plankton," she whispers, her voice a lifeline in the tempest.

PLUSH ONE xii (By NeuroFabulous) He stumbles backward, his body a maelstrom of anger and confusion. "MINE!" he shouts again, his voice cracking with fear. Karen's eyes never leave his, her own fear a mirror to his distress. "Plankton," she whispers, her voice a soothing lullaby. "Ca--" But her words are lost in the tempest of his rage. He lunges at her, the plushie a weapon in his tiny hands. Karen's instincts kick in, and she blocks the swing. "PLANKTON, STOP!" she shouts, her voice a commanding wave in the storm. But he's beyond reason, his autism a prison that locks him away. The plushie, once a source of comfort, is now a weapon of destruction. He swings it wildly, the fabric tearing under his frenzied grip. Karen dodges the flailing toy, her eyes never leaving his. "PLANKTON, PLEASE!" she shouts, her voice a desperate plea in the cacophony of his anger. But the tempest in his eye shows no sign of abating. With each swing of the plushie, Karen feels the weight of their shattered world. Her hand snatches the plushie from his grip, her movements swift and firm. He tries to grab it back, his body a wild flurry of limbs. "PLANKTON, NO!" she shouts, her voice a thunderclap. The room seems to hold its breath, the only sounds the echoes of their struggle. But Plankton's autism doesn't hear her words, doesn't feel the desperation in her touch. He wriggles in her grasp, his antennae snapping like whips of fear. The plushie hangs limp in her hand, its stuffing spilling out. "PLANKTON, STOP!" Karen's voice echoes in the room, a desperate cry to the storm that's taken him. But his autism doesn't listen. It's a beast that consumes his every thought, leaving no room for the man she knows, the man she loves. He flails and shrieks, his eye wild with panic. Karen's grip tightens, her hands firm but gentle, her heart breaking with each tiny, futile struggle. She must find a way to soothe his fear, to quiet the storm in his mind. His antennae snap at the air, his body a blur of frantic motion. "PLANKTON, STOP!" she shouts, but the words are lost in his autistic rage. She holds him at arm's length, his tiny fists clenched around the ruined plushie. Karen's mind is a frenzied symphony, her mind racing for a way to soothe his distress. With trembling hands, she cups his face, her thumbs pressing gently on his cheeks. "Look at me—" But Plankton's autism interprets her touch as an assault, his body a live wire of fear. He bites down on the plushie, his eye wide with terror. With a tremble, she releases his face. Then Hanna jumps in, unable to stand and watch any longer. "PLANKTON!" Hanna shouts, as she pins him to the wall, her hands too strong for his tiny frame. "WILL YOU DO US A FAVOR AND JUST GET OUT OF OUR LIVES?" Hanna yells as she heaves him out of the bedroom, slamming the door closed on him. On the other side of the door Plankton's antennae droop. But Plankton is eerily quiet on the other side. Hanna holds the door shut despite the silence. Karen was surprised, as she expected him to knock hard on the door.

PLUSH ONE xiii (By NeuroFabulous) Hanna looks at Karen with concern. The silence is deafening, more terrifying than the screams and chaos that just filled the room. Karen's fixed on the closed door. "Is he okay?" Hanna whispers, her voice a soft tremor. Karen's eyes fill with tears, her mind racing. "I don't know," she says, her voice a thread of fear. The quiet is a stark contrast to the tempest that was Plankton's rage. They wait, the air thick with tension, the only sounds their rapid breaths. Hanna's grip on the door handle whitens her knuckles, her screen never leaving Karen's. "I'm sorry.." But Karen's eyes are glued to the door, her heart racing. The quiet from Plankton is more unnerving than his screams. It's as if the storm has passed, but left a silence that speaks of something worse. "Is he okay?" Karen whispers. The room seems to hold its breath, waiting for an answer that doesn't come. The quiet from Plankton is like a vacuum, sucking the air from the room. Karen's hand reaches for the doorknob, her fingers trembling. "Plankton?" she whispers. She opens the door slowly. In the hallway, Plankton sits on the floor, his body rigid, his antennae still. He's not moving, not blinking. Hanna gasps. Karen's hope drops. "Plankton?" she calls, her voice a soft whisper. But there's no response, no movement. He sits on the floor, his eye vacant, his body still. Hanna gasps. "What's wrong with him?" Karen's eyes widen with understanding. "It's an absence seizure," she murmurs, her voice tight. "His first one. He had an accident which left him with a disability, and the medics said such things might happen." Hanna's eyes are filled with concern. "What do we do?" she asks, her voice shaky. Karen's mind races. "We need to make sure he's safe," she says, her voice a firm whisper. She steps into the hallway, her eyes never leaving Plankton's still form. "Don't touch him," she adds. "Jostling will do more harm than good." Plankton's tiny body is a statue, his eye unblinking. "It's okay," she whispers, though she's not sure if he can hear her. The absence seizure is a new horror, and her hand is shaking as she reaches out. "Plankton," she says, her voice a soft caress. "Come back to me." But his body remains still, his antennae unmoving. The sudden stillness, the vacant stare.. Karen crouches beside him, her hand hovering just above his shoulder. "Plankton," she whispers, her voice a gentle breeze. He doesn't flinch, his body a statue, his mind adrift in the abyss of his seizure. Karen's eyes are wet with tears, her fear a palpable presence in the air. She knows she must wait it out, let the seizure run its course. But it's hard, so hard, to watch him like this, so vulnerable. Her hand hovers over his shoulder. "Come back to me," she whispers, her voice a soft prayer. But he doesn't stir. The seconds tick by, each one an eternity. Hanna watches, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and pity. "I'll go clean up the mess.." But Karen shakes her head. "No, stay with him," she whispers, her eyes never leaving Plankton's frozen form. "I'll be right back." Hanna nods, her eyes filled with uncertainty. But she does as she's told, crouching beside Plankton. "It's okay," she whispers, mimicking Karen's earlier soothing tone. Karen rushes, her mind racing. She needs something to help him, to bring him back. Her eyes scan the closets for anything that might comfort him. Her hand closes around a small pillow, the fabric soft and familiar. With trembling hands, she carries it to Plankton, his body still unmoving. Gently, she places a pillow behind him. His eye is still unseeing, but she manages to put another plush in his arms. "Look," she says, her voice soft, "it's a new plush." But Plankton doesn't move, his body a statue. "It's okay," she whispers, her voice a thread of hope in the silence. With trembling hands, she gently tucks the plushie into his hands, hoping the familiar texture will bring him back. Plankton's body remains rigid, his eye unblinking. Karen takes one of his tiny hands in hers, her thumb tracing soothing circles on his palm. "You're okay," she whispers, her voice a soft lullaby in the silence. "It's just a seizure. It'll pass." But her words are met with only the sound of silence. "Come back to me," she murmurs, her voice a gentle caress. Plankton's body is a marble statue, cold and unyielding. The plushie in his arms is a sad reminder of the chaos that had just unfolded. Hanna's eyes are glued to his frozen form, her breaths shallow. "What now?" she whispers. Karen's eyes are a pool of determination. "Now we wait," she says, her voice a soft whisper. "And when he's ready, we'll be here." They sit beside him, their bodies tense with worry. The hallway is a cocoon of silence, the only sounds their gentle breaths. Karen's thumb never stops moving, tracing circles on his palm. It's a lifeline, a silent promise that she won't leave. Moments later, Plankton's antennae twitched. His eye slowly focused. "Plankton?" Karen's voice was a hopeful whisper. His body unlocked from its frozen state, his antennae drooping. "What happened?" he murmured, his voice groggy. Karen's eyes fill with relief, her grip on his hand loosening. "You had a seizure," she explains, her voice gentle. "What do you last remember?" Plankton blinks, his eye unfocused. "The...the whirlwind as the door slam.." Karen's grip on his hand tightens. "It's okay," she whispers, her voice a balm to his fear. "You had a bad moment, but it's over. It's getting late, and we all need some rest. I feel bad, Hanna, but we've the couch.." Hanna nods, her eyes still on Plankton. "It's okay, I'll take the couch," she says, her voice filled with a newfound gentleness. "Just make sure he's ok.." Plankton's antennae twitch, his eye darting around the hallway. His gaze lands on the new plushie, and his body relaxes slightly. "Thanks," he whispers, his voice a soft rumble. Karen nods, her screen shimmering with unshed tears. "Let's get you to bed, okay?" Plankton's body is a sigh of relief as he lets her lead him. His autistic mind is a jumble of sensory input, but Karen's steady touch is a beacon of comfort. In the bedroom, she helps him into bed, the softness of the sheets a gentle contrast to the harshness of his day. "Do you need anything?" she asks, her voice a soft whisper. Plankton shakes his head, his antennas drooping. "Just...quiet," he murmurs, his voice a weak echo of his usual determined rasp. Karen nods, her heart aching for him. She tucks the new plushie beside him, its softness a stark contrast to the turmoil he's been through. "I love you," she promises, her voice soothing. His eye meets hers, a flicker of understanding passing between them. Despite his autism, his love for her is a beacon that pierces the fog of fear. He nods, his grip on her hand a silent thank you.

PLUSH ONE xiv (By NeuroFabulous) The next morning, Hanna wakes up and goes up to the bedroom where Karen's awake, yet Plankton's still asleep. She looks at him with a mix of pity and curiosity. "How is he?" Hanna whispers, her voice tentative. Karen's eyes are filled with fatigue. "Better," she murmurs. "He's sleeping it off." Hanna nods, her gaze falling to the plushie in Plankton's arms. "What was that?" she asks, her voice a soft wonder. Karen's sigh is a symphony of exhaustion. "It's called acquired autism," she explains. "Sometimes it overwhelms him, and he does things he doesn't mean to." Hanna's eyes are filled with questions. "Does he know..." Karen nods. "He's aware," she says, her voice a gentle caress. "But it's hard for him to control. We're still learning how to navigate." Hanna looks at Plankton's peaceful form, her eyes filled with empathy. "How did it happen?" Karen's eyes cloud with pain. "An accident," she says, her voice a whisper. "He hit his head and...it changed his brain structure." Hanna's eyes widen. "I didn't know," she whispers. "I'm sorry." Karen nods, her smile sad. "It's not your fault," she says. "We're all just doing our best to adjust." Plankton stirs, his eye blinking open. He looks up at them, his gaze filled with trepidation and confusion. "Hi, Plankton," Hanna says, her voice a soft melody in the early morning silence. He stares at her, his antennae quivering. "Do you remember what happened?" Plankton's eye darts around the room, the plushie a silent sentinel beside him. He nods, his voice a tiny echo. "Plankton, bad" he murmurs. Karen's heart squeezes with pain, her hand reaching out to stroke his antennae. "It's okay," she whispers. "You had a bad day, but today is new." Plankton's eye focuses on his plushie, his grip tightening. "It's okay," Karen repeats, her voice a gentle lullaby. He nods, his antennae still. "Tired," he murmurs. Karen nods, understanding the weight of his words. "Rest," she says, her voice a soft command. Plankton's body relaxes into the bed, his eye drifting closed. Hanna watches them, her heart aching with emotion. This isn't the Plankton she heard of, the villain with a heart of greed. This is a man lost in his own mind, navigating a world that no longer makes sense. Her eyes fill with tears as she sees the tender way Karen cares for him, her patience a stark contrast to the chaos of his autism. She knows she's been wrong, that there's more to him than the stories suggest. Hanna steps closer, her voice a gentle inquiry. "How can I help?" Karen's eyes meet hers, gratitude in their depths. "Just...just be patient," she whispers. "And kind." Plankton's antennae twitch, his eye still on the plushie. Karen can see the fear lurking beneath the surface. "We'll get through this," she promises, her voice a soft melody of hope. He nods, his antennae still. "Sorry," he whispers, his voice a brittle shell. Karen's heart cracks, her hand reaching out to stroke his cheek. "You have nothing to apologize for," she says, her voice a warm embrace. Hanna watches the tender exchange, her own heart swelling with compassion. "What can we do to help?" she asks, her voice a gentle caress. Karen's eyes are filled with a quiet determination. "We need to find a way to make his world better," she says. "Less overwhelming." Hanna nods, her gaze still on Plankton. "What does he like?" she asks, her voice tentative. Karen's smile is a sad memory. "Routine," she says. "Predictability. And now plushies. They're...important." Hanna nods, her eyes studying Plankton's sleepy face. They sit in silence, each lost in thought. The morning sun peeks through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. In the quiet, the weight of the new reality sinks in; Plankton's autism is a journey none of them had expected. His mind, once a whirlwind of cunning and schemes, now operates with a different rhythm, a pattern of sensory needs.

PLUSH ONE xvii (By NeuroFabulous) They sit in silence, observing Plankton's shaking form. His antennae quiver in time with his ragged breaths. Hanna's eyes are a pool of uncertainty, but she nods. They watch as Plankton's body relaxes, his antennae stilling. He opens his eye, his gaze searching the room. Karen's heart clenches as she sees the fear in his eye. Hanna's hand twitches, wanting to reach out, but she stops herself. She's learned his boundaries, the invisible walls of his autism. "Plankton?" she whispers, her voice soft. His antennae twitch, his eye snapping to her. "What?" he says, his voice a defensive whisper. Hanna's voice is tentative, her hand hovering in the air. "I'm... I'm not taking your plushie," she says, her eyes filled with sincerity. "I just want to help." Plankton's antennae quiver, his gaze still wary. "Help?" he whispers, his voice a soft question. Hanna nods, her eyes never leaving his. "Yes," she says, her voice gentle. "We're here for you." Plankton's antennae still, his gaze unreadable. Karen's heart is a tight knot of fear and hope. "It's okay," she whispers. "We're a team, remember?" His eye flickers, a glimpse of the Plankton she knows, the one who used to laugh and scheme. Slowly, he nods. Karen's heart soars with relief. "Good," she whispers. "We're here." Plankton's antennae quiver, his body tense. He's not sure how to respond to this new dynamic, where his fear dictates their interactions. He looks at the plushie in his arms, the soft fabric comforting against his skin. It's a constant in a world that's shifted on its axis. Karen's eyes are filled with understanding. "We'll find a way," she whispers, her voice a soft promise. "Together." Plankton's antennae quiver, his gaze flicking between Karen and Hanna. He feels their warmth, their care. Slowly, he nods. "Plankton," Hanna says, her voice a soft question. "Can I...sit with you?" Plankton's antennae quiver, his eye darting between her and the plushie. Slowly, he nods. Hanna takes a tentative step forward, her heart racing. She sits down carefully beside him, her movements measured, not wanting to startle him. Her hand hovers, unsure if he'll let her touch him. Karen watches, her heart in her throat. She's seen this before, the struggle for understanding. But this time, it's different. This time, Hanna's here. Hanna's hand hovers over Plankton's arm, a silent offer of friendship. Plankton's eye flickers to it, then back to her face. His antennae quiver, his body tense. He's trying to process, to understand this new dynamic. Slowly, Hanna sets her hand on his arm. His body jolts, but he doesn't pull away. Karen's breath catches as she waits for his reaction. But Plankton simply looks at Hanna, his gaze searching. Hanna's hand is a gentle weight, a silent promise of support. Plankton's antennae quiver, his eye blinking rapidly. He's trying to process this new sensation, this unexpected touch from someone other than Karen. Karen's heart races as she watches, her eyes never leaving his face. She sees the tension in his body, the way his eye flutters with uncertainty. Plankton's gaze is on Hanna's hand, the contact unfamiliar. He takes a deep breath, his tiny chest rising and falling with the effort. Karen's stance is poised, ready to intervene if needed. But Hanna's touch is gentle, almost imperceptible. Plankton's antennae twitch, his body still tense. He's not used to this, not used to anyone other than Karen invading his space. His new world is defined by sensory overload and the need for sameness. Karen's eyes are a silent prayer, her body poised to intervene. But she holds back, giving Hanna a chance to connect, to bridge the gap that autism has created. Hanna's hand remains steady on Plankton's arm, her eyes never leaving his. "I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice a soft apology. "I didn't mean to upset you." Plankton's antennae quiver, his body slowly relaxing. He's still on edge, his autism making him hyper- aware of the unpredictable world around him. He looks at Hanna's hand, the new sensation strange, despite not being entirely unpleasant. Karen's eyes are filled with hope, her breath held. Hanna's touch is a bridge, a tentative reach across the chasm of misunderstanding. "It's okay," she whispers, her voice a gentle reassurance. "I'm here." Plankton's antennae still, his body frozen. The plushie in his arms is a barricade against the world, a reminder of the comfort he craves. He looks at Hanna's hand. Hanna's eyes are filled with understanding, her hand still. "We're not going anywhere," she murmurs. "Take all the time you need." Plankton's antennae quiver, his body still tense. The plushie is a fortress against the chaos, but Hanna's touch is an unfamiliar presence, a threat to his carefully constructed world. He looks at Karen, his gaze pleading. Karen's eyes are filled with comprehension. "It's okay, sweetheart," she says, her voice a gentle breeze. "Hanna's here to help." Plankton's gaze flickers between Karen and Hanna, his tiny body coiled tight. He's not used to sharing his space, not since the world turned into a cacophony of sensory assaults. Hanna's hand remains a question mark on his arm, her eyes filled with hope. "Please," she whispers, her voice a soft plea. "We're just trying to be friends." Plankton's antennae twitch, his gaze flicking between Karen and Hanna. The room is too loud, too bright. His mind whirls with confusion, trying to navigate this new terrain of social interaction. He's used to Karen, her gentle voice and familiar scent. But Hanna is new. "Space," he whispers, his voice shaky. "Need space." Hanna's hand retracts, a silent apology. She nods, her eyes filled with sadness. "Okay," she says, her voice barely audible. Karen's gaze is filled with pride as she watches Hanna's understanding dawn. It's a slow process, but she's learning. "Thank you," she murmurs. Hanna nods, her eyes never leaving Plankton's tense form. "It's okay," she whispers. "I'll give you space." She moves to the other side of the room, leaving a wide berth between them. Plankton's antennae twitch less frequently, his body slowly uncoiling.

PLUSH ONE x (By NeuroFabulous) Plankton's sleep is deep, his body at rest, but starts stirring when Karen's phone dings with a text. She jumps, fearing the sound might disturb him. Carefully, she pulls her hand from his, her eyes never leaving his face. The plushie remains under his arm, his antennae twitching slightly with his dreams. Karen reads the text from Hanna, her friend. Her house is under construction and needs a place to stay! But Hanna and Plankton never met each other.. She thinks for a moment, weighing her options. Plankton's autism is still new, and she's not sure how he'll react to a stranger in their space. But Hanna's in need, and Karen can't ignore that. Gently, she leans over and kisses his antennae. "I'll be right back," she whispers to his sleeping form. She goes out front, texting Hanna to meet her in the front yard. Her mind races as she sees Hanna. "Hey, Karen! Sorry about the short notice." Hanna says. "It's ok, just follow me inside," Karen says, opening the front door and closing it behind them. And yet Karen's mind is racing. How will Plankton react? They enter the bed room, where Plankton still sleeps, oblivious to their guest. Karen takes a deep breath. "Hanna, this is Plankton. He's been through a lot today." Hanna nods, her eyes widening at the sight of the tiny creature. "Hi," she says softly. Plankton's antennae twitch, and his eye opens slowly. His gaze flits between Karen and Hanna, his body tense. "It's okay," Karen whispers, her voice a gentle breeze. "This is Hanna. She's a friend." Hanna nods, her smile kind. "Hi, Plankton," she says, her voice soft. "You're Karen's husband right? The one who inven-" But before she can finish, Plankton's body jerks upright, his antennae quivering. "NO!" he shouts, the word cutting through the quiet with panic. Karen's mind races, her eyes snapping to him. "It's okay," she repeats, her voice soothing. "This is Hanna. She's a friend." Plankton's gaze flicks between them, his antennae a blur of movement. "Friend?" he asks, his voice tight with fear. Karen nods. "Yes, a friend," she says firmly. "We're safe here." Hanna nods. "Hi there Plank..." But the sound of her voice sends Plankton into a spiral of anxiety. His eye widens, his body stiffens. Karen's knowing she's made a mistake. The sudden presence of a stranger has disrupted his carefully controlled environment. "Shh," she whispers, moving closer, her movements slow and deliberate. "It's ok. This is Hanna, she's here to stay for a bit." Plankton's antennae twitch frantically, his eye darting between Karen and the new presence in the room. "Hanna?" he echoes, his voice filled with uncertainty. Hanna nods, her smile gentle. "That's right," she says softly before noticing the plushie on the floor. "Ah, is that a plushie?" Plankton's antennae stop moving, his gaze locked on Hanna's hand as it reaches for the toy. "MINE," he says firmly. Hanna's hand freezes, her screen a silent question as she picked it up. Plankton's eye tracks the movement, his body tense. He doesn't like change, his autism demanding predictability and routine. Karen knows what to do. "It's okay," she says, her voice low and reassuring. "Hanna's just lo…" But Plankton's autism doesn't allow for this. He snatches the plushie from Hanna's hand, his body rigid. "MINE!" he shouts sharply. This was a mistake, introducing change so suddenly into his life. "I'm sorry," Hanna says, her hand dropping to her side. "I didn't kn-" But Plankton's fear has turned to anger. "NO!" he shouts, his antennae flaring. "MINE!" Karen's eyes widen, his outburst echoing in the room. Her mind is racing to find the right words, the right way to comfort him. She knows his autism has made him hyper-aware of his possessions. "It's okay, Plankton," she says, her voice a calm river. "Hanna didn't mean to take it. It's still yours." His antennae slowly retract, his body loosening. He looks at Karen, his eye searching for truth.

PLUSH ONE iv (By NeuroFabulous) The next day, Karen wakes up to find Plankton sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands moving in repetitive patterns over the blanket. The sun casts a warm glow over his face, highlighting his furrowed brow. She watches him for a moment, his concentration so intense it's as if he's trying to solve a complex puzzle. "Good morning," she says softly, not wanting to startle him. His head snaps up, and for a fraction of a second, she sees fear in his eye before it quickly shifts to recognition. "Karen," he says, his voice a little stronger than yesterday. He looks around the room, his gaze lingering on the closed door, the curtains, the picture of them on their wedding day. Karen notices his hand twitching, his thumb tracing the fabric. It's a new tic, a new way his brain is trying to process the world around him, but she knows she can't let her fear control her. She has to be his rock, his anchor in this storm of change. "Do you need anything?" she asks, keeping her voice low and even. Plankton's hand pauses mid-motion, his eye darting to hers. "Karen," he murmurs, almost to himself. "What's on your mind, Plankton?" she prompts, her voice soft. He stares at the wall, his hand still moving over the fabric. Karen watches him. What can she do to help him? What does he need? The silence stretches, and she decides to try again. "Plankton," she says gently. "What's on your mind?" This time, his hand stops moving, his gaze flicking to hers. "Karen," he says, his voice clear. "What is it, sweetie?" she asks, leaning closer. He takes a deep breath, his eye darting around the room before focusing on her. "Karen," he says, his voice a little more coherent. "Need Karen." It's the first time he's expressed a need directly. "You need me?" she asks, trying to keep her voice steady. He nods. "Karen," he repeats, his voice a whisper. Karen's eyes well up with tears of joy and fear. This is the first time he's expressed a need directly. "You need me?" she asks, trying to keep her voice steady. He nods again, his hand still clutching the blanket. Karen takes his hand in hers, his skin warm and familiar. "I'm here," she whispers, squeezing gently. "Always." Plankton's gaze lingers on their entwined fingers, his eye narrowing slightly as if trying to decode a secret message. "You need me to be with you?" Karen clarifies, her voice filled with hope and fear. He nods again, the tension in his body palpable. Her eyes never leave his as she slides closer, sitting beside him on the bed. "I'm here," she repeats, her hand leaving his to rest on his leg. But he jolted away, his body tightening. "I'm sorry," she says quickly, retracting her hand. She's learning the delicate balance of closeness and space, a dance that's unfamiliar but vital to their new life. Plankton's gaze remains on the spot where her hand was, his expression unreadable. Karen wipes at her eyes, willing herself to be strong. "Okay," she says, her voice firm. "Let's try different touches to see which you like?" With gentle hesitation, she begins to explore his sensory preferences, starting with a light stroke on his forearm, watching closely for any signs of discomfort or distress. His hand twitches, but he doesn't flinch. Encouraged, Karen moves her hand up to his antennae, the tenderest of touches. He flinches at first, but his gaze holds hers, willing her to continue. She tries again, stroking them lightly, watching as the tension in his body eases. It's a revelation, a glimpse into his new sensory landscape. "Is that ok?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. Plankton nods, his eye closing in what seems like pleasure. "Tickly," he smiles. She tries again, this time a little more pressure. He flinches, and she quickly removes her hand. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice thick with concern. Plankton opens his eye, looking at her with a mix of confusion and sadness. "Karen," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "Want Karen." Her heart breaks for him, for the man he used to be, for the man he's becoming. "I'm here," she says, her voice soothing. "I'm gonna try different touches." Gently, she starts again, her hand hovering above his arm. This time, she watches his expression closely. When he doesn't react, she touches his skin lightly, her thumb tracing circles. "How does this feel?" Plankton's gaze flits to her hand, his eye studying the movement. "Comfort, rubs," he murmurs. Karen nods, her eyes never leaving his. "Okay," she says, her voice steady. She then moves her hand to his cheek. Plankton's eye widens. His skin is warm and smooth under her touch, and she can feel his breathing quicken. "Does this feel okay?" she whispers. Plankton's eye darts around the room, his antennae twitching. "Karen," he says, his voice filled with longing. Karen's eyes widen. This is new territory, a place where the familiar has become strange. Plankton's eye locks onto hers, his expression a silent plea. Her hand stills on his cheek, his breaths coming in short bursts. Karen's mind races with the implications of his reaction. She's read that some autistic individuals find certain touches overwhelming. She pulls her hand away. "I'm sorry, sweetie," she says, her voice filled with apology. "I'll try some more different touches." She watches him, her love a steady beacon through the fog of fear. "How about this?" she asks, placing her hand on his shoulder. His breath hitched, his body tensing. "Plankton," she says gently, "Does tha-" "No," he says, his voice firm. He flinches away from the touch, his eye wide with panic. Karen nods. "Okay," she says, her voice soft. "We'll keep trying." She reaches for his hand, her touch deliberate and gentle. This time, his body relaxes, his hand fitting perfectly into hers. It's a small step, but it feels like a victory.

I V X L C D M 1 5 10 50 100 500 1000 🔢 Individual decimal places Thousands Hundreds Tens Units 1 M C X I 2 MM CC XX II 3 MMM CCC XXX III 4 CD XL IV 5 D L V 6 DC LX VI 7 DCC LXX VII 8 DCCC LXXX VIII 9 CM XC IX

CHIP AND FAIL xv (Autistic author) "But Dad," Chip began, his voice trembling, when Plankton interrupts. "BUT DAD," Plankton mimics, his voice high-pitched and mocking. "You think you know how I feel, but you have no idea!" Karen stepped back. She knew Plankton needed to express his anger, and Chip needed to learn from it. "Dad, I'm sorry," Chip whispered, his voice cracking. "I didn't mean to make it about..." But Plankton's antennae were a flurry of agitation. "You think your stupid need to touch me can just make everything okay? WELL GUESS WHAT, CHIP? IT CAN'T!" He was shouting now, his voice echoing through the room. Chip's eyes filled with hurt. "Dad, I just wanted to tell you about my week," he said, his voice quivering. "I didn't mean to..." But Plankton's just starting. "You think your convenience more important than my comfort?" he snapped. "Dad," Chip says. "I just wanted to be close..." But Plankton's anger was a raging storm. "YOUR VERSION OF CLOSE IS Suffocation!" he yells, his antennae shaking violently. "You're nothing but a child. All you know is your own need for attention, yet you expect me to be fine with your constant poking and prodding?" Chip's cheeks burned with shame. "That's not fair," he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm trying to understand..." But Plankton's antennae were a blur of anger. "Understand? You can't even begin to understand what it's like!" he spat. "You live your life in a bubble, Chip. You've always had everything you've ever wanted, and now you want to 'understand' me? And don't come crying about fairness..." "PLEASE Dad..." But Plankton's anger was unstoppable. "You think you're so clever," he sneered with rage. "With your fancy friends and your easy life. You wouldn't know what it's like to have to fight for every little thing." Chip felt the sting. "Dad," he choked out, "That's not..." But Plankton's words were a tidal wave, crashing down. "You're selfish," he accused. "Always thinking of yourself." Now Chip's getting upset. "I'm selfish? At least I'm not the one who's too busy being a drama queen to see how much I care!" he retorts, his voice a mix of pain and anger. Plankton's antennae shot up. "You dare call me that?" he roared. "You have no idea what it's like to drown in sensory overload, to have your brain betray you every single day!" Chip took a step back, his cheeks red with anger. "You think because I don't understand, I don't care?" he yelled back. "You're the one who's never there for me because of your 'condition'! You're just a shallow, spoiled little..." "ENOUGH! Both of you, stop it right now!" Karen says. Her voice cuts through the argument like a knife, silencing the room. She could feel the anger, the frustration, the hurt in each of their voices.

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GREAT CHIP xiii (Autistic author) In the quiet of the corridor, Chip's thoughts raced like a pinball machine on tilt. What had he done? How could he have hurt his father so? The hallway was a blur as he searched for the linen closet, his eyes stinging with the tears he'd held back. Meanwhile, in his own bed, Plankton stirred, his antennae twitching as the world swam back into focus. He took a moment to assess his surroundings, his heart racing in his chest. The last thing he remembered was anger, a fiery rage that had consumed him whole. Karen's voice was a lifeline in the fog, her gentle tone cutting through the silence like a knife. "Honey, it's okay," she murmured, her hand a soft shield against the harshness of reality. Plankton blinked slowly, his antennae rising with caution. The room swirled around him, a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes that slowly coalesced into the familiar sight of his bedroom. The soft hum of his ceiling fan was a comforting lullaby, a reminder that he was safe, that his world hadn't crumbled. Plankton's antennae twitched as his eye found Karen's worried face. "You're okay," she whispered, her hand still stroking his antennae with a gentle rhythm. "You had another one." The words were a soothing balm to Plankton's frayed nerves, his body slowly relaxing into the warmth of her touch. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling in a pattern that mirrored hers. The door to the bedroom opened, and Chip stepped in, his arms wrapped around a soft, plush blanket. His eyes were red, and his face was a canvas of regret and worry. "Here," Karen whispered, taking the blanket from him and placing it over Plankton's shivering form. "Thank you, sweetie." Her voice was a lifeline in the storm of Plankton's confusion. Chip nodded, his eyes never leaving his father's face. He wanted to say sorry, to explain that he hadn't meant to cause more pain, but the words stuck in his throat, a lump of guilt. Plankton's antennae twitched again, his eye focusing on Chip with a mix of confusion and anger. "What do you want?" he rasped, his voice raw. Chip's throat tightened, his hand clutching the bedpost for support. "I just... I wanted to... to say sorry," he stuttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "For... for not understanding," he finally managed to say, his voice trembling. "For making you feel like I don't care about your... your neurodisability." Plankton's antennae drooped, his body visibly relaxing under the weight of the blanket. He took a moment, his chest rising and falling under the plush fabric. "You don't get it," he murmured, his voice tired. "You can't just say sorry and expect it to go away." Karen's eyes met Chip's, her gaze filled with a mix of sadness and understanding. She knew the depth of Plankton's pain, the constant battle he faced with his condition. "Your father's right," she said softly. "But that doesn't mean your apology isn't important. Sometimes, it's the smallest gestures that mean the most." Chip nodded, his eyes never leaving his father's face. "I know," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "But I want you to know that I'm here for you. That I love you, Dad." Plankton's antennae twitched slightly, his eye blinking as he took in Chip's words. He didn't speak, but the tension in the room began to ease, the sharp edges of anger dulled by the quiet declaration. Karen's hand on his shoulder was a warm reminder that he wasn't alone in this battle. "I'm sorry, Dad," Chip continued, his voice still shaky. "I didn't mean to make you feel like that." He took a deep breath, his eyes searching his father's for a sign of forgiveness. Plankton's antennae twitched, his gaze unreadable. Karen watched the silent exchange, her heart heavy with the weight of their unspoken words. "I know, Chip," Plankton finally managed, his voice a rasp. "But you have to learn. You can't just... touch me like that." Chip nodded, his eyes filling with tears. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, his words the only rope that could bridge the gap between them. "I'll try," he whispered, the promise heavy in the air. "I'll be more careful." Karen's hand squeezed his shoulder, her eyes filled with a mix of pride and sorrow. "That's all we can ask, honey." Plankton took a deep, shuddering breath, his antennae drooping. "I'm tired," he murmured. Karen and Chip both backed away. Plankton's antennae drooped as he lay on the bed, his body exhausted from the seizure and the emotional turmoil that had followed. "Chip," he said, his voice weak. "Could you... just stay with me?" Chip's eyes widened in surprise. He'd never seen his father ask for something so simple, so vulnerable. "Of course, Dad," he murmured, his voice filled with a newfound gentleness. He carefully perched on the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving Plankton's still form. The room was a cocoon of silence, the only sound the soft whir of the fan above. Chip sat with his hands clasped in his lap, his mind racing with thoughts and fears. He wanted to reach out, to hold Plankton's hand, but he knew better now. He'd learned the hard way about boundaries. Plankton lay still, his antennae twitching slightly with each breath. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, lost in the swirling pattern of shadows cast by the blades. "You know," he began, his voice a soft rumble, "when I was younger, I had this teacher, in school. He didn't 'understand' me." Chip leaned in, his curiosity piqued. He'd never heard his father talk about his school days before. "He'd always scold me," Plankton continued, his voice a distant echo. "Said I was daydreaming, not paying attention. But it was more than that." Chip leaned closer, his heart aching for the young Plankton who had suffered in silence. Plankton's antennae twitched as he recalled the past. "Whenever I'd get too... overwhelmed, I'd zone out," he said, his voice a distant memory. "It was like my mind was a kaleidoscope, swirling with colors and sounds. And just like that, I'd be somewhere else, my body frozen, like you saw. But I vividly remember one day, when the colors were especially bright and the sounds were especially loud, I had one of those episodes right in the middle of class." Chip's eyes were wide with compassion as he listened, his heart breaking for the little Plankton who nobody had understood. "What happened?" Plankton's gaze remained on the ceiling, his antennae still. "The teacher," he said, his voice tight with remembered pain, "he said that people like me, were a distraction, that I'd never amount to anything." Chip felt a spark of anger, his fists clenching at his sides. "But you're a genius!" he protested. "You've created so much!" Plankton's antennae wiggled in a sad smile. "Not to him, I wasn't. He pointed me out personally and said I'm unteachable. And when he said that, I had one of my absence seizures, like you saw. And when I came out of it, he just... he just called me a fitful monstrosity.." The words hung in the air like a curse, heavy and unspoken. Chip felt his heart clench, his fists tighten. "But you're not, Dad," he said fiercely. "You're brilliant, and... and..." He searched for the right words, but they remained elusive. Plankton's antennae twitched slightly, a sad smile playing on his lips. "There have been others," he said, his voice a whisper of hope. "Good people. Like my favorite teacher, who figured it out. She never called me names, never tried to fix me." His eyes took on a distant look, the memory illuminating his face. "Mrs. Puffett, she'd make sure the class was quiet when she saw the signs. She'd move my desk to the corner, so the colors and sounds wouldn't bother me as much. And when I'd start to have one of my episodes, she'd simply block everyone's view by putting up a little cardboard box in front of me. Just a simple thing, but it meant the world to me." Chip felt a lump in his throat. "That's so beautiful," he murmured, his heart swelling with love for his father. "But it wasn't just her," Plankton continued, his antennae twitching with the weight of his words. "It was me, too. I had to accept it, to learn that I was different. And that's what I want you to do, Chip." Chip nodded solemnly.

GREAT CHIP xii (Autistic author) Mustering his courage, Chip approached, his own arms reaching out to mirror Karen's embrace. But as soon as Chip's fingers made contact with Plankton's shoulder, he flinched, his body stiffening like a board. "NO!" he shouted. The anger in Plankton's voice was like a slap, the pain of his rejection a sharp knife twisting in Chip's gut. "But Dad, I'm sorry," he said, his voice cracking. "I didn't mean..." But Plankton's antennae shot up, his body tense. "Don't!" he shouted, pushing away from them both. "Don't touch me!" His voice was ragged, his eye wide with fear and anger. Chip froze, his hand hovering in the air. He'd wanted to comfort his father, to somehow make amends for the cruel words he'd flung earlier. But his attempt had only caused more pain, and he felt the weight of his mistake like an anchor around his neck. Plankton's eyes narrowed, his antennae waving in agitation. "You think you can just...touch me?" he spat, his voice a whipcrack of anger. "You don't get it, you never will!" He shrugged off their embraces, his tiny frame quivering with fury and despair. Karen stepped back, her eyes filled with a sadness that was even deeper than the anger. "Chip," she said gently. "Give him some space." Her voice was like a lifeline, but Chip's hands remained outstretched, his eyes pleading. He didn't understand why his touch, which had always been welcomed before, was now a source of pain. "But Mom's touch d..." Plankton's antennae shot up, his eye blazing with anger. "Don't you dare compare yourself to your mother!" he roared, his voice echoing in the cramped workshop. "You don't know what it's like to live with this, to have to explain it over and over again!" Chip felt his heart shatter, the harshness of his father's words cutting deeper than any insult "It's the same touch as hers! I don't understand any differ..." But Plankton's anger was a whirlwind, a maelstrom that drowned out any attempt at reason. "You don't understand!" he screamed, his voice a volcanic eruption of pain. "You can't just... just pretend you know!" Karen's eyes filled with sadness, but she kept her voice steady. "Chip, please," she said, her tone a plea. "Give your father some space." But Chip was desperate, his heart a tangled mess of guilt and fear. He stepped closer, reaching out to mimic his mother's gentle touch. His hand hovered over Plankton's shoulder, but as soon as his fingertips made contact, his father's body stiffened. Plankton's antennae shot up like spikes, his eye wide. Chip's breath caught in his throat as he watched his father's pupil dilate, his gaze going distant. "Dad?" he whispered, his voice trembling. But Plankton didn't respond, didn't move, his body frozen in a trance-like state. Karen's eyes widened in recognition of the familiar symptom, and she quickly stepped in front of Chip, placing a gentle hand on his chest to keep him from approaching. "It's another one," she said softly, her voice filled with concern. The room seemed to hold its breath, the tension thick as the silence grew. Plankton's tiny body remained statue-still, his eye unfocused and unmoving. Chip's eyes were wide with fear, his hands hovering in the space where he'd just attempted to touch his father. He could see the fear in his mother's eyes, but he didn't understand why his touch was so wrong. "What's happening?" he whispered, his voice shaking. Karen's expression was a mix of concern and resignation. "It's another seizure," she said softly, her voice filled with a sadness that Chip had never heard before. "His body's just... trying to cope." Chip felt his heart race, his father's stillness a stark contrast to the frenetic energy that usually filled the room. The realization hit him like a tidal wave, and he stumbled back, his hand dropping to his side. "But I didn't mean to..." his voice trailed off, the words seemingly too heavy to be spoken. Karen's eyes never left Plankton's face as she gently scooped him up, her movements precise and practiced. "Let's get you to bed, honey," she said, her voice a soothing melody in the storm of his seizure. Plankton was so light in her arms, almost weightless, his antennae drooping limply beside his face. His usual fiery spirit was gone, replaced by a frightening calm that made Chip's heart race. They moved through the house in a slow dance of care, avoiding obstacles with the grace of long practice. Chip followed behind, his eyes glued to his father's still form, fear a cold hand around his throat. The hallway stretched like an eternity, each step closer to Plankton's bedroom a silent plea for his father to wake. The bedroom door creaked open, revealing a sanctuary of order and solitude. Karen navigated the space with ease, laying Plankton down on the neatly made bed with a gentle sigh. Chip hovered in the doorway, his eyes taking in the scene with a mix of awe and dread. The bed was a bastion of calm in the storm of Plankton's mind, the soft blue comforter a stark contrast to his father's usual chaotic energy. Karen arranged the pillows with the care of a sculptor, her movements precise and practiced. She pulled the covers up to his chin, her eyes never leaving his still face. Plankton's chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic pattern, the only sign that he was alive. Chip watched, his heart racing, as his mother sat by the bed. The silence was a living, breathing entity, filling every corner of the room like a thick fog. Karen's eyes never left Plankton's still face, her hand trembling slightly as she reached out to smooth his antennae. Chip hovered in the doorway, his own fear and confusion reflected in the shimmer of the dim light. He watched as his mother moved with a grace that seemed almost alien, her movements soothing and gentle, as if she were handling the most delicate of instruments. Plankton lay on the bed, his body still as a statue's, his eye unblinking. Karen pulled the comforter up to his chest, her hand lingering for a moment before retreating. The quiet was so deep, Chip could almost hear his own heart pounding in his chest. The room was a stark contrast to Plankton's usual cluttered workshop, his sanctuary of chaos and creation. Here, everything was in its place, each item a silent sentinel to the peace they all wished Plankton could find, a place where Plankton had always found solace. Karen sat beside the bed, her eyes never leaving her husband's serene face. She knew the chaos raging behind his unblinking eye, the maelstrom of his thoughts that only he could see. Her hand hovered over him, her thumb gently stroking his antennae, a silent promise of her love and support. Chip watched from the doorway, his heart a tumultuous sea of regret and fear. He'd never seen his father so vulnerable, so lost in his own mind. He wanted to apologize, to take back the hurtful words, but he knew it was not the time for talking. Instead, he settled for a silent promise, a vow to be there, to understand. ruder in the sacred space, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. Karen looked up, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. She offered a sad smile, a silent acknowledgment of his presence. "Why don't you go get him another blanket?" she suggested, her voice barely above a whisper. Chip nodded, his legs moving on autopilot as he retreated to the hallway. He just hoped that when Plankton woke up, he'd be able to make amends.

CHIP AND FAIL xiii (Autistic author) Chip's voice was soft. "Dad, I didn't mean to..." But Plankton was stuck. His antennae twitched, a silent signal of his distress. Karen's hand on his arm was a lifeline. She had seen the way the world had treated him, the way his own son didn't understand. "I mean, it's not like you can't just turn it off," Chip said, his voice naive and hopeful. "Why can't you just deal with it? Why do you always have to be so sensitive? You'll get used to it. If not, then you're just being dramatic. So just stop with the tantrums, and be normal." Plankton's unable to take it. "Chip, that's enough," Karen's voice was firm, cutting through the silence, but Plankton's already simmering emotions boiled over. "What?" Chip looked at her, confusion in his screen. "What's wrong with what I said? He's just overreacting.." Karen's eyes were a tempest of emotion. She knew Chip didn't mean to be hurtful, but his words cut through Plankton like a knife. Her hand tightened on his arm, a gentle reminder to think before he spoke. "Chip," she said, her voice firm but kind. "You need to understand that what you just said is not okay." But Chip was oblivious, his screen a puzzle of confusion. "What? I just want to know why you chose to be like a..." "CHIP," Karen interrupts. But Plankton's already in tears, as Chip's gotten to him. "Dad," Chip says. "You know I..." But Plankton can't take it anymore. "How could you?" he chokes out, tears flowing. Chip's eyes widened. He had never seen his father like this. "Dad?" He reached out, his hand hovering, unsure if he should touch him. Plankton looked up, his single eye brimming with sorrow. "Why? How dare you say that?" he whispered, now getting up from the kitchen table. Chip's hand fell to his side, his mouth a sad 'o' of regret. "Dad, no, that's not what I..." But Plankton was already retreating, his antennae drooping with each step. The kitchen door closed with a soft click, leaving Chip and Karen in the wake of his withdrawal. Chip's eyes were wide with disbelief, his heart heavy in his chest. "What did I do?" he asked, his voice breaking the surface of their shared shock. Karen's eyes were pools of disappointment and sadness. "You don't know what you just said," she murmured, her voice a gentle rebuke. "What?" Chip's voice was a sad echo, his confusion palpable. Karen's eyes were a tempest of frustration and sadness. "Chip, what you said was not only hurtful, it was ignorant," she said, her voice a soft wash of disappointment. "You can't tell someone to 'just deal with it' when it comes to autism." Chip's shoulders slumped, his face a mask of regret. "But I just want to understand," he mumbled, his voice a sad echo. Karen's voice tightens with emotion. "You have to learn to listen without speaking," she said, her words carefully chosen. "Your dad's autism is not something he can just 'turn off'." Chip's eyes were wide with shock. "I didn't know," he murmured. "I'm sorry." "You have to understand, Chip. Your father's not being dramatic. He's in pain," she said, her voice cracking. "You can't just tell him to 'deal with it'. That's not how this works." The words stung Chip. He had never seen his mother so upset. "But I didn't know," he protested. "You have to learn to listen," she repeated, her voice soft yet firm. "You can't just assume you understand because you want to." He had wanted to connect, but instead, he had only pushed his father further away. He took a deep breath, the weight of his ignorance heavy on his shoulders. "What can I do?" he asked. Karen took a moment before responding. "Give your father space," she said. "And ask about it first. Understand that his reactions are not his choice." Chip nodded, his eyes downcast. He knew he had messed up, but he didn't know how to fix it. Karen stood, her movements a gentle sway as she walked to Plankton's room, leaving Chip alone with his guilt.

CHIP AND FAIL xii (Autistic author) Karen knew her husband's withdrawal was a defense mechanism, a way to cope with the sensory overload. But watching Chip's pain was like watching a school of fish caught in a net, thrashing against the confines of their misunderstanding. Chip pushed his chum around his plate, his appetite lost in the whirlpool of emotions. "Dad," he tried again, his voice a soft wave breaking on the shore of Plankton's silence. "I don't know what to do." Chip felt like a tiny fish adrift in the vast sea of his father's displeasure. "I just want to be there for you," he murmured, his words a desperate plea. But Plankton's antennae remained still, his eye unreadable. The silence was a dense fog, obscuring the usual warmth between them. Chip's heart felt like it was trapped in a fishnet of doubt and confusion. Karen watched the exchange with a heavy heart, her own plate of chum barely touched. She knew Plankton's silence was a form of self-protection, his way of reeling in the chaos that had engulfed him. But she couldn't help but feel the barb of it, stinging Chip with each unanswered question. "Dad," Chip whispered again, his voice now a soft ripple in the vast sea of their dinner. "I know you're upset, but I'm trying." He took another tentative bite, his screen never leaving Plankton's still form. "Can we talk about it? What part of today d..." But Plankton's antennae remained as stiff as coral, his eye unyielding. The silence was a thick kelp forest, entangling any attempt at communication. Chip didn't know what else to say, what else to do. Karen's screen searched the horizon of Plankton's face, looking for any sign of relenting. But he was an isolated island, unreachable. She knew the storm inside him was still raging, and she could feel the waves of pain crashing against the shore of her own. Chip's voice was a sad melody, his words a school of fish lost in a sea of misunderstanding. "Dad," he whispered again, his voice a soft ripple in the vast ocean of silence. "I know I said the wrong things, but I'm here. I'm listening." Plankton's antennae remained still, his eye a clouded pool. The dinner table was a coral reef of tension, their plates untouched. The only sound was the distant lapping of waves against the shore of their unspoken words. Chip's voice was a lone seagull calling out into the vast sea of silence. "Dad," he tried again, his voice a desperate cry. "I'm sorry for what I said." But the words fell into the abyss, unheard by the father who was deaf to his son's pain. Plankton's antennae remained still. The tension at the dinner table was thick, obscuring any chance of understanding. "Dad," he said. "I didn't mean to hurt you." Chip's hope was fading. "I'm sorry," Chip murmured again. He didn't know what else to say, his words a futile attempt. His father's antennae twitched slightly. The room was thick with unspoken words. Karen's screen flitted between them, her gaze a beacon of understanding for Chip in the abyss of Plankton's silence. She knew her husband's pain, had seen the storms he weathered in solitude. But she also saw the desperation in Chip's screen, the yearning for connection. "Dad," Chip whispered. "I know I don't understand it all, but I want to learn." Plankton's antennae remained unmoved, the silence a crushing weight that threatened to drown them both. Chip's voice was tiny. He took another bite of chum, his mouth moving mechanically, his screen never leaving Plankton's still form. "Dad," he tried again, his voice a soft whisper. "What can I do?" Plankton's antennae twitched once. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding then letting it out in a slow sigh. Chip was trapped. He had never seen his father so closed off, his usual vibrant spirit dimmed. Karen's eyes were a lifeline, her gaze a gentle nudge towards patience. She knew Plankton's silence was not rejection but a cry for space, a retreat into his own mind. "It's okay," she mouthed. Chip nodded, his screen never leaving Plankton's still form. He could see the pain etched in the lines of his father's face, the way his antennae drooped. He took a deep breath. "Dad," he said, his voice a soft current. "I just want to help." Plankton's antennae twitched, just once, but it was enough for Chip to hold onto. "I'll learn so I can be there to help during temper tantrums.." And there it is. His eye flinched, and suddenly, he was no longer in the quiet room with his son and wife. He was back in elementary school, the laughter of his classmates as they called his meltdowns "tantrums." The taste of the chum in his mouth turned sour. His school teachers had never understood, had never seen the silent storm that raged beneath his calm surface. "Plankton?" Karen's voice was a soft echo, reaching out to him. He blinked, coming back to the present, his gaze meeting hers. Her eyes were calm. Chip's voice was a gentle nudge. "Dad, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." But Plankton's mind was tangled within his thoughts of his past. The word "tantrum" echoed in his head, a reminder of his vulnerability. Karen's eyes searched her husband's, understanding. She reached over, her hand soft on his arm. "Take a moment," she whispered. "We're here for you." Plankton felt the warmth of her touch, grounding him. His antennae twitched slightly, acknowledging her support.

CHIP OFF THE OLD TALKS xii (Autistic Author) The tree above them provides a gentle canopy, casting dappled shadows on Plankton's sleeping form. The leaves rustle in the breeze, creating a natural lullaby that soothes not only him but Chip and Karen as well. The world outside the shade seems to melt away, leaving them in a quiet cocoon of peace. Karen watches her son with a mix of admiration and sadness. He's growing up so fast, she thinks, having to learn about things most kids his age don't have to. But Chip's strength is undeniable, and she knows that together, they'll navigate the storms that come with Plankton's condition. The park's cacophony slowly starts to fade into the background, replaced by the rhythmic sound of Plankton's deep, even breathing. Chip sits next to him, the love rock still in his hand, his thumb tracing the smooth surface. The shadows from the tree above dance across their faces, creating a mesmerizing pattern of light and dark that seems to mirror the complexities of their lives. Karen pulls out a small blanket from their bag and covers Plankton gently, tucking it around his small body. She looks at Chip, her eyes filled with a mix of love and sadness. "Why don't you sit with him for a bit?" she suggests. "I'll grab the car." Chip nods solemnly, taking a seat beside his father. He places the love rock in Plankton's palm, curling his slender fingers around it. The park's sounds seem to fade away as he focuses on Plankton's peaceful face, the only indication of life the steady rise and fall of his chest. Chip's eyes drift over to the swings, now silent, the chains still swaying slightly from their earlier use. While Karen walks to get the car, Chip sits in quiet contemplation, feeling the weight of their conversation from the night before. He's learned so much about his dad, about the storms in his brain that make him different. But instead of fear, Chip feels a newfound respect and love, a bond stronger than any storm could break. Plankton's eye flutter open, the sleepy confusion fading as he sees Chip sitting beside him, the love rock still clutched in his hand. He looks around, the park coming back into focus. His antennae twitch slightly, searching for the source of comfort. "Hey, buddy," Plankton says, his voice groggy. "What happened?" Chip's eyes light up, his grip on the rock tightening. "You had a seizure," he explains, his voice steady. "But you're ok now. We're just waiting for Mom to bring the car." Plankton nods, his gaze drifting to the rock. He opens his palm, revealing the smooth, shimmering stone. "Thank you," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. Chip looks up, his eyes meeting Plankton's. "It's our love rock," he says simply, his voice filled with the weight of their new understanding. Plankton's antennae twitch, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "I remember," he says, his voice a little stronger. "It's a good rock." The two sit in companionable silence, the rock a tangible symbol of their bond. The park's sounds slowly filter back in, the laughter of children, the squeak of the swings, the distant bark of a seagull. Life goes on around them, but in this moment, their world is small and focused. As Karen pulls up with the car, she sees them sitting under the tree, the love rock in Plankton's hand. She parks and walks over, her eyes filled with concern. "Ready to go home?" she asks gently. Plankton nods, his antennae rising slightly. "Yeah," he says, his voice still shaky. "Let's go." They carefully help him into the car, the love rock still nestled in his hand. The drive home is quiet, the weight of the day's events hanging heavy in the air. Chip watches his dad, his heart aching for the silent struggle he knows he's facing. As they pull into the driveway, Karen looks back in the rearview mirror. "Remember, Chip," she says, her eyes meeting her son's in the reflection, "today was a learning experience. We all need to be patient with each other." Chip nods solemnly, his gaze never leaving Plankton's face. He sees the exhaustion etched into his father's features, the quiet strength that hides beneath the storm. "I know," he whispers, his voice filled with understanding beyond his years. The house is a welcome retreat from the overwhelming sensory assault of the park. Inside, everything is familiar and comforting, a bastion of predictability in a world that often seems too loud and too bright for Plankton. Karen helps Plankton into bed, tucking him in with the care of a lighthouse keeper guiding a ship to safety. Chip sits on the edge of the bed, holding the love rock out to Plankton. "Do you still want this?" he asks, his voice tentative. Plankton's hand reaches out, his eyes never leaving the rock. He takes it, his grip firm. "Yeah," he says, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "It's comforting." Karen gives them both a soft smile before leaving the room, closing the door gently behind her. The room is filled with the hum of the fish tank, the calming blue light casting a soothing glow. Chip sits with his father, the love rock nestled in Plankton's hand, a silent sentinel of their bond. For a moment, they just breathe together. Then, Chip decides to speak. "Daddy," he says, his voice gentle and soothing, "I'm here for you. No matter what happens, ok?" Plankton's eye flicker with understanding, and he squeezes the rock in his hand. "Thank you, Chip," he murmurs, his voice filled with more emotion than Chip has ever heard from him. "I'm lucky to have you." The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning, as Chip nods, his own eyes brimming with tears. He leans in to offer Plankton his hand to hold. Plankton takes it, his grip firm, his eye searching Chip's for reassurance. The love rock remains a silent witness to their conversation, a physical representation of the unspoken affection that flows between them. Slowly, Plankton's eye grow heavy, the lid drooping as sleep claims him once more. His hand relaxes around Chip's, the rock still cradled in his other palm. Chip watches his father's chest rise and fall with each deep, even breath, the storm of the day finally abating. Eventually, Plankton's eye opens, a glimmer of understanding piercing the tempest. His antennae still, his body going rigid with the effort of speaking. He draws in a deep breath, his eye locking onto Chip's and also Karen’s, the love rock a bridge between them. "Lo..." he manages to murmur, the word a tremor in the quiet room. Karen's eyes widen, her heart skipping a beat. "Lo..." he tries again, the syllable a whisper of hope. The room feels like it's expanding, the walls stretching with the weight of his effort. "Lo...ve," he finally says, the word a shaky but clear declaration. The air shimmers with the power of the spoken word, the love rock in Chip's hand feeling like it's vibrating with joy. Karen's eyes overflow with tears as she squeezes Plankton's hand, her voice choking with emotion. "Oh, honey," she says, her voice a gentle caress, "we know." Chip's own eyes sparkle with unshed tears, his voice trembling as he speaks. "We love you too, Daddy." "Lo...love," he manages to repeat, the word a treasure pulled from the depths of his mind. Chip feels a tear slide down his cheek, the love rock in his hand a warm emblem of victory. "You don't have to say it, Daddy," Chip says, his voice shaky but earnest. "We know." But Plankton's eye determined, the word 'love' a beacon he needs to reach. With a Herculean effort, he whispers, "Chip...Karen...love...you." The room is suffused with a warmth that feels like a sunrise, the shadows retreating to the corners. Karen stands with love for her family. She knows that this is just the beginning of their journey, that there will be more storms to weather. But with Chip by his side, she feels a glimmer of hope that Plankton's world will be a little less overwhelming.

CHIP AND FAIL xvi (Autistic author) "Both of you, sit down," Karen ordered, her voice firm but not unkind. They complied, their movements jerky with emotion. "Chip, your father's autism is not an excuse for this behavior, but it's also not something to mock," Karen began, looking at her son with serious eyes. "It's a part of him, and we need to respect it." Chip's anger subsided slightly. "But you saw what happened earlier," he said, his voice still shaking. "It's like he doesn't even want to be around me." But Plankton's not quite done. "Why do you think that is, Chip? Go on, smarty, enlighten..." Karen's patience had run out. "Plankton," she said, her voice stern. "That's enough." He glared at Chip, his antennae quivering with anger. Chip looked away from him. "And Plankton," Karen's voice was a gentle reprimand, "Your son's ignorance is not an excuse for anger. We all need to communicate better." Plankton's antennae drooped. "I know," he murmured, his anger easing slightly. "It's just..." Karen's voice was firm. "I know it's frustrating, but we need to work together." She turned to Chip. "And Chip, your father's feelings are valid. You can't ignore them." Chip looked at his father, his eyes filled with regret. "I'm sorry, Dad," he murmured. "I didn't mean to hurt you." Karen's voice was calm as she interceded. "Plankton, can you tell Chip what happened today? Help him understand?" Plankton's antennae stopped shaking. He took a deep breath. "When you touch me without asking," he began, his voice still sharp, "my body can't always handle what yours can." Karen's eyes were a gentle reminder of the lesson she had tried to teach earlier. She nodded for him to continue. "When you poke me or touch me without asking," Plankton said, "it's overwhelming." "I just barely touched you for one second, Dad!" "To you, it's one second," Plankton replied, his antennae drooping. "To me, it's an eternity of discomfort." Karen stepped in. "Chip," she said, "You need to understand that for him, it's not just about physical contact. It's about respecting his boundaries."

CHIP AND FAIL xi (Autistic author) Karen made chum for dinner and they all sat at the table. "Thanks," Plankton says to Karen as she hands him his plate. She sits down with her own plate after serving Chip his. "Hi, Dad," Chip said tentatively, his voice a whisper in the stillness of the room. Plankton's antennae twitched, but his eye remained fixed on his plate. The silence was a wall between them, thick as seaweed and just as impenetrable. Chip's heart felt like it was sinking into his stomach, the weight of his father's silence heavier than any words could have been. Karen's screen darted between them, a silent plea for peace. She knew this was Plankton's way of dealing with his overwhelm, but it was torture for Chip, who craved understanding and connection. "So, how's your friends?" Karen asks Chip. Chip shrugs, his screen darting to Plankton, who remains silent, his antennae still. "They're okay," he says, his voice lacking its usual enthusiasm. Karen sighs internally, the tension at the dinner table a heavy fog that seemed to smother their usual banter. "Karen, can you pass the napkins?" Plankton says. "Sure," she says as she puts them in the middle. "Dad, how do you feel about the food?" Plankton's antennae twitched but his gaze remained on his plate, his mouth a tight line. The silence was a thick stew that no one knew how to digest. Chip's eyes were filled with hope, searching for any sign of his father's usual playfulness, but all he found was a wall of quiet. Chip's voice was a feeble ripple in the vast ocean of their silence. "Dad, can I get you a drink?" he offered. Plankton's antennae twitched slightly, but he remained silent, his eye never leaving his plate. The air was thick with tension, like seawater saturated with the weight of their unspoken words. Chip churned with anxiety, each bite of chum a reminder of the gap that had suddenly widened between him and his father. "Please, Dad," he murmured, his voice barely audible above the clink of their forks. Plankton's antennas remained still, his eye focused on the food before him. Karen's heart was a tight knot in her chest, her eyes darting between her husband and son. The silence was a living creature, a Kraken of tension coiled around them, squeezing the joy from the room. She took a deep breath, forcing a smile. "So, Chip, tell us about your week," she said, her voice too bright, too forced. Chip took a tentative bite of his chum, his eyes on Plankton's unmoving antennae. "Well, I had a good time at the carnival," he began, his voice a sad echo of his usual excitement. "I won at the ring toss." Plankton's antennae twitched slightly, but he said nothing, his silence a thick, unspoken wall. Chip felt like a deflated balloon, each of his words a futile attempt to pierce the silence. "And I met a new friend," Chip continued, his voice a feeble thread trying to weave through the stillness. "She's a dolphin. She was really cute." Plankton's antennae twitched again, just a little, but it was enough to keep Chip's hope afloat. Chip's voice grew stronger, his words a lifeline thrown into the turbulent sea of silence. "Her name's Daisy," he said, a tiny smile tugging. "We played in the bubbles." But Plankton's antennae remained still, his eye on his plate. It was as if Chip's words were bouncing off an invisible shield, unable to penetrate the fortress of his father's mind. Chip's smile faltered, his screen filling with unshed tears. He wanted so badly to share his joy with Plankton, but the wall of silence was too high, too thick. He took a deep breath, his hands clenching around his fork. "Dad, I know you're mad at me," he said, his voice trembling. "But I just want to understand." Plankton's antennae twitched slightly, but he said nothing, his face a mask of indifference. The silence grew heavier with each passing moment, weighing down on Chip like an oversized sponge soaked in regret. He knew he had to try again, to bridge the gap. "Dad," he began, his voice shaky but determined. "I know I messed up today, but I want to make it right." He took a deep breath, willing the words to come. "Can you tell me more about your...about what happened to you?" His voice was a tiny bubble of hope rising in the deep sea of their dinner. Plankton's antennae twitched, his eye flickering up to meet Chip's for a brief moment before dropping back to his plate. The silence stretched on like a tight rubber band, threatening to snap. Karen's screen a tempest of concern, torn between her love for her husband and her desire to help her son. She knew Plankton needed his space, but seeing the pain in Chip's screen was like watching a piece of coral being slowly eroded by the sea. Chip's words hung in the air, like a message in a bottle lost at sea. Plankton's silence was a reef that Chip's words couldn't navigate around. He took a deep breath, his heart a conch shell echoing with hope. "Dad, I know it's hard for you," he tried again, his voice a gentle wave. "But if you don't tell me, how can I understand?" The room was a pressure cooker of unspoken emotion, the tension rising with each passing second. Karen's screen pleaded with Plankton, willing him to respond. But he remained still, his antennae unmoving, his eye a storm cloud over their meal. Chip's heart felt like it was being crushed in a vice, his words falling on deaf antennae. "Dad, please," he whispered, his voice desperate. "I just want to help." But Plankton's antennae remained motionless, his eye averted. The silence was a deep-sea trench between them, vast and unbridgeable. Chip's shoulders slumped, his hope leaking away like water through a sieve. He took another bite of his chum, the taste of it suddenly bitter on his tongue. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, each second a tiny hammer on the anvil of his heart. Chip forced a swallow, his throat tight with emotion. "Dad," he said again, his voice a tiny ripple in the vast ocean of quiet. "I'm sorry." The room held its breath, waiting for a response, but none came. The silence was a thick kelp that choked, suffocating any attempt at conversation.

CATCH IN MY CHIP xi (Autistic author) Karen leans in closer to Plankton, her voice a gentle whisper. "It's okay," she says, her eyes filled with warmth. "You're okay." Plankton's breaths are shallow, his chest rising and falling with effort as he shakes. The room is a cocoon of quiet, the outside world muted by the thick walls of their sanctuary. Karen's hand is a constant, her touch a reminder that he's not alone. Plankton's gaze flits to Chip, the question in his eye unspoken. "Chip," Karen says, her voice a balm to Plankton's raw nerves. "Your dad is in need of some quiet time, okay?" Her words are a gentle nudge, guiding them through the delicate dance of recovery. Chip nods, his eyes never leaving Plankton's face. "I understand," he murmurs, though his heart feels like it's been tied in knots. He swallows his questions, his fear for his dad a lump in his throat. Plankton's antennas twitch slightly, his breathing easing a fraction. He nods, the gesture almost imperceptible. "Thank you," he whispers, his voice raspy with exhaustion. The relief in his eye is palpable. Chip watches, his own emotions a tapestry of confusion and concern. He wants to reach out, to hold his dad close, but he knows it's not the time. Instead, he squeezes Karen's hand, his silent promise to be patient and understanding. Plankton's eye closes, his body slowly relaxing into the pillow. The ringing in his ears fades, the world coming back into focus like a camera lens slowly adjusting to the light. The warmth of Karen's hand on his forehead is a comfort, his anchor in the sea of sensation. Her voice is a gentle lullaby, guiding him back to shore. "You're okay," she repeats, each word a wave lapping against the shore of his mind. The room stops spinning, the colors coalescing into distinct shapes. Plankton's gaze darts around the room, seeking solace. His eye lands on a spot on the wall, a patch of unblemished white. He focuses on it, his breaths coming slower, deeper. It's a sanctuary, a place of peace amidst the chaos. The spot becomes his beacon, the world around it a blurry periphery. Karen's hand on his forehead is cool, a balm to his racing thoughts. "Look at the spot," she whispers, her voice a soothing melody. "Just the spot." He nods, his eye locking onto the white, his breaths syncing with hers. The spot is a lifeline in the storm, a beacon of calm in his sensory chaos. Plankton stares at it, willing the world to recede. The colors around it blur, the sounds of the room dull to a whisper. It's just him and the spot, a silent pact between them to conquer the tempest. Karen's voice is a gentle wave, lapping at the edges of his mind. "When you're ready, take a deep breath. In, out. Slowly." She guides him through the exercise, her tone soothing. Plankton tries to focus, his body responding to the familiar rhythm. The spot on the wall becomes clearer, the edges sharper. The world around it softens, the colors bleeding back into the fabric of the room. His breathing slows, his chest rising and falling in time with Karen's gentle prompts. The spot is his sanctuary, a bastion of calm in the overwhelming storm. But then, it starts. The tic, a twitch of his antenna. A reminder that his mind is not entirely his own, his body a marionette to the whims of his neurodiversity. Plankton's antennas begin to still, his body gradually relinquishing the tension that had held it hostage. The tic in his left antenna, a quick spasm that had become more frequent. Karen's eyes don't leave his face, her gaze a silent support. She knows the dance of his tics all too well, a choreography that they've lived with for years. She squeezes his hand, her touch a silent promise to stand by him through the storm. It's his body's way of releasing the tension that builds up like pressure in a volcano. The tic is a tide, rising and falling, unpredictable and uncontrollable. Plankton's head jerks to the side, the sudden movement a stark contrast to the stillness of the room. Chip's eyes go wide with concern. "It's okay," Karen murmurs, squeezing Plankton's hand. "It's just your body. It's okay." Her voice is a lullaby, a gentle reminder that he's not alone. The tic subsides, his antennas returning to their usual state. Chip's eyes dart from his dad to his mom, his mind whirring with questions. "What was that?" he asks, his voice quiet, afraid to disturb the fragile peace. Karen's hand moves to Plankton's antenna, her thumb tracing the line of his twitch. "It's just his body's way of dealing with the overstimulation," she explains, her voice calm but tinged with sadness. "It's a tic, Chip. It's part of his autism." Chip nods, his eyes wide with understanding. "Will he be okay?" he asks, his voice small in the face of his father's struggle. Karen's grip on Plankton's hand tightens, her voice a steady stream of comfort. "Yes, he will," she says with confidence. "This happens sometimes. We just need to be patient and give him time." Plankton's antennas still slightly, the tremor a reminder of the storm that had passed through his mind. His breaths come more evenly now, the spot on the wall his silent companion as he finds his way back to the world. Chip's eyes are full of questions, his heart heavy with concern. He watches as his dad's body relaxes, the tension easing like a retreating tide. "I'll get him some water," Karen says, her voice a whisper. She squeezes Plankton's hand once more before rising, leaving the two of them alone in the quiet. Plankton's eye meets Chip's, his gaze apologetic. Chip swallows his fear. "Daddy?" he whispers, his voice cracking. Plankton's eye flutters open, the panic gone, replaced by a fatigue that seems to weigh down his very soul. "I'm okay," he manages, his voice a rasp. "Just tired." Chip nods, his hand tentatively reaching out to touch his dad's arm. The contact is tentative, a question and a comfort all in one. Plankton's antennas twitch again, but this time it's with the beginnings of a smile. "Thanks, buddy," he says, his voice hoarse. The room is a cocoon of silence, the air thick with unspoken words. Plankton swallows hard, the weight of his own emotions pressing down on his chest like a leaden blanket. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his gaze never leaving Chip's. Chip's eyes are pools of concern, the question in his eyes unspoken but potent. "For what?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. Plankton's antennas droop slightly, his eye reflecting the shame he feels. "For scaring you," he says, his voice hoarse. "For not being able to control it." Chip's hand tightens around his dad's arm, his eyes brimming with tears he's too proud to shed. "It's okay, Daddy," he says, the words a soft whisper. "You don't have to be sorry." Plankton's smile is weak, his antennas still. "I know," he replies, his voice a whisper. "But it's hard not to be." He swallows, his throat dry from the battle his body has just endured. Karen returns with a glass of water, her steps silent on the soft carpet. She hands it to Plankton, who gratefully takes a sip, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. The tension in the room is a palpable entity, a third person in their silent conversation. "What happened?" Chip asks, his voice small, the question a balloon of curiosity floating in the heavy air. "It's just part of who I am," Plankton says, his voice still hoarse from his episode. He takes another sip of water, the coldness of it a stark contrast to his fevered skin. "My autism, it makes my brain work differently." Chip's hand is still on his arm, a silent offer of comfort. "But you're okay now," he says, his voice hopeful. Plankton nods, the motion almost imperceptible. "Thanks to Mom," he murmurs, his eye swiveling to Karen, who smiles at him with a mix of relief and love. "She's the reason I made it through." Chip looks at Karen with a newfound respect, his young mind trying to comprehend the gravity of what he's just witnessed. "You're both strong," he says, his voice steady, the fear momentarily pushed aside by admiration. Karen's smile is a soft glow, the pride in her eyes unmistakable. "We all have our moments," she says, her hand resting on Plankton's shoulder. "It's how we face them that makes us who we are." She glances at the clock, the ticking a reminder of the time they've lost to the sensory storm. "Why don't you go play for a bit, Chip? Your dad needs some rest, and I think we could all use a moment to process." Chip nods, his eyes still filled with unspoken questions. But he trusts his mom, and he can see the exhaustion etched into Plankton's face. He slides off the bed, his feet silent on the floor. With one last look at his dad, he heads for the door, the weight of the moment heavy on his shoulders. Karen watches him go, her heart aching for the fear he must be feeling. But she knows that with time and patience, he'll understand. He'll grow to see his dad not as a mystery to be solved, but as a person to be loved and supported, just like anyone else.

GREAT CHIP xi (Autistic author) After a moment, she turned and walked towards the workshop door, her steps slow and deliberate. She paused, her hand on the doorknob, looking back at Chip with a mixture of pain and resolve. "I'll check on your father," she said, her voice a whisper. "You... you clean up here." Chip nodded, his eyes never leaving his mother's. He knew she was hurting too, but she was putting on a brave face for him. As she disappeared into the workshop, his heart felt like it was in a vice. He'd never seen his parents like this before. The kitchen was a mess of shattered dishes and splattered jelly, a stark contrast to the usually pristine space. He took a deep breath and began to collect the broken pieces, his mind racing with thoughts of his father's pain. Karen's footsteps were quiet as she approached the workshop, the door slightly ajar. She could hear Plankton's muffled sobs from inside, his tiny body hunched over his workbench. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she might find. The room was a whirlwind of half-finished inventions, wires and gadgets scattered about. Her heart broke at the sight of her husband, the usually stoic and resourceful Plankton, reduced to a tiny, shaking figure, his antennae drooped like the wilted leaves of a forgotten houseplant. "Plankton?" Karen's voice was a soft whisper, cutting through the quiet. He didn't look up, his sobs the only sound in the cluttered room. Slowly, she approached, her eyes taking in the chaos around them. "Honey," she began, her voice trembling. "I know you're upset, but..." Plankton's sobs grew louder, his body shaking with the force of his emotions. Karen reached out, her hand hovering over his shoulder, uncertain whether to touch him. Finally, she decided that in this moment, space was what he needed most. She stood there, a silent sentinel, her presence a gentle reminder that she was there for him. "Plankton," she said softly, her voice a balm in the storm of his rage. "Can I get you anything?" Plankton's sobs grew quieter, his tiny frame heaving with the weight of his emotions. "No," he said, his voice muffled. Karen took a step closer, her hand still hovering. "Do you want me to stay?" she asked, her tone gentle. Plankton's antennae twitched, his head nodding slightly. It was the barest of movements, but it spoke volumes to Karen. She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, careful not to press too hard. He stiffened at first, but then, ever so slightly, leaned into her. Her embrace was gentle, her touch like a soft breeze, offering comfort without smothering his pain. "I always love you." The words hung in the air, their quiet strength a stark contrast to the chaos of the kitchen. Plankton felt his body begin to relax, his sobs easing as Karen's warmth seeped in. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his antennae drooping. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "I didn't mean to... I don't know..." Karen's grip tightened, her hand sliding up to cradle his head. "It's okay," she soothed, her voice a gentle lullaby. Plankton's antennae twitched nervously against her, but he didn't pull away. He knew she was there for him, even when his own mind was a tempest of confusion. "You don't have to apologize," Karen whispered. Her words were a balm to Plankton's raw nerves, and he leaned into her embrace. She knew he was sensitive post-episode, his emotions like a tightly wound spring, ready to snap. Her heart ached for him, for the fear and frustration he felt in those moments. Karen's eyes scanned the room, noticing the chaos of Plankton's workshop, his mind's refuge. Usually, the disarray was organized, each gear and wire in its place. Now, it was as though a tornado had swept through, leaving a trail of half-finished inventions in its wake. Plankton's sobs grew quieter, his body still tense under her touch. "I just... I don't want you to look at me and see something broken and unlovable.." Karen's eyes filled with tears. "You are you, and that is all I've ever loved." The words hung in the air, a gentle rebuttal to the harshness of the earlier scene. Plankton's sobs grew quieter, his breathing evening out. Chip hovered at the entrance, his heart a tumultuous sea of regret and fear. He'd hurt his father, and he didn't know how to fix it. He took a tentative step into the workshop, his eyes scanning the room. The mess was a stark reminder of the turmoil Plankton was feeling, and it only served to amplify Chip's own guilt. He watched his mother's careful movements, her gentle touch, and he desperately wanted to do the same.

We only have one shot at life, make it count. Here are some bible verses about loving your enemies. Follow the word of god :) * Matthew 5:44: "Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you"
 || * Luke 6:27-28: "But I say to you: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you || Please stop this drama, it is not of god. Drink water, eat food, prioritize your mental health, and have a great day everyone ✝️🙏🏻❤️

GREAT CHIP xiv (Autistic author) "I know it's hard, but I need you to understand that. Sometimes, I may not seem okay, but that's because it's all too much," Plankton explained, his voice a soft rumble. "But you know what?" His antennae twitched slightly, a glimmer of humor in his eye. "Sometimes, I make jokes about it." Chip's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He'd never heard his father joke about his condition before. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice tentative. Plankton's antennae twitched with a tiny smirk. "Well, when other people do it, it feels like they're laughing at me, not with me," he said, his voice a fragile thread of self-awareness. "But when I make jokes, it's like I'm the one in control of the narrative. It's my way of saying, 'I know I'm different, and that's okay.'" Chip nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes. "So it's about self-acceptance?" he ventured. Plankton's antennae bobbed slightly. "Exactly," he said, his voice a little stronger. "Only I can decide how I want to be seen, how my condition is talked about. And I'd rather have other people respect me by making sure I'm comfortable than by just simply disregarding it." Chip nodded, his eyes shining with newfound respect for his father's strength. "I'll try to understand, Dad," he promised, his voice earnest. "And I'll just... I'll just be more careful." Plankton's antennae twitched slightly, his gaze meeting Chip's with a melding of sadness and gratitude. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the fan's hum. The silence in the room was no longer oppressive but filled with a newfound understanding, a gentle peace that seemed to soothe the jagged edges of their recent conflict. Plankton's antennae stopped twitching, his body relaxing into the embrace of the plush blanket. "I just want to rest," he whispered, his voice a soft echo in the stillness. "Could you... could you just stay here? Until I fall asleep?" Chip nodded, his heart swelling with love and regret. He sat there, his body tense with the need to do more, but he knew that sometimes, the most important thing was just to be present. He watched as Plankton's breathing grew steadier, the shadows on the ceiling dancing to the rhythm of the fan's soft hum. His father's antennae lay still against his forehead, no longer a testament to his agitation but a symbol of his peaceful slumber. The room was a sanctuary of silence, the only sound the soft whisper of the comforter as Plankton moved slightly under its weight. Chip felt a mix of emotions—fear, guilt, love—but above all, a renewed determination to be there for his father, to learn and grow with him. He sat, his eyes never leaving Plankton's serene face, as the minutes ticked by. The darkness outside the window grew thicker, the moon casting a gentle glow into the room, painting the walls with silver light. The quiet was a comfort now, a balm to their frazzled spirits. Karen's footsteps were a soft whisper on the floorboards as she padded in, her eyes assessing the situation with a practiced gaze. "How's he doing?" she asked, her voice a gentle caress in the silence. "Better," Chip murmured, his eyes still on his father. "He's asleep." Karen nodded, her expression a mixture of relief and concern. "Why don't you get some rest too?" she suggested, her hand on Chip's shoulder. Chip hesitated, his gaze flickering from Plankton to his mother. "But what if he wakes up?" he asked, his voice a tentative whisper. Karen's eyes softened, understanding the fear that gripped him. "I'll stay," she assured. "You need to rest, too." Chip nodded, his body sagging with exhaustion. He leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to Plankton's forehead, his antennae tickling him. "Love you, Dad," he murmured, his voice a whisper in the stillness. Karen's hand squeezed his shoulder. "I'll wake you if he needs you," she promised, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. With a nod, Chip reluctantly stood, his legs wobbly from the adrenaline rush. He turned to leave, his gaze lingering on Plankton's still form, before finally exiting the room. The hallway was a stark contrast to the warm cocoon of Plankton's bedroom, the cold air a slap to his cheeks. He took a deep breath, his heart heavy with the weight of his father's words. In his own room, Chip lay on his bed, his eyes staring at the ceiling. The quiet was deafening, his thoughts racing like a thousand fish in a net. He replayed the day's events, each moment a sharp sting in the ocean of his mind. The look on his father's face when he'd tried to hug him, the sound of the lamp shattering, the harshness of his own voice. Chip's thoughts swirled like a tornado of regret. He'd never understood the depth of Plankton's condition, the daily battles he faced. He'd always seen his father's quirks as just that—quirks. But now, the reality was stark and unyielding. Plankton's autism was more than just a part of him; it was his reality, his truth, and Chip had been careless with it. With a heavy sigh, Chip climbed into bed, his mind racing. He wished he could take back the moments that had caused pain, to rewind the clock and start again. But life didn't work that way. The house was eerily quiet, the normally bustling undersea abode now a testament to the gravity of the evening's events. Chip couldn't shake the image of his father, frozen and vulnerable, his antennae drooping like deflated party balloons. The next day dawned, a soft glow seeping into the room. Chip's eyes snapped open, his heart racing as he remembered the previous night. He threw off the covers and tiptoed to his father's room, his bare feet slapping against the cold tile floor. Karen was already there, sitting on the edge of the bed, her hand on Plankton's shoulder. The soft light of morning painted the scene in gentle hues, a stark contrast to the shadows of the night before. "How's he doing?" Chip asked, his voice hoarse. "Better," Karen whispered, her smile a beacon in the early light. "He's still sleeping." The relief on Chip's face was palpable as he approached the bed. Plankton's antennae twitched slightly, a sign of his dreams. Chip's heart skipped a beat at the sight, a silent promise to do better, to be more understanding. "He's been sleeping peacefully," Karen assured, her voice a gentle wave lapping against the shore. "I'll make us some breakfast." Her footsteps receded, leaving Chip alone with his sleeping father. Plankton's antennae twitched in his sleep, and Chip felt a wave of guilt crash over him. He carefully sat on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering over the blanket. He wanted to touch, to reassure, but his earlier misstep was still fresh in his mind. Instead, he simply watched, his eyes tracing the outline of Plankton's form beneath the fabric. The smell of pancakes began to waft up from the kitchen, a comforting scent that seemed to soothe the tension in the room. Chip took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweet aroma. He knew today would be a new beginning, a chance to mend the fragile threads of their bond. As Karen's footsteps retreated, the silence grew heavier, pressing against the walls like the water outside their windows. Chip's heart beat a staccato rhythm. He reached out slowly, his hand hovering over Plankton's hand. For a moment, he didn't move, just breathed, feeling the weight of his father's slumber. Then, with a careful, almost reverent touch, he covered Plankton's hand with his own. The warmth of his father's skin was a comfort, a reminder that despite the turbulent waters they'd navigated the night before, they were still connected. Plankton's antennae twitched in his sleep, and Chip held his breath, fearful that he'd woken him. But his father's eye remained closed, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The silence stretched, a testament to their newfound understanding. Chip felt a swell of emotion, a mix of love and regret. He didn't want to let go, but he knew he had to allow Plankton his space, his privacy. So he gently lifted his hand, placing it in his lap, the memory of their shared warmth lingering like a warm embrace. He took a deep breath, his chest tight with the weight of his resolve. He would be there for his father, no matter what. He would learn about his condition, listen to his needs, and support him without smothering him. It was a delicate balance, one that Chip knew he might not always get right, but he was determined to try.

♿️🌈

💙 Most kids with ASD are either hypersensitive or hyposensitive to stimuli like noises, lights, touch, etc. If someone has Autism and/or PTSD, he/she may be more prone to sensory overload and startle more easily. That means there’s not much information about how typical treatment methods can or should be adjusted for patients with ASD. According to this article, a nurse could… Offer home-based services Use more visual aids, such as gradient scales to describe degrees of emotion Keep appointment times regular and predictable as much as possible Provide sensory toys or allow children to bring their own Emphasize the possibility of a “happy ending” after trauma―​“this correlates well with the documented effectiveness of social stories, narratives and role-playing in therapy involving individuals with ASD” Be mindful of how often society dismisses the emotions of autistic people Involve other trusted caregivers …and more. Essentially, the therapist should keep the child’s unique strengths and limitations in mind at each step and be open to flexibility. Remember to… Not take behavior personally Be willing to listen without pressuring him/her to talk Identify possible triggers and help him/her avoid them Remain calm and understanding when he/she is emotional Let him/her make age-appropriate choices so he/she feels in control of his/her life Be patient 💙

😷 Before beginning trauma-focused therapy it is important to stabilise the individual with emotional coping strategies and creating feelings of safety. Support strategies that have been found to be helpful in the general population include: mindfulness and grounding in the present moment creating feelings of safety (for example an object/picture that symbolises safety) sensory soothing Autistic people may require: a greater number of sessions a longer or shorter duration to each session regular breaks. 😷

😷 Treatments should be appropriately adapted for autistic people and their individual needs. (Rumball et al. 2020) and Kerns et al. (2022) suggest a number of other events that autistic people found traumatic: abandonment by/loss of a loved one (for example a family member, pet or support staff) sensory experiences (for example fire alarms) transitions and change (for example school transitions, routine changes with the seasons, unpredictability in day to day life) social difficulties and confusion (for example difficulties interpreting social cues, misunderstandings and conflicts) events related to one’s own mental health difficulties (for example psychotic experiences). Autistic people may also be more likely to find these experiences traumatic due to autistic characteristics such as: sensory sensitivities communication and social interaction differences distress around changes to routines distress if prevented from taking part in repetitive and restricted behaviours such as stimming. Some theories suggest that other factors associated with being autistic, may mean an increased risk of developing or maintaining PTSD symptoms But just because symptoms aren’t crippling doesn’t mean you're not affected. 😷

😷 https://about.kaiserpermanente.org/health-and-wellness/our-care/exploring-the-promise-of-at-home-cervical-cancer-screening 😷

Why autistic people are like cats: - We are highly sensitive. - We don't like loud or sudden noises. - We are easily spooked and startled. - Especially because we are zoning out, like, all the time. - We love to be held and touched and petted and cuddled bUT ONLY IF IT WAS OUR IDEA! - We're picky eaters. - Easily distracted. - Solitary creatures. - Takes us a while to warm up to people and be comfortable around them. - Our idea of being "social" is just hanging around the vicinity or in the same room as other people but not necessarily interacting with them. - We are finicky, particular, meticulous creatures of habit and we have a comfort zone we will defend with our lives. - If we deem you worthy, you will be allowed into our comfort zone. - Gaining our love and trust is super rewarding because it is not easily done. Be flattered. - If you touch us unexpectedly we will flinch or jump. - We are awesome predators and get super intense about stuff one nickname for the ADHD gene is "the hunter gene") - We are cute and lovable and have a lot of personality. - Many autistic children love to feel enclosed and secure and so love secret hiding places and cubby holes (i.e., "if I fits, I sits") - We sometimes appear to freak out at nothing and scamper away for no reason but really it's because we can hear things you can't and some sounds bother us. - Because we have such hyper-sensitive senses, any snuggles you give us will be a million times more rewarding for you because you'll know and appreciate just how intensely we're enjoying them. - Please give us food or we will boop your nose in your sleep.

😷 https://neurodivergentinsights.com/misdiagnosis-monday/ptsd-and-autism 😷

💙 https://neurodivergentinsights.com/misdiagnosis-monday/ptsd-and-autism 💙

"disabilities aren't aesthetic" Yes, but you don't need to say this under the posts of disabled people showing off cute mobility aids, decorated med organisers, a cute bed set up, the art piece that represents their disabilities, etc. Whether theyre your fellow disabled folk or especially so if you're able-bodied/neurotypical, allow disabled people freedom of expression and the little joys they can. People cope with their disabilites in diverse ways, and sometimes that means you will see a disabled person romanticizing their life, or making their aids aesthetic. Someone existing and expressing themselves, making their lives more comfortable and enjoyable, should not be seen as ”glorifying” anything. I’m not telling anyone to go make themselves disabled, nobody should take their health for granted.

Info tips for practitioners w/ autism and/or sensitivities First, thank you for caring. Not trying to question your expertise in health. Now, Autism is a spectrum. It’s not something one can turn off. It’s not a choice. Most of us are not trying to be demanding. If any thing, we’re afraid of being seen as childish, picky, high maintenance, bossy, rude, etc. We can easily get overwhelmed. We want to compromise with you. If we ask for another nurse to do something or if we know we cannot handle a procedure without certain accommodations, it’s not personally attacking against you. You have the power to provide the care and provide us any options; individuals know their own personal tolerance and needs. We do not ever want to start arguments. We do not want to inconvenience you over something, as we do not feel entitled. Having sensitivities not by choice, as it is more than inconvenience but also painful. We always feel when you do your best. We’re both human, autistic or not. It is not a choice.

|￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣| | I love my friends a lot, | | I just suck at talking | | to them regularly | |＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿| (\__/) || (•ㅅ•) || / 　 づ

ℑ𝔪 𝔧𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔟𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔶 𝔞𝔲𝔱𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔠 𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣. 💀

Hi, friends! I like emojicombos.com because it’s easy for me to use, being public domain. I also like to express myself through writing, as an author with Autism. So thank you Emoji combos and keep it up!

For Employers w/ disabled workers If a person who has a disability wants to work they might have difficulty getting jobs. There are different types of disabilities to varying degrees. First, inform them the expectations of the job. Make sure they know how to do the job as you train. Give warnings (and explain why behind the warning) before resorting to termination, as some people might not under stand what they did wrong. Even if the disability is confidential, explain to coworkers not to give the employee a hard time, without divulging. Don’t touch the employee or their belongings (including any mobility aids) without asking them first. Allow the employee extra time if necessary so as to not overwhelm them. Monitor the surroundings to make sure no harassment takes place, possible barriers to accessibility, etc. Try not to get frustrated if they do something differently than what others might do, such as note reminders, etc.

What’s disabilities? Being disabled can have various meanings. Physical disabilities are usually more visible. Even so, it might not be readily apparent. One individual can have more than one disability. But it’s not by choice, even in an elective amputation, mental disorders, ptsd vía warfare, etc. Some disabilities are more invisible, if internal or having to do with mentality. No matter what disability, it’s important to not have unreachable standards whilst at the same time not be patronising. Some disabilities are from congenital, meaning they were born with it or had their whole life. Some disabilities are acquired later in life such as an external injury they got.

💉 https://news.vanderbilt.edu/2011/09/21/bloodwork-toolkit/ 💉

😷 https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/autism-and-anxiety/201904/medical-visits-and-autism-better-way 😷

😷 https://www.findatopdoc.com/Parenting/When-a-Child-with-Autism-Refuses-Treatment 😷

💙 An Autism Specific Care Plan helps families give hospital staff important information. It tells them how to communicate and interact with the child and keep them safe. Families who use Autism Specific Care Plans feel happier with their care and feel that health care providers are better at working with their child or teen with autism. Hospitals and emergency rooms can also think about making changes to help patients with autism. Small changes can all help lower anxiety for kids and adults with autism. Some of these changes include keeping wait times short, creating a calm space, and playing a movie in the waiting area. Making sure parents are part of all medical care and treated as experts on their child can help both families and staff. Finally, hospital staff can try communicating in the way the patient prefers (talking vs. typing, etc.). 💙

JUST A TOUCH ix (Autistic author) Plankton's antennae quiver with frustration. "It's about the order," he repeats, his voice strained. "Everything needs order." Squidward sighs, his tentacles flapping in exasperation. "Look, I don't know what's gotten into you, but we need to get these dishes done, and we can't do that if you're going to micromanage every single one!" Plankton's antennae droop. "Needs thorough..." Squidward throws his tentacles up in the air. "I don't care about your 'thoroughness' right now!" he exclaims. "Just let me do my job!" Plankton's antennae flatten. "No!" he shouts, his voice echoing off the stainless steel walls. Squidward turns, his tentacles poised for a fight. "What is your problem?" he snaps. Plankton's eye darts around, his heart racing. He can't explain the sudden urgency, the need for order that's consuming him. The need to be perfectly cleansed without blemish. "It's just... it's just..." Plankton stammers, his antennae drooping. Squidward's eyes narrow, his tentacles still. "What's the matter with you?" he asks, his voice edged with irritation. Plankton swallows, his throat tight. "Needs good.." But before he can say more, his gaze locks onto a speck of dirt on a plate. The world around him fades away as he reaches for it, his movements slow and deliberate. Squidward watches him, his expression a mix of confusion and annoyance. "What is that?" he asks, his tone sharp. Plankton's antennae twitch, his eye focusing on the speck. "Dirt," he whispers, his voice laced with distress. "Has to be gone." His hand shakes as he reaches for the plate, his mind consumed by the need to remove the imperfection. Squidward snatches the plate, his tentacles firm. "It's just a tiny speck!" he says, his voice loud. Plankton's antennae shoot up, his body stiffening. "Can't have dirt," he murmurs. The room seems to close in, his heart hammering in his chest. The need for order, for everything to be just so, is a wave crushing down on him. Squidward's face swims in his vision, a blur of impatience. "Squidward," he says, his voice steadying. "It's dirty." Squidward's grip on the plate doesn't waver. "It's not dirty," he says, his tone firm. "It's a tiny speck." But to Plankton, that speck is a boulder, a symbol of the chaos he can't control. His antennas quiver as he stares at the offending spot, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. The world narrows to just the dish, the speck, and the overwhelming need to erase it. Squidward reaches out a tentacle, to move him aside, reaching to touch Plankton's shoulder. But before he can make contact, Plankton flinches, his eye snapping up to meet Squidward's. "Don't," he says, his voice sharp. "No touch." "Then move so I can mix the dishes.." The words hit Plankton like a wave, sending him spiraling. He can't explain it, but the thought of Squidward's tentacle touching him sends a shiver down his spine. But the only alternative is to result in disordered dishes! Squidward's grip on the plate doesn't change, his tentacle poised to push Plankton aside. "Please," Plankton whispers, his voice trembling. "No..." SpongeBob watches from a distance, his smile fading. He's noticed the changes in Plankton, the way his movements have become so precise, his speech so formal. But he doesn't know what to say, what to do. Squidward's tentacle hovers, his gaze flicking from the plate to Plankton's face. "I'm in charge, not you!" He says shoving Plankton as he mixes the dishes. That's it. The room spins around Plankton, his vision blurring with the sudden assault. The clatter of plates, the smell of grease, the touch of Squidward's tentacle— it's too much. His body reacts before his brain can catch up, the partygoers' laughter a distant echo in Plankton's ringing ears. "Plankton?" Squidward asks, his voice a distant rumble as SpongeBob comes in. Plankton's vaguely aware of his surroundings, but it's all just white noise, his gaze going blank as the absence seizure starts up.

GREAT CHIP ix (Autistic author) Chip took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. "I know I can't fix you, Dad," he said, his voice shaking. Plankton's antennae stopped moving, his eye focusing on Chip with an intensity that made him feel like he was being x-rayed. "You can't," he said, his voice firm. "But you can support me. You can be there without trying to change me." Chip nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Okay," he managed to say. "But I want to understand. I want to be here for you." Plankton's antennae twitched, his eye narrowing slightly. "Understand?" he echoed, his tone laced with sarcasm. "Sure, it's easy. Just imagine your brain's a pinball machine on tilt. Sounds fun, right?" Chip felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth despite the tension, which only adds to Plankton's anger. "Well, when you put it that way..." Plankton's antennae stilled, his eye squinting at his son's response. "What?" he barked, his voice sharp. Chip tried to hold onto his smile, his heart racing. "I mean, if it's like a pinball machine, I can learn the patterns," he said, his tone carefully light. "I'm pretty good at video games, so..." Plankton's antennae waved wildly, his eye flashing with anger. "You think this is a game?" he shouted, his voice filling the room. "You think I enjoy being out of control? WELL THEN PERHAPS YOU CAN EXPLAIN THE FUN OF FORGETTING WHERE I AM FOR THE UMPTEENTH TIME!" Chip's smile dropped, his eyes wide with shock at his father's outburst. He took a step back, his hands up in a gesture of peace. "I'm sorry," he said quickly, his voice trembling. "I didn't mean to make a joke of it, I just..." "You just what?" Plankton spat, his small body vibrating with rage. "You just don't get it! You can't get it! You're not autistic, you don't know what it's like to have your brain turn on you like that!" Chip's eyes filled with tears, his heart breaking at the accusation. "I know, Dad," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I'm trying." Plankton's antennae quivered with the force of his rage. "You don't know," he said, his voice cold. "You can't know. All I see is a little child playing pretend, thinking he can understand what I go through! And yet you're the one asking for help! Face it, you're never going to get it and so don't expect ME to explain it to you!" Chip's eyes watered, the words hitting like a sledgehammer. He had never seen his father so furious, so unyielding. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice shaking. "I just want to help." Plankton's antennae stopped their wild movements, his eye focusing on his son with a cold, calculating gaze. "Help?" he repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You want to help by poking fun at my condition?" Chip's eyes searched his father's, his heart racing. "Dad, I didn't mean it like that," he said, his voice trembling. "I just wanted to lighten the mood." Plankton's antennae waved, his eye still cold and distant. "Don't," he said, his voice like ice. "Don't try to lighten it. And don't you DARE make fun of it." Chip's eyes fell to the floor, his heart aching with the weight of his father's anger. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I di-" "You're sorry?" Plankton's voice was a whip crack in the silence. "Sorry doesn't cut it!" He slammed his fist on the table, causing their plates to rattle. "You think an apology is enough when you belittle what I go through?" Chip's eyes widened with fear as his dad's anger grew. He'd never seen Plankton like this before, his tiny body trembling with rage, his antennae thrashing like live wires. The kitchen felt suffocatingly small, the walls closing in. "Dad, please," Chip begged, his voice shaking. "I didn't mean it that way." But Plankton was beyond listening, his tiny body vibrating with fury. "You don't get to make jokes about this!" he roared, his antennae whipping about like agitated snakes. "You don't get to reduce it to a game you can win with a simple joke!" Chip took another step back, his heart pounding in his chest. He had never seen his father this enraged, and it scared him. "Dad, I-" he began, but Plankton's tirade didn't stop. "You think it's funny?" Plankton shouted, his antennae a blur of motion. "You think it's fun to live with this?" His voice grew louder, his words sharper. "You think it's easy to lighten up at the drop of a hat?" Chip's eyes filled with tears as his father's anger grew, his voice crackling like static. He hadn't meant to make light of his dad's condition, but now it seemed as if he'd made everything worse. "I'm sorry," he choked out, his hands shaking. Plankton's antennae whipped around his head, his eye bulging. "Sorry won't make it go away!" he screamed, his voice bouncing off the walls. "You think you can make it better with a laugh?" He slammed his fist down again, the sound like a gunshot. "It's not a joke, Chip!" Chip's eyes filled with tears as he watched his father's outburst, his heart pounding. He had never seen Plankton like this, his anger a living, breathing thing that filled the room like a toxic cloud. "I know," he whispered, his voice shaking. "But I want to help." Plankton's antennae thrashed wildly, his body shaking with the force of his emotions. "Help?" he spat, his voice a whip. "You want to help? Then stop making it about you!" Chip's eyes grew wide with fear as he watched his father's anger boil over, his voice shaking. "Dad, please," he whispered, his heart racing. Plankton's antennae thrashed wildly, his body vibrating with uncontrollable rage. Suddenly, he grabbed the coffee mug from the table, flinging it across the room where it shattered against the wall. Shards of ceramic flew everywhere, puncturing the silence like shrapnel. "Dad, no!" Chip yelled, his heart racing faster than it ever had before. He had never seen Plankton this out of control. And Karen knew she had to act fast. Her voice was calm but firm as she approached Plankton. "Sweetie, it's okay," she said, her hands up in a non-threatening gesture. "Let's go to your workshop. You know that's your safe space." Plankton's antennae thrashed, his eye darting around the room, seeking anything to target his anger. "I don't want to go anywhere!" he roared, his body shaking with the intensity of his emotions. "It's not okay!" Karen stepped closer, her voice steady. "It's okay to be upset," she said, her eyes never leaving his. "But Chip..." But Plankton's rage was unstoppable. He lunged for the nearest object, a framed photo of Chip, his grip tightening as he raised it over his head, ready to smash it against the floor. Karen's eyes widened, her heart pounding in her chest. She had to defuse the situation before it got any worse. "Plankton, no," she pleaded, her voice steady. "Please, don't." But Plankton's rage had taken over, his body moving on autopilot as he swung the photo frame with all his might. It crashed to the floor, the shattering glass echoing in the small room. Chip's eyes grew round with shock, his body frozen in place as he watched his father's tantrum unfold. "Dad, please stop!" he shouted, his voice cracking with fear. "You're scaring me!" But Plankton's rage was a runaway train, his antennae quivering with the intensity of his anger. He stomped over to the counter, grabbing a plate and flinging it against the wall, where it shattered into a hundred tiny pieces. The sound was deafening, the force of the impact sending a shiver down Chip's spine. Karen stepped in front of Chip, placing herself between him and the storm of Plankton's fury. "Stop," she said firmly, her voice a calm oasis in the chaos. "You're scaring him." Plankton's antennae stilled, his eye focusing on Karen with a mix of anger and confusion. For a moment, his body seemed to pause, his arm still mid-air, a kitchen towel gripped tightly in his hand. Then, with a roar, he threw it, the soft fabric landing limply on the floor. Karen's eyes searched her husband's, seeing the turmoil behind the rage. "Please, Plankton," she said, her voice soothing. "Let's talk about this." But Plankton's anger was like a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. He picked up another mug, his arm winding up to throw it, when Chip suddenly stepped forward, his eyes locked on his father's. "Dad," he said, his voice shaking. "Please don't." Plankton's antennae paused, his arm still raised. "WHY?" he growled, his eye wild with anger. "You think you can just tell me what to do?" And then, with a sickly twisted satisfaction, Plankton hurled the mug in front of Chip, purposefully missing him. The room seemed to hold its breath as the mug spun through the air, the shattering of porcelain on the tile floor a symphony of pain. "Dad," Chip said, his voice shaking. "It's not about control. It's about us. Our fam..." But Plankton was beyond words, his rage a living entity that consumed him. He grabbed a toaster, his grip white-knuckled, and hurled it at the fridge, the metallic clang a cacophony in the small kitchen. "I DON'T NEED YOUR SYMPATHY!" he bellowed, his antennae a blur.

CHIP AND FAIL ix (Autistic author) Chip stared at his dad, his mind racing. He had always known his dad was different, but he had never understood why. Now, as he watched the man he idolized quivering with overstimulation, he couldn't help but feel a deep sadness and anger. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, his voice tight. Plankton's antennae shot up, his face contorting with a sudden surge of anger. "ENOUGH!" he roared, the sound exploding from his chest like a bomb, his antennae quivering with each syllable. "Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?" Chip recoiled, his eyes wide with shock. He had never heard his dad so angry before, never seen him so out of control. "Dad, I'm sorry," he stammered, his voice thick with unshed tears. "You're sorry?" Plankton spat, his antennae vibrating with rage. "You don't get it, Chip. You never will." His voice was a storm, his words cutting through the tension in the room. "You think I don't want to hear your stories? You think I don't want to be a part of your life?" His body trembled with the force of his emotions, his eye blazing with pain. Chip took a step back, his hands up in defense. "Dad, no, I..." But Plankton was a tornado, his anger a living thing in the room. "You think I don't want to connect with you?" he shouted, his antennas whipping around. "You think I don't love you?" His voice broke, his body shaking with the effort of holding back his tears. Chip stared at his dad, his eyes like saucers. "But Dad, you always push me away," he protested, his voice tiny in the face of Plankton's fury. "You never want me to touch you or..." "You just let me explain!" Plankton shouted, cutting him off. His antennae were a blur with the force of his emotions, his eye flashing. "You always keep pushing and pushing, and it's too much!" His words were a volley of thunder, each one striking Chip like a physical blow. Chip took a step back, his eyes filling with tears. "But Dad, I just want to be close to you," he choked out, his voice a mere wisp. "I don't understand why you can't..." "Because you don't listen!" Plankton's voice was a whip, slicing through the air. "You don't see the storm in my head, the way every touch feels like a storm, every sound a siren!" His antennae quivered with rage, his body tense. "You think it's easy for me? That I don't want to be there for you?" Chip took another step back, his hands up in defense. "I didn't know," he whispered, his eyes brimming with tears. "I just wanted to tell you about my week." He says reaching out with a trembling hand, but Plankton's swatting Chip's hand away. "Don't. Touch. Me!" Plankton roared, his body trembling with rage. "Can't you see that?" His voice was a knife, sharp and unforgiving. "And don't you DARE say you're better off without me!" His eye blazed with a fierce protectiveness that Chip had never seen before. Chip's hand hovered in the air, his fingers curling into a fist. "But Dad," he choked out, his voice thick with unshed tears, "I just want to be close to you." He took a step closer... "NO!" Plankton shouted, his antennae snapping like whips. "You don't get to invade my space like that!" His body was a live wire, his anger a force field that repelled Chip's reaching hand. "You think it's funny?" His voice was a maelstrom of pain and fury. Chip's eyes filled with tears, his hand dropping to his side. "I just wanted to help," he murmured, his voice tiny in the face of his father's storm.

A JOURNEY TO AUTISM ix (Autistic author) The silence in the room was suffocating, the echo of Mr. Krabs' footsteps the only sound as he retreated to his home, his heart feeling heavier than his treasure chest. Sponge Bob's heart torn between pity and frustration. He looked at Plankton, his friend's gaze still locked on the chessboard, his body a portrait of rejection. "Plankton," he whispered, his voice full of pain. But Plankton didn't move, his antennas twitching slightly. Sponge Bob felt a lump form in his throat, his eyes brimming with tears. He didn't know what to do, what to say, to make things right. He glanced at Karen, her lights dimming slightly with sadness. "I'll leave you two to talk." With a nod to Sponge Bob, she left the room, leaving them alone in the stifling silence. Sponge Bob approached Plankton cautiously, his heart pounding. "What can I do?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. Plankton's antennas twitched slightly, but he didn't look up. "Nothing," he murmured, his voice flat. "Cannot change." Sponge Bob's eyes welled with tears. "I mean right now, I can do what you want me to," he pleaded. "You're my best friend, Plankton." Plankton's antennas lifted, his single eye meeting Sponge Bob's gaze. "We can talk, we can play a game, we can watch some thing..." Plankton's antennas remained still, his expression unreadable. "Watch," he said finally, his voice devoid of enthusiasm. Sponge Bob nodded, his heart heavy with disappointment. He knew his friend needed space, and he would give it to him. The screen flickered to life. Sponge Bob felt a pang of despair, his hand hovering over the remote. "Is this okay?" he asked, his voice trembling. Plankton nodded, his gaze unfocused. "Okay," he murmured. Sponge Bob selected a nature documentary, knowing Plankton. They sat in silence as the soothing sounds of the ocean filled the room, the TV's blue light washing over them. Plankton's body relaxed slightly, his antennas still as he watched. Sponge Bob felt a tiny spark of hope when Plankton scoots up next to him. The documentary played on, the narrator's soothing voice detailing the lives of jellyfish. Sponge Bob watched Plankton from the corner of his eye, his heart aching at the sight of his friend's vacant gaze. He reached over and gently placed his hand on Plankton's shoulder, his touch tentative. Plankton didn't flinch, his eye never leaving the screen. Sponge Bob swallowed the lump in his throat and whispered, "I'm here for you." Plankton's antenna twitched slightly, a barely perceptible acknowledgment. The silence stretched on, the only sound the rhythmic pulse of the jellyfish through the speakers. Sponge Bob's hand remained on Plankton's shoulder, his thumb making small, comforting circles. As the documentary droned on, Plankton's antennas gradually lost their rigidity, drooping slightly with each passing moment. The rhythmic pulse of the jellyfish on the screen seemed to lull him into a state of quiet contemplation. His gaze grew unfocused, his eyelid fluttered once, then twice, before finally settling shut. Plankton's tiny frame relaxed into SpongeBob's side, breathing evening out. His hand remained on Plankton's shoulder, his thumb continuing to make small circles as his friend slipped into slumber. When SpongeBob turned off the tv, he noticed Plankton's head drooped to the side with a soft snore, his body gone slack. Plankton was asleep, his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. The yellow sponge felt a wave of relief wash over him as he realized that his friend had finally found some peace. He carefully scooted Plankton closer. He knew Plankton needed his rest, especially with his brain trying to adjust to this new reality. Karen came back in to see Plankton's antennas limp and Sponge Bob's hand on his shoulder. She nodded gently at the sponge, who looked up and sighed. "It's ok to let him rest. He's been through a lot." She says. Sponge Bob nods, his grip on Plankton's shoulder tightening slightly. "I know. I just want to help," he replies, his voice barely audible over Plankton's soft snores. Karen's lights flicker gently. "You are helping by being here, Sponge Bob. Just give him time and space to adjust." Sponge Bob nods, his eyes never leaving Plankton's sleeping face. "I'll do anything for him." Karen's light blips. "I know you will. But for now, let's get him to his bed." Sponge Bob nods, carefully scooping up Plankton, cradling him like a fragile shell. He carries him to the bedroom. He lays him down, tucking the blanket under his chin with extra care. Plankton's snores soften into a gentle purr, his antennas twitching slightly in his sleep. Sponge Bob pulls up a chair beside the bed, his eyes never leaving his friend's face. He feels a heavy responsibility, a desire to be there for Plankton in ways he's never had to before. As the minutes tick by, Sponge Bob begins to feel the weight of the day's events. His eyes grow heavy, his body swaying with exhaustion. Despite his resolve, he can't keep his lids open any longer. With a yawn, he collapses into the chair beside Plankton's bed, his head lolling to the side. His eyes close. Plankton opens his eye to find Sponge Bob asleep next to him. Plankton's gaze lingers on the sponge, his expression unreadable. He moves his antennas slightly, testing the boundaries of his new reality. The weight of Mr. Krabs' apology and his own words hang heavy on him. With a deep sigh, he knew that his relationship with Mr. Krabs was irrevocably changed, but he hadn't expected the sadness that accompanied the realization. He watched as Sponge Bob's chest lifted and fell in a steady rhythm, his grip on the blanket tight. A strange warmth spread through Plankton's heart, something he hadn't felt in a long time. Sponge Bob had always been his friend, even when he was at his worst. But this... This was different. This was someone sticking by him, not because they had to, but because they wanted to. The warmth grew, spreading through Plankton like a gentle current. It was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. He had felt it before, with Karen. Yet this was a different kind of warmth. This was friendship, pure and untainted by the greed that usually consumed him before... He studied Sponge Bob's peaceful face, his mind racing. This sponge, his enemy's best worker, had shown more kindness and understanding in the past few hours than anyone else in his life, other than Karen. And for what? A chance at the Krabby formula? No, for him. For Plankton. The warmth grew stronger, pushing out the coldness that usually dominated his thoughts. He felt a strange urge to reciprocate, to be... nicer. Sponge Bob stirred, his eyes fluttering open. "Plankton?" he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. Plankton's antennas lift slightly, his single eye focusing on the yellow form beside him. "Yes, Sponge Bob," he replies, his voice gentler than before. Sponge Bob sits up with a start. "How long have you been up?" he asks, his eyes searching Plankton's face for any sign of pain or distress. Plankton's antennas twitch slightly. "Not long," he murmurs, his gaze lingering on Sponge Bob. Sponge Bob's expression is a mixture of relief and concern. "Do you want to talk?" he asks, his voice gentle. Plankton's antennas wave slightly, a tiny nod of his head. "Talk," he echoes, his voice soft. Sponge Bob takes a deep breath, trying to form the words he desperately wants to say. "I just... I want you to know that I'm here for you, Plankton," he says, his voice shaking. Plankton's antennas wave slightly, and his eye narrows. "Here for Plankton," he echoes, his voice flat. Sponge Bob's eyes fill with tears. "Yes, Plankton," he whispers. "Always." Plankton's antennas twitch again, the word "always" echoing in his mind. "Always," he murmurs.

CHIP OFF THE OLD TALKS ix (Autistic Author) As Karen heads back to her own bed, her mind is a whirlwind of emotions. She can't help but feel a twinge of anger at the cruel hand life has dealt Plankton, making something as simple as expressing love a monumental challenge. But she quickly pushes it aside, focusing on the love she feels for her husband and the determination to help their family navigate through this. The night passes slowly, filled with restlessness and worry. When dawn breaks, Karen is already preparing breakfast, hoping that the routine might offer a semblance of normalcy. The smell of pancakes fills the house, a silent promise that today will be better. Plankton emerges from the bedroom, his antennae drooping slightly, evidence of his fatigue. He meets Karen's gaze, and she offers him a soft smile. "How are you feeling?" she asks, her voice gentle. He shrugs, his antennae twitching nervously. "Tired," he admits. "But ready to talk to Chip." Karen nods with a mix of concern and admiration. "I'll get him up," she says, heading to Chip's room. When they all gather at the breakfast table, the tension in the air is palpable. Plankton sits stiffly, his antennae barely moving, as if afraid to break the delicate silence. Chip looks between them, his eyes wide and hopeful. "Chip," Karen says gently, taking a deep breath. "Remember what we talked about last night? About Daddy's meltdowns?" Chip nods, his eyes darting to Plankton, who's pushing his pancake around with a syrupy look of dread. "Daddy?" he says, his voice tentative. Plankton's antennae twitch, and he looks up, his gaze meeting Chip's. The fear and confusion in Chip's eyes is almost too much to bear, but he steels himself. "Yes, buddy?" he asks, his voice hoarse from the previous night's outburst. "I made you this," Chip says, pushing a plate of perfectly formed pancakes towards his father. "To make you feel better." Plankton's antennae perk up slightly at the gesture, his eye focusing on the food with a hint of curiosity. "Thanks, buddy," he murmurs, his voice still thick with sleep. Chip's eyes are glued to his father, his heart pounding in anticipation of a reaction. "Do you like them?" he asks, hope blooming in his voice. Plankton nods, his antennae waving slightly. "They look delicious," he says, and there's a hint of a smile in his voice. He takes a bite, chewing slowly. The room holds its breath, waiting. "They're great," he finally says, and Chip's face lights up. The tension in the room eases ever so slightly, the sweetness of the maple syrup mingling with the salty scent of fear that still lingers. Karen watches the exchange, her heart swelling with pride for both of them. Plankton's effort to engage, despite his exhaustion, is clear. Chip, for his part, seems to understand the unspoken rules of their new reality. They're all learning together, stumbling in the dark but finding their way through the maze of neurodivergence. "Daddy," Chip says after a moment, his voice filled with courage. "I know you have meltdowns sometimes. But I still love you." Plankton's antennae droop slightly, his chewing slowing. He looks at his son, his single eye filled with a mix of emotions: love, regret, and a hint of fear. "I know, buddy," he whispers. "And I too." The room remains quiet, the only sound the soft clinking of silverware against plates. Plankton clears his throat. "Chip, I need to tell you something." Chip looks up, his eyes wide and expectant. "What is it, Daddy?" Plankton takes a deep breath, his antennae fluttering. "I have something," he says slowly. "It's like... it's like my brain works differently than yours and Mommy's." Chip's eyes never leave his dad's, nodding slightly. "Ok," he says, his voice steady. Plankton's antennae twitch, and he looks down at his plate, his voice quivering. "It's called Autism," he says. "It means that sometimes, I get really, really upset, and my body reacts in ways that might scare you." Chip's expression is a blend of confusion and curiosity. "But why do you get upset, Daddy?" he asks. Plankton's antennae wiggle as he searches for the right words. "Sometimes, things that don't bother you or Mommy can feel really, really big to me," he explains. "It's like when you're scared of a thunderstorm, and the thunder feels like it's right next to you." Chip's brow furrows, and he nods. "But you're not scared of storms, Daddy," he points out. "It's different, bud," Plankton says, his antennae stilling for a moment. "It's like... sometimes my brain gets a storm inside, and I don't know how to make it stop." Chip nods, his eyes never leaving Plankton's. "But you're ok now?" he asks, his voice small. Plankton nods, his antennae moving in a way that Karen knows means he's trying to be brave. "I'm ok," he says, his voice a little stronger. "But I might have more storms. And when I do, I might need some space." Chip looks at him seriously, his young mind working to understand. "Ok," he says, his voice a soft echo of Plankton's earlier apology. "I won't make it stormy for you, Daddy." Plankton's antennae twitch with a mix of love and relief. "Thank you," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "That means the world to me." Karen watches them, her heart swelling with hope. Maybe, just maybe, this is the start of a new understanding. "And you know," she adds, her voice gentle, "Whenever you have questions or if you're scared, you can come to me and/or Daddy, and we'll explain as best as we can." Chip nods, his gaze still focused on Plankton. "But what if I don't know when I’m irritating you?" Plankton's antennae droop, and he sighs. "That's the hard part," he admits. "Sometimes I don't know either. But we can learn together, ok?" Chip nods, his eyes still on his dad's. "Ok," he says, his voice a little shaky. Karen pours them both a glass of juice, hoping to lighten the mood. "Why don't we talk about what you can do to help?" she suggests, handing a glass to Chip. Chip takes a sip, his eyes still on Plankton. "What can I do?" he asks, his voice earnest. Plankton's antennae twitch thoughtfully. "Well," he says, "sometimes, all I need is a little space, like when I'm in the middle of a big idea." Chip nods, remembering the times when Plankton would get so focused on his latest contraption that the slightest disturbance would send him into a tizzy. "I can do that," he says, his voice filled with determination. Plankton's antennae lift slightly. "And when you do freeze, Dad," Chip continues, his voice soft, "How can I tell if you need a hug or if you just need me to sit with you?" Karen's eyes fill with pride as she watches her son's bravery. Plankton looks at Chip, his antennae moving in a way that she knows means he's trying to find the right words. "If I freeze," he says slowly, "it's ok to just be there, to wait until I come back. I might not be able to hug you right then, but I'll know you're there." Chip nods, his grip on his juice glass tightening slightly. "What about meltdowns?" he asks, his voice quivering. Plankton's antennae droop, and he takes a deep breath. "Those are harder," he admits. "But if you can give me space and maybe some quiet, it'll help me calm down faster." Chip nods solemnly, his eyes never leaving Plankton's. "I'll try," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Dad, what types of touch do you like and what types of affection do you dislike?” Plankton's antennae twitch, and he looks at Karen for a moment, unsure of how to answer. She gives him a gentle nod of encouragement. "Well," he starts, "I'm not a big fan of surprise hugs or pats on the back, especially when I'm working or thinking hard. But a hand on my shoulder or a quiet 'I love you' is always nice." Chip nods, processing the information. "So, like when you're stressed, I should just tell you I love you?" Plankton's antennae wobble with the weight of his nod. "Yes," he says. "That's right. Just remember, buddy, everyone shows love differently." Karen's eyes are filled with hope as she watches the conversation unfold. It's not perfect, but it's a start. A start to understanding and acceptance. "And if you need more than that, Daddy?" Chip asks, his voice small but earnest. Plankton looks at him, his antennae moving in a way that Karen can't quite read. "If I need more than that," he says, "I'll tell you. Or Mommy will help you understand." Chip nods, taking another sip of his juice. "Ok," he says, his voice small. "But what if I don't know what to say?" Plankton's antennae wiggle slightly, and he looks down at his plate. "That's ok, Chip," he says. "Sometimes, just sitting with me is enough."

A LIFE OF DIVERSITY ix (Autistic author) With newfound enthusiasm, Plankton began to organize the mini jellyfish in the box, his antennae quivering as he meticulously arranged them by species and size. Each figurine was carefully placed, his movements deliberate and precise. "Jellyfish... special," he murmured, his monotone voice filled with a hint of wonder. Sandy watched, her eyes shining with admiration. "You're really good at this," she said, her voice filled with warmth. "Good at jellyfish," Plankton murmured, antennae waving slightly with pride. "Plankton's special place." Sandy nodded, her tail swishing with excitement. "Yes," she said, her voice filled with encouragement. "You have a special place in the world, Plankton, and jellyfish are your thing." As Plankton continued to organize his new collection, his movements grew more animated, his antennae quivering with purpose. Each jellyfish was placed with such precision that it was as if they were living beings in a miniature ocean. His eye never left his task, his mind fully engrossed in the world of jellyfish. It was as if by organizing them, he was somehow bringing order to his own chaotic thoughts. "Plankton," Karen said softly, "I know this is a big change for you. But you know what? Maybe this is your chance to do something amazing with your life." Sandy nodded, her eyes shining. "Let's go outside." Plankton looked up from his box, his antennae twitching with excitement. "Outside?" "Yes, Plankton," Karen said, her smile warm. They made their way outside, with Plankton carrying his precious box of jellyfish figurines, his antennae quivering with excitement at the prospect of sharing his knowledge. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over Bikini Bottom as the trio strolled down the sidewalk. Their peaceful evening was abruptly interrupted when they rounded the corner to find Mr. Krabs, his eyes wide with surprise at the sight of Plankton in the company of Karen and Sandy. "What's all this?" he barked, voice gruff. Plankton's antennae drooped slightly, but he held his ground, his box of jellyfish figurines clutched tightly. "Mr. Krabs," he murmured, monotone voice cracking. Mr. Krabs squinted at Plankton, his claw resting on his chin. "Well, if it isn't the little troublemaker," he said with a gruff chuckle. "What brings you out of the Chum Bucket?" Karen's forced a smile. "We're just out for a little stroll Krabs," she said. "Plankton's found a new hobby." Mr. Krabs's eyes narrowed, curiosity piqued by the unusual sight of Plankton engaged in something other than his usual Krabby Patty obsession. "What kind of hobby?" he asks. Plankton's antennae quivered as he held up his box of jellyfish figurines. "Jellyfish," he murmured, his monotone voice filled with a hint of pride. Mr. Krabs's eyebrows shot up. "Jellyfish?" he repeated, his voice incredulous. "What's gotten into you, Plankton? You're not planning to use them for some crazy Krabby Patty scheme are you?" Plankton's antennae twitched, but he remained calm. "No, Mr. Krabs," he murmured, voice firm. "Plankton loves jellyfish." Mr. Krabs squinted at him, his claw tapping against his chin as he tried to process this new piece of information. "You love jellyfish?" he said, his voice filled with skepticism. "What's so special about jellyfish?" Plankton's antennae waved slightly as he thought about how to explain it. "Jellyfish... unique," he murmured. "Different. Like Plankton." Mr. Krabs's eyes narrowed. "Different, you say?" he repeated, his claw stroking his chin as he contemplated this revelation. "Well I'll be a barnacle's uncle. I never knew you had an interest in any thing but stealing me secret recipe." Karen stepped forward, her tentacles waving gently. "Mr. Krabs, when Plankton hit his head because of you and when I took him to the hospital, well let's just say things are a little different now." Mr. Krabs's eyes widened, his claw freezing mid-stroke. "Different? What do you mean, different?" Karen's tentacles waved in a calming gesture. "Plankton was diagnosed with autism after the incident with your cash register," she said gently. Mr. Krabs's eyes bulged, and his claws clutched at his chest dramatically. "Autism? What?" he bellowed. Sandy stepped forward, her voice firm and steady. "It's ok, Mr. Krabs," she said, her eyes on the crab. "It just means Plankton's brain works differently than ours. But he's still the same Plankton we know, and he's found something that makes him really happy." Mr. Krabs's eyes darting between Plankton and his box of jellyfish. "Well, I'll be a sea cucumber's uncle," he murmured, his expression a mix of shock and confusion. As they talked, a group of kids playing catch nearby accidentally bumped into Plankton, their laughter and shouts of excitement cutting through the air. In an instant, the delicate balance of jellyfish figurines was disrupted, and they spilled out of the box, scattered across the sidewalk. The children's ball rolled into the mix, coming to a stop. Plankton froze on the ground, antennae shooting straight up, eye unblinking as he stared at the chaos before him. The children looked up, their laughter fading as they took in the scene. "Plankton?" Karen's voice was gentle, but it was lost, mind racing as he tried to make sense of the sudden disarray. The children stared, their laughter dying in their throats as they saw the tiny plankton's distress. One brave soul reached out to help, but pulled back when Plankton didn't react. Karen and Sandy exchanged a worried glance. "Plankton?" Karen called again, her voice a little louder this time. The children watched, their curiosity piqued by the sight. One by one, they cautiously approached, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and fascination. "What's wrong with him?" a young fish whispered to another, their eyes darting from Plankton to the scattered jellyfish figurines. "I think he's in shock," Krabs murmured, his own eyes filled with concern. "The disorganization of his jellyfish is really bothering him.." Sandy nodded, her eyes on the children. "Why don't you guys help Plankton?" she suggested. "You can put the jellyfish back in the box. Let's all put them back the way he had them!" The children looked at each other, then back at Plankton, who was still frozen on the ground. Slowly, they began to pick up the scattered figurines, their little hands moving with care as they tried to mimic the order Plankton had created. They whispered to each other, comparing notes and asking questions, their curiosity overcoming their initial fear. Karen watched them work, her tentacles relaxing slightly as she saw the concern in their eyes. "Good job," she murmured, her voice gentle. "You're all helping out." The children nodded, their eyes never leaving Plankton as they carefully placed each jellyfish back in the box. They worked in silence, their movements a mix of awe and caution. The sight of Plankton's intense focus on his jellyfish had left an impression on them, and they were determined to help him restore order to his miniature world. One by one, the jellyfish returned to their spots, each figure a silent testament to Plankton's knowledge and passion. The children looked at each other, then back at Plankton, who hadn't moved a muscle, still rigid, his eye unblinking. "Is he okay?" the bravest one asked, holding out a tentative fin. Plankton remained unmoving, his antennae quivering slightly. The children's gentle whispers and the soft patter of their flippers on the pavement was the only sound as they worked. The last jellyfish was placed back into the box, the figure of Burgessomedusa phasmiformis nestling into its spot among the others. The children held their breath, waiting for some sign from Plankton that he noticed their efforts. Slowly, Plankton's antennae lowered, and he blinked once, then twice. He looked down into the box, his eyes scanning the neat rows of jellyfish. The children watched as a slight smile graced his lips, and he let out a sigh of relief. The children beamed, their eyes shining with pride, stepping back to give him space. Mr. Krabs, still looking slightly stunned, took a tentative step forward. "Plankton?" he asked, his voice gruff but concerned. Plankton's antennae quivered slightly as he looked up, his one eye focusing on the crab. "Mr. Krabs," he murmured, his monotone voice still present but with a hint of warmth. Mr. Krabs's claw hovered over the box, unsure of what to say. "I had no idea Plankton," he murmured, his eyes on the meticulously organized jellyfish. "It's ok," Plankton said, his monotone voice tinged with sadness. "Mr. Krabs didn't know." Karen stepped in gently. "Krabs is just surprised," she explained. "He's never seen you like this before." Mr. Krabs nodded, his expression softening slightly. "That's right," he said, his voice no longer filled with anger. "I've never seen you so... focused on something other than Krabby Patties." "Jellyfish special," Plankton murmured, his antennae waving slightly. "I didn't mean to cause you brain damage, Plankton.." Mr. Krabs says. "It's okay," Plankton murmured, his antennae twitching slightly.

Autistic and Being Startled Easily... @neurodivergent_lou Autistic people may struggle with being startled easily, whether that be by a sudden phone call or someone walking into a room. This is something that autistic may experience more intensely than non-autistic people for a variety of different reasons. Autistic people may be 'startled' easily due to hyper-sensitivity to sensory input. For example, for autistic people noise may feel increasingly amplified. The sound of someone coming into a room can be incredibly startling and sudden. Sensory overwhelm isn't necessarily just about the noise itself but can also be related to the layers of sound or unpredictability of it, As autistic people, we may struggle with feeling on edge a lot of the time and being in 'fight or flight mode'. For example, the world can generally feel unpredictable and we may have repeated past experiences of being misunderstood (e.g. due to autistic communication differences). This feeling of being on edge can contribute to being easily startled. It also feels related to how autistic people experience focus and attention. Autistic people may have a tendency toward hyper-focus and getting almost lost into a subject of interest. We may also end up deep in thought or dissociate. This can mean that someone coming into the room can feel particularly disruptive. The shift in attention can be difficult too. One minute your attention is absorbed in a certain thing and then suddenly a person walks in, makes you jump and shifts your attention completely. The theory of monotropism suggests that autistic minds tend to have their focus pulled more intensely towards a smaller number of interests at any given time, leaving less processing resources for other things. Another part of this is waiting to potentially be startled and the stress of waiting for this. For example, if we are waiting for a phone call, it can be stressful anticipating a sudden loud noise. It can make us feel on edge and unable to do anything else.

CHIP OFF THE OLD TALKS ii (Autistic Author) Chip's eyes fill with tears, and he looks away, trying to hide his emotions. "I just want to understand," he says, his voice small. "I don't need to explain myself to you," he snaps, his eye cold and distant. But Chip is undeterred. He's seen his mother's gentle touch work wonders on his father during his seizures, so he decides to try it. He reaches out and places a small hand on Plankton's shoulder. "It's ok, Dad," he whispers. "You can tell me." Plankton flinches at the touch, his antennae stiffening. "I said it's not your business," he repeats, his voice a low growl. Karen can see the internal struggle playing out on his face, the effort it takes to maintain his anger when all he really wants is to retreat into safety. "Plankton," Karen says softly, placing her hand over Chip's. "It's ok." Her voice is a gentle reminder of the love that exists between them all, a love that has grown and adapted to Plankton's condition over the years. But anger in Plankton's eye doesn't fade. He stares at his son, his jaw tight, his antennae quivering with barely restrained frustration. Karen can feel the tension in his arm, the way his muscles are taut under her touch. "It's ok," she repeats, her voice a soothing balm. "Chip just wants to understand." But Plankton's anger doesn't dissipate. He sits there, his eye still cold and distant, his body rigid with tension. "I don't need to justify myself," he says, his voice a knife slicing through the air. Karen's heart sinks further. This was not how she had hoped the conversation would go. "Dad," Chip starts, his voice trembling. "I just want to know why-" "I SAID it's not your business," Plankton barks, his eye flashing. Plankton's anger is a storm that needs to pass before they can talk it out, and Karen doesn't want to force the issue here. Karen nods at Chip, signaling for him to give his father space. With a sad smile, she stands up and takes the frisbee from his hand. "Why don't you go play for a little while?" she suggests, her voice gentle. "Give Dad and me some time to talk." Chip nods, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. He takes a few steps away before turning back to look at his dad. "I'm here if you need me," he says, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice. Then he runs off, the frisbee clutched tightly in his hand. Plankton's anger lingers like a fog around him, thick and heavy. Karen can see it in the way he sits, his shoulders hunched and his antennae flat against his head. She knows he needs a moment to compose himself, to come down from overstimulation. The silence stretches between them, taut with unspoken words and fear. Plankton's gaze follows Chip as he disappears into the playground, the frisbee a small beacon of hope in his hand. Karen waits, her heart aching for the pain she knows her son is feeling, the pain she feels herself. When Plankton's breathing finally starts to slow, she decides to break the silence. "It's okay, Plankton," she says softly. "Chip just doesn't understand." Karen sighs, her eyes filled with a mix of love and sadness. "You're just wired differently. And Chip loves you for who you are." Plankton shakes his head, his antennae still flat against his skull. "He doesn't know like." Karen's eyes never leave his face, her expression a mask of patience and love. "You're right," she says. "He doesn't know. But that doesn't mean he doesn't love you. He's just scared. And confused. We all are sometimes." Plankton's jaw tightens, and he looks away, not meeting her gaze. "I don't need his pity party," he mutters. Karen sits next to him, her hand resting on his knee. "It's not pity, Plankton. It's just love and curiosity. He wants to know so he can help, so he can be there for you." Plankton stays silent, his eye on the distant playground where Chip is trying to fit in with the other kids. The anger is still there, a palpable presence that makes the air around them feel charged. "I know you're mad," Karen says, her voice calm and soothing. "But you know we can't keep this from him forever. He's growing up, and he needs to understand." Plankton's eye still on Chip, but the anger is slowly fading, replaced by a heavy sadness. "I don't want him to tell I'm a monster," he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the rustling leaves. Karen's heart breaks a little more. "You're not a monster," she says firmly. "You're a wonderful father, Plankton. And Chip loves you. He just doesn't understand." Plankton's gaze finally shifts to her, his eye glistening. "I don't know how to handle this," he admits, his voice strained. "I don't know how to explain it to him. I don't even understand it half the time." Karen reaches up and places a hand on his cheek, turning his face to hers. "You don't have to explain it all at once," she says gently. "We'll do it together, ok?" Plankton nods, his expression still taut with tension. He takes a deep breath and finally relaxes a bit, his antennae rising slightly. "Ok," he murmurs. Karen stands up, her hand still on his shoulder, and together, they walk over to the playground to collect Chip. His eyes light up when he sees them approaching, and he runs over, the frisbee abandoned in his excitement. "Dad, are you ok?" he asks, throwing his arms around Plankton. Plankton stiffens and gasps as Chip embraces him in a hug. Karen's heart clenches at the sight, knowing how much her husband despises sudden physical contact. "Come on, let's go home," she says gently, her hand on Chip's shoulder guiding him away from Plankton. The walk home is quiet, each step punctuated by the thump of Chip's sneakers against the pavement. Karen's on her husband, his shoulders slumped and his gaze cast downward. As they enter the house, the familiar creaks and groans of the floorboards welcome them home. Plankton heads straight for his workshop, the place where he finds solace in the chaos of the world. Chip trails behind, his eyes glued to his father's retreating back. "Dad?" he calls out tentatively. Plankton pauses, his antennae drooping slightly, but doesn't turn around. Karen can see the turmoil in her son's eyes, the unanswered questions weighing him down. "Why don't you go to your room, Chip?" she suggests softly. "I'll talk to Dad." With a nod, Chip heads upstairs, his footsteps echoing through the house. Karen watches him go before turning to Plankton. "Let's go sit down," she says, leading him into the living room. She knows he'll need some time to recover from the onslaught of emotions that come with it. In the dim light of the room, Plankton slumps into the worn armchair, his eye avoiding hers. Karen takes a seat on the couch opposite him, her hands folded in her lap. "We need to talk about this," she says gently. "You can't just push Chip away when something like this happens." He's silent for a long moment, his antennae twitching nervously. "I know," he says finally, his voice gruff. "It's just... I don't know how to deal with it. With him seeing me like that." Karen's heart goes out to him. She knows the fear that comes with the unknown, the fear of being judged, of losing the ones you love because they don't understand. She takes a deep breath and speaks softly. "You don't have to deal with it alone, Plankton. We're a family. We're in this together." Plankton doesn't respond immediately, his gaze still fixed on the floor. But slowly, his antennae start to rise, a sign that he's listening, that he's starting to come out of his shell. Karen waits, giving him the space he needs. Finally, he looks up, his eye meeting hers. "I've always tried to be a good father," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "You are," Karen reassures. "You're the best father Chip could ask for." Plankton nods, his antennae relaxing slightly. "But I don't know how to explain it to him," he says, his voice tight. "I don't want him to..." "To what?" Karen prompts, her tone gentle. "I don't want him to think of me as... less than," Plankton murmurs, his gaze flickering towards the stairs where Chip had disappeared. "To gawk, nor to prompt.." Karen crosses the room and takes his hand, her touch a comforting presence. "He doesn't think that," she says firmly. "He just wants to know so he can help. And so he doesn't have to be scared." Plankton sighs, his shoulders slumping further. "I know," he admits. "But it's hard, Karen." Karen nods, her grip on his hand tightening. "I know it is, but we can't keep this from him forever. He's going to have questions, and he deserves answers. I’ll let him back now." With a deep breath, Plankton nods.

abled people: can you do the thing?? disabled people: … technically yes BUT it would hurt l/ruin my day/trigger a flare/exhaust me/be a fall risk/make me more sick AND THEN I would have to spend a day in bed/increase my dosage/cancel all my other plans/spend a week recovering afterwards abled people: … but you CAN do it

Is Wednesday Addams Autistic? The question of Wednesday Addams neurotypicality has been going around the internet since the series was released. I have gathered some points asto whether she is actually autistic. To begin, she shows ahypersen sitivity towards colour as her mother says, "she is allergic to colour" and Wednesday's response to being asked what happens she says, "I break out into hives and then the flesh peels off my bones*". She also dislikes touch (like hugging), which is very usual for autistic people, either because of sen sory reasons or discomfort. It did take the whole season for her to be okay with hugging Enid. Hyper/hypo sensitivity - the over or under-responsiveness towards certain sensory stimuli is very common in autism and most autistic people experience both - in extreme cases being overwhelmed due to sensory differences or overstimulation can lead to meltdowns; what Wednesday explained happens to her may not be the typical behaviour of an autistic meltdown (rocking, crying, hitting etc.) so can we still consider this autistic? She is afictional character after all but let us continue to analyse her and figure it out. The next thing she does which may be considered autistic is dedicating one hour a day to her novel. Now, why is this autistic? A strict adherence to rules and being set in patterns is atypical trait of ASD, often people on the spectrum prefer to have routines so that they know what is going to happen. There is a comfort in doing things in a fixed pattern. Individuals with ASD even show reduced cognitive flexibility which is whythere is such difficultyin changing patterns, as well as it being overwhelming. To move on, Wednesday has very fixed interests and knows them with great depth, she showsthis with her knowledge in foren sie pathology and plants - she masters her skills - and as she says about herself, "I know I'm stubborn, single minded and obsessive", sheis stubborn so gets a task complete, she is single minded so very set in her ways and obsessive which in autistic people, obsessions can be a way to cope and feel less stressed about one's surroundings Most autistic people have fixated interests of abnormal intensity, is this the case with Wednesday Addams or is she just smart? As we all know, a level of social awkwardness comes with having autism, let us talk about Wednesday's social behaviour. Firstly, she doesn't show much body language when talking to anyone and has somewhat abnormalities of eye contact; she doesn't blink for long periods and or doesn't have much emotion in her eyes which can make it hard for other peopleto interpret her emotions, along with alack of facial expressions and speaking in a monotonous tone -which is usual of typical autistics. Secondly, when she does feel emotion while talking to someone (upset or other) she seems to mask in that moment while trying to compute her emotions, she has a difficulty

CHIP OFF THE OLD TALKS i (Autistic Author) Karen went to the park. Her husband, Plankton, sat by her. Karen glanced over and saw the soft smile on his face, a smile that had greeted her every morning for the past twenty-five or so years. The park was alive with laughter, the distant sound of a ball bouncing off the pavement and the occasional squawk from a seagull. Plankton's eye were closed, his breathing slow and steady. He was enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun on his face. Suddenly, their adopted son Chip burst into their peaceful scene, his cheeks flushed from running. He was holding a frisbee that had strayed from its intended path, and he called out to them with the enthusiasm of a young boy who had discovered something wonderful. "Look what I found!" he exclaimed, oblivious to the delicate moment he was interrupting. Plankton jolts. Karen's notices her husband's sudden movement. His eye open wide, and he stares into the distance unseeing, unblinking. She knows the signs all too well. Plankton is having one of his shutdowns. But Chip's dart between the frisbee and his parents, sensing something amiss. "Dad?" Chip says, tentatively. Karen jumps up and grabs Plankton's arm, gently squeezing to bring him back. "It's ok, honey," she whispers, her voice steady. Chip's smile fades as he sees his father's unresponsive state. He drops the frisbee, forgotten in his grip, and takes a cautious step closer. "What's happening?" he asks, his voice cracking. Plankton's body remains eerily still, like a statue. The only indication that he's alive is the faint rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Karen's eyes dart around the area, checking if anyone has noticed. She doesn't want to draw unwanted attention. "It's ok, Dad's just taking a little break," she murmurs, setting the frisbee aside. He's never seen these before, nor knows the drill. Chip takes in Plankton's unblinking gaze. Karen feels a pang of guilt for keeping this part of Plankton's condition hidden from their kid. But it's a dance they've been performing for years, trying to maintain a sense of normalcy amidst Plankton's condition. Karen focuses solely on Plankton, willing him to come back to her. She feels the warmth of his hand under hers, but there's no response, no squeeze, no recognition of her touch. Karen's gaze is fixed on her husband's face, searching for any hint of life, any flicker of consciousness. She whispers his name, a soft mantra, trying to anchor him to reality. But Chip doesn't understand. His eyes are wide, full of fear and confusion as he watches his dad frozen in place. "What's a 'little break'?" he asks, voice trembling. Karen's heart tightens; she's always shielded Chip, hoping to spare him the worry and fear. "It's like when you zone out," she explains gently, hoping to relate it to something he might have experienced. "Remember when you were playing video games and I had to call you for dinner three times before you heard me?" Chip nods slowly, still glued to Plankton's unmoving form. "It's like that," Karen continues, "But for Dad, it happens without warning." Chip nods again, trying to process this new information. He's always known his dad was different, but seeing him like this is something he's never had to face before. He takes a deep breath and tries to hold back his tears, not wanting to scare Plankton when he wakes up. "What do we do?" he whispers, his voice shaky. Karen squeezes Plankton's hand gently, never leaving his face. "Just wait," she instructs Chip calmly. "These usually don't last long. But if you need to, you can tell anyone who asks that he's okay, just deep in thought." Chip nods, trying to mimic his mother's calm demeanor, but his eyes betray his anxiety. He's never seen his dad like this, never knew that these moments of stillness were a part of him. Plankton's condition, a form of autism, can leave him with anger issues and overload. Karen feels the weight of the secret they've kept from Chip all these years. Plankton's autistic neurodivergence had always been a part of their lives, but they had shielded their son from the full extent of it. They had hoped he would understand when he was older, but now the moment had come unplanned, and she wasn't sure if ready. "Why does Dad zone out?" Chip asks, his voice small. Karen sighs, deciding it's time for the truth. She sits down next to Plankton, keeping her hand on his arm. "Dad has something called 'neurodivergence', Chip. It's like his brain works differently than ours. Sometimes it helps him see the world in amazing ways, but it can also be hard for him. These little breaks are his brain's way of processing." Chip stares at her, trying to grasp the concept. "So, he's not just ignoring us?" "No, sweetie," Karen says. "He's not ignoring us. It's like his brain needs a time-out, like when you play for to long and your phone heats up and/or dies, but will still work eventually." The wind picks up, rustling through the leaves above them, and a chill runs down Chip's spine. He nods slowly, watching his dad's chest rise and fall in the silence. It's strange to see someone so still, so quiet, yet so obviously alive. "But why haven't you told me before?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. Karen's eyes well up with tears she quickly blinks away. "We wanted to protect you," she admits. "I didn't want you to be scared and he doesn’t want you to think of him differently." "But it's okay to think differently," Chip argues, his voice growing stronger. "Dad's always been there for me, even if he doesn't hug me a lot." Karen smiles sadly, stroking Plankton's arm. "It's not just about thinking differently, Chip. It's about how his brain processes things. Sometimes, too much sensory input can overwhelm him. That's why he might seem distant or not as affectionate as other dads. It's not because he doesn't like you," she reassures him. "It's because hugging or loud noises can be really intense for him." Chip's eyes widen with understanding. "So, that's why he doesn't like it when I jump on him?" "Yes," Karen nods. "But it doesn't mean he loves you any less. He just shows it in his own way. Like when he spends hours helping you build that Lego castle, or when he makes those amazing sea creature sculptures that you love so much." Chip's shoulders slump, and he sits down on the bench beside his mother, staring at his dad with a newfound curiosity. "Does he know I know now?" "I don't think so, honey," Karen says, her voice still low and soothing. "These episodes usually last just a few minutes. It's like he's somewhere else, but he'll come back to us." The park's sounds swirl around them, muffled by the tension that has settled in the air. Karen watches Plankton's expression, waiting for the telltale twitch of his antennae that signals his return to the present. Finally, Plankton blinks and looks at Karen, his gaze momentarily unfocused before recognition floods back into his eye. He looks around, startled by his surroundings, and then at Chip, who is staring at him. "What happened?" Plankton asks, his voice groggy. Karen releases a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "You had one of your zoning-out moments," she says, her voice calm and gentle. Plankton looks at her, then at Chip, who is watching him with a mix of curiosity and fear. "I did?" Plankton's antennae twitch, and he rubs his head. "Yes," Karen says, her hand still on his arm. "Chip found a frisbee, remember?" Plankton's gaze shifts to the frisbee lying forgotten on the ground, then back to his son. He nods slowly, piecing the moments before together. "Ah," he murmurs, a hint of embarrassment crossing his face. Chip's curiosity outweighs his fear as he looks at his father. "Can I ask?" he asks tentatively. Karen nods, her heart swelling with pride at his bravery. "Of course, Chip." Chip looks at his dad, filled with questions. "Why’d you zone out?" he asks, his voice still hushed. "It's none of your business Chip," Plankton snaps, his eye flashing with a sudden fury that takes both Karen and Chip aback. His voice is harsh, the words cutting through the stillness of the park. Karen's heart sinks as she sees the hurt on Chip's face. Plankton's anger, a common side effect of his overload, surfaces without warning. She knows he doesn't mean it, but the sting is real for their son.

💟 WHAT MIGHT BE EASIER FOR YOU MIGHT NOT BE SO EASY FOR ME 💟

See both the person and the disability. On one hand, not seeing the person may lead you to introduce them as "my autistic friend," stereotype them, or treat them like a child. On the other, refusing to acknowledge the disability and not accommodating their needs is also unhelpful. Strike a balance by treating their differences as natural, and overall unremarkable. Be clear about how you feel and what you want. Autistic people may not pick up hints or cues, so it's best to directly state your feelings. This helps eliminate confusion on both ends, and that way if the autistic person has upset you, they have the opportunity to make amends and learn from it. Warning: In most cases, people with autism are unable to cope when under pressure, so don't pressure them. Ask questions about how you can be accommodating and helpful. Get insight on how to relate to this person by talking with them about what it is like for them in particular to live as an autistic person. You may find that they want to share and can tell you lots of useful information that will help you to relate to them better. When applying this information, be sure to consider your autistic loved one as an individual, and remember that each step won't always apply to each person.

The following link https://www.nature.com/articles/d41586-018-05112-1 if read it shows Hans Asperger’s involvement w/ Nasi propaganda promoting problematic ideals calling autistics as psychopaths and deemed unfit in

There is no one-size-fits-all approach for autism Understand that every autistic person is different. Tailor treatment to the individual's needs. For example, one autistic person may have excellent self-care skills and above-average school performance, but need sensory integration therapy and social skills training. Another might be highly social but unable to care for herself and in need of counseling for depression.

Please don't touch me or stand too close. I have an Autistic Spectrum Condition. I process sensations differently. Sometimes I Can't cope with touch or physical contact. 4 ways to manage autism, anxiety and sensory overload Choose sensory-friendly events and places Choose sensory- friendly features • Fewer lights • Less background music • Noise blocking headphones • Calming rooms • Weighted blanket Make sensory experience shorter Reduce sensory experience • Take breaks from busy, noisy and bright places • Noise blocking headphones • Sunglasses For example, a child who has difficulty with the feeling of clothing and thus has difficulty getting dressed shows hypersensitivity. As a result, that child can experience sensory overload from clothing. It is also important to know that a toddler refusing to get dressed because they are exerting their independence or would rather play or do something else is not a child experiencing sensory overload. That is not hypersensitivity. That is normal for toddlers. So choose sensory-friendly providers or products. In particular, that helps people whose anxiety is made worse by what they experience from their senses. Hollander, E., & Burchi, E. (2018). Anxiety in Autism Spectrum Disorder. Anxiety & Depression Association of America

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NEURODIVERSITY Neurodiversity is the concept that insta: anthonymakessomeart differences in brain development, such as "Neurodivergent" is used to describe people who have different, or atypical, autism and adhd, are natural differences brain development, while "neurotypical" that should be accepted, like differences is used to describe people who have in hair texture or eye color. typical brain development. They are different, but equally deserving of acceptance and respect! The concept of naturally diverse brains is important to neurodivergent people because not only does it encourage acceptance from other people, but it encourages us to accept ourselves. It helps us to see that even though we are different, there is nothing wrong with us. It can also help neurodivergent people get the support they need, since accepting that everyone's brain functions differently means accepting that everyone needs help in different areas.

Children with autism exhibit a higher general and anxietʏ, due to altered sensory sensibilities. Autism or autistic disorder is a severe developmental disability that is characterised by an impairment in mutual social interactions, communication skills, and repetitive patterns of behaviours. They can also show an increased sensitivity to sounds, light, odours, and colours. The attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) was the most common disorder associated with the autistic group (71%) and the epilepsy with the control group (52%) (P < 0.089) It's important for the clinicians to know how to manage these affecting patıents in developmental age, ensuring an adequate and minimally invasive management using a prompt approach, when possible. So, a good communication can help to establish trust and build needed cooperation throughout the visit and treatment. All patıents in developmental age, especially with health disorders, need experienced doctors who know how to face promptly tr4uma under general anaesthesia, if possible. Moreover, a parent-reported questionnaire method would also help overcome this deficiency, provided that the parents remember all past tr4uma events of their children. Respondents often cited conflict between understanding the additional needs for successful treatment of autistic patıents and a lack of resources to implement support strategies. Despite this, some were positive about making the necessary modifications to support autistic patıents. Professionals should adapt their practises to meet the needs of their autistic patıents. Autism is a developmental condition associated with social communication difficulties, and the presence of rigid, repetitive behaviours and atypical sensory sensitivities. As such, the nature of procedures and the treatment environment may prove a particularly challenging area for individuals on the autistic spectrum. In particular, sensory atypicalities may pose a barrier to treatment. Many autistic individuals are hypersensitive to a multitude of stimuli such as bright lights, noise and touch. Further autism-specific challenges include communication difficulties between practitioner and patient, which has been reported to be a key element in failed or unpleasant visits for autistic adults. Given the bidirectional nature of communication, the practitioner clearly plays a crucial role in overcoming this area of challenge. Autistic people have reported significant difficulties in accessing adequate care. Five main themes emerged from these responses: (1) understanding individual needs, (2) the key role of communication, (3) the value of autism specific techniques; (4) a conflict between needs and resources and (5) positive and rewarding work. To ensure successful treatment, the individual needs of each patient needs to be taken into consideration, as it affects each client differently. Given the variability in needs and preferences of autistic people, an overreliance on personal experiences may lead to professionals offering 'one-size-fits-all' accommodations, consequently producing more discomfort for the patıents. It was encouraging, however, to see a number of respondents in the current study flag up an understanding of this individuality, and the need for a tailored approach. Indeed, a considerable number of respondents reported not being aware of any techniques available to reduce possible discomfort in autistic patıents. Autism (congenital or acquired) and symptoms are not a chøice.

Best Practices for Encouraging Special Interests in Children with Autism What Helps • Encouraging conversation about interest • Paying attention to non-verbal cues • Engaging in activity about interest • Allowing children to keep objects related to interest • Taking note of circumstances that promote calmness • Using interest as motivation for desired behaviors What Hurts • Treating the interest like it's boring • Ignoring non-verbal cues or gestures • Disengaging from the conversation • Forcing a discussion unrelated to the interest • Demanding that children think about other subjects • Leveraging interest as punishment

autistic-reptile love languages of autistics: • sending them posts/pictures related to their special interest them • talking to them while you're both looking in another direction so there's no pressure to make eye contact • making/buying them their same food • determining their happy stims and anxious stims so you know how they're feeling • specifying when you're being sarcastic/joking • sitting in the same room together in silence while you both do your own thing • prompting them to info dump (and listening) • • having extra earplugs/sunglasses/other sensory aids for them when they forget

💙 https://www.verywellhealth.com/guardianship-for-adults-with-autism-4165687 💙

💙 PFA TIPS: PAIN MANAGEMENT AND AUTISM By Alizah Patterson, MD, Pediatric Resident, PL-3 , The Herman & Walter Samuelson Children’s Hospital at Sinai Download a printable version of “Pain Management and Autism “ Sensory stimulation can be perceived very differently in people with autism spectrum disorder. It is common for children to be averse to certain types of taste, texture, and flavors. How they perceive pain, however, is not very well understood. Some people believe that people with autism may have a decreased sense of pain, but pain can manifest in different ways. Identifying and managing pain can be challenging for both healthcare providers and parents. Methods to assess pain Assessing pain in children can often be a challenge for providers and parents. For older children, the number pain scale is typically used with 0 representing no pain and 10 being the worst pain imaginable. The faces pain scale allows children to choose a face – images range from happy to crying – that shows how their pain is making them feel. For children who are nonverbal, the FLACC score is often utilized. This method looks at Facial expression, Leg positioning, Activity level, Crying and Consolability. This pain scale requires more time but can reliably assess pain responses in neurotypical individuals. People with ASD or intellectual disability, or any type of cognitive impairment may express pain in other ways and may require a customized FLACC scale. This would incorporate individualized pain behaviors which is more reliable in detecting pain in individuals with cognitive impairment. Again, this would require additional time and understanding of the scale. Research on autism and pain Not much research has been done on the topic of autism and pain, partly due to the challenges of assessing pain in children with communication difficulty and partly due to the common belief that people with autism have decreased sensitivity to pain or a high pain threshold. Studies conducted with people with high-functioning ASD tend to use a pain scale of 0-10. On this scale, patients tend to respond with lower numbers, but other methods of rating pain have shown varying results. Some studies have used observations of providers or parents, which also tended to show decreased sensitivity to pain in children with autism. Other studies have challenged the idea that people with autism experience less pain. These studies found that pain is expressed differently among those with autism. One study comparing children with autism, children with intellectual disabilities, and neurotypical children showed that both behavioral changes and physiologic changes (i.e. heart rate) were higher with pain, but face scores did not vary among the groups. Some case studies have found that when asked their pain score, verbal individuals with ASD respond with low scores, but when asked how much discomfort they have, the score tends to be higher. How does pain manifest in children with autism? Children with ASD may not express pain in typical ways – crying, moaning, or withdrawing from a painful stimulus – and therefore may often be labeled as less sensitive to pain. Several case studies have shown that though children may not show these typical signs or may not react to pain in the moment, they still have physiologic reactions and behavioral reactions. Even with no obvious reaction to a painful stimulus, they may start breathing fast or their heart rate may increase. They may have increased stimming behaviors, aggression, or anxiety after the painful incident. Individuals with ASD also tend to show behavior changes for longer after the painful incident than neurotypical children or children with intellectual disabilities. When assessing for pain in a nonverbal child with ASD, close attention should be paid to increased aggression, self-injurious behaviors, stimming, or any behavior that is not typical for that child. If they are acting unlike themselves, look for a possible source of discomfort or pain that may be present or was present in the near past. In a more verbal child, asking if they have pain or if something hurts may not accurately reflect what they are feeling. Using words such as “discomfort”, “uncomfortable”, or “anxiety” may better approximate the level of pain they are in. What can I do about my child’s pain? If a source of pain can be identified, treating that pain is of utmost importance. Treatment would be the same as for any other child—analgesics such as Tylenol or ibuprofen, ice, or heat (if tolerated), and rest. Parents and providers should be wary of hidden injuries that the patient may not be able to communicate about, such as a fracture or insect bite. If the source of pain cannot be identified or you are unsure of the severity of the injury/illness, always err on the side of caution and have a physician assess your child. They should do a full skin exam to look for scratches, bites, rashes, or other injuries. If an injury is suspected to a limb, x-rays may be needed to rule out a fracture. If no clear injury or illness can be identified, parents and providers should look for other possible medical causes for the behavior changes, like abdominal pain, headache, or urinary tract infection. For pain management during painful or stress-inducing medical procedures, like a blood draw, there are several techniques that can be used. Non-pharmacologic (medication) methods are preferred. Every child may respond differently to these techniques, so some trial and error may be necessary to determine the best method for your child. • Distraction: If your child has a preferred activity, engaging them in this activity during the procedure may significantly reduce their focus on pain. This could include watching a show, blowing bubbles, deep breaths, playing with a toy, or calming movements such as a parent rocking them. • Sensory distractions: There are several items that can be used to distract a child’s senses from the painful stimulus. A vibrating device or ice placed on the area of a blood draw or lumbar puncture can reduce the pain signal sent to the brain. • Topical pain control: There are a few topical medications that can be used to reduce pain sensation. A cooling spray at the site of the procedure is quick and easy. A numbing gel or cream can also be applied 20-30 minutes prior to the procedure, which has been shown to be an effective way to manage pain during IV sticks. However, this has not been shown to reduce anxiety or fear during procedures. • Deep pressure: Firm pressure, through squeezing or a tight hug, has been shown to significantly decrease anxiety and stress in individuals with autism. This method can also be used during medical procedures to decrease discomfort. Every child is different though, so deep pressure may be too much sensory stimulation for some. Medications can also be used to control pain, as well as anxiety, during medical procedures. Pre-medication with acetaminophen or ibuprofen may be helpful in reducing pain. For extremely painful procedures, an opioid may also be reasonable, per a physician’s assessment. Anti-anxiety medications may be helpful in reducing not only anxiety but also pain as they are typically slightly sedating. If you feel it is right for your child, discuss these options with your physician. When it comes to pain management in autism, remember these key points: • Always rule out pain when atypical behaviors occur or when certain behaviors increase. • Children are all different, whether in how their pain manifests or in what strategies work best to control their pain. • There are lots of non-medication options to help manage pain and anxiety during medical procedures. 💙

💙 https://www.spectrumnews.org/features/deep-dive/unseen-agony-dismantling-autisms-house-of-pain/ 💙

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If feasible, other tests the patient fears might be performed while the patient is sedated. For example, before or after dental work, vaccines could be administered, blood could be drawn, and gynaecology or other physical exams could be done. This practise requires coordination and communication among providers. 💙 https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3708482/

💙 https://www.legalzoom.com/articles/what-is-medical-power-of-attorney 💙

CHIP OFF THE OLD TALKS xi (Autistic Author) The wind whispers through the leaves of the nearby trees, carrying with it the scent of fresh-cut grass and the distant sound of seagulls. It's a simple pleasure, but one that Plankton has often missed in his quest to protect his son from the storms in his own mind. Suddenly, the serenity is shattered as a ball comes hurtling through the air, narrowly missing Plankton's head. He flinches, his antennae shooting straight up in alarm. Chip's swing comes to an abrupt halt, his eyes wide with fear. The children playing nearby laugh, unaware of the chaos their game has brought to the quiet corner of the playground. Plankton's eye darts around, trying to process the sudden assault of sound and movement. His breath comes in quick, shallow gasps, and Karen can see the beginnings of a panic attack forming on his face. "Daddy!" Chip shouts, jumping off his swing and racing to his side. With surprising speed and grace, Chip leaps into action, catching Plankton just as he starts to topple off the swing. "Daddy!" Chip says, his voice filled with urgency as he gently guides Plankton's unresponsive body to the soft grass below. The love rock still clutches in his small hand. Karen rushes over, her eyes wide with concern. "Is he ok?" she asks, kneeling beside them. Chip nods, his chest heaving. "He has an absence seizure thing," he says, his voice shaking slightly. He looks up at Karen, his eyes filled with fear and confusion. "What do we do?" Karen's eyes fill with a mix of panic and love as she takes in the sight of Plankton, his body frozen in mid-swing, his antennae limp. She's been here before, but it never gets easier. "It's ok," she says, her voice calm despite her racing heart. "Just give him a moment. He'll come back to us." Chip nods, his grip on the love rock tightening as he watches his father. The world seems to slow down around them, the laughter of the other children fading into a distant memory. Plankton's breathing is shallow, his body stiff. Karen reaches out, placing a gentle hand on his back, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. The seconds tick by like hours, each one filled with the weight of uncertainty. Chip clutches the love rock, willing his dad to come back. He's seen this before, but it never gets easier. He remembers the first time it happened, the fear that had gripped him, the feeling of helplessness as his dad's eye glazed over. But now, he knows what to do. He's not as scared; he's prepared. With trembling hands, Chip takes out the love rock, its smoothness a comforting reminder of their conversation. He places it gently in Plankton's palm, curling the slender fingers around it. "You're ok," he whispers, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside. "We’re here." Plankton's body remains still, a stark contrast to the vibrant world around them. The squeaks of the swings, the laughter of the children, the distant crash of waves, all seem to fade into the background as they wait for him to return from his brief retreat. Karen sits beside Chip, her hand on his shoulder, offering silent support. Time seems to stand still as they wait, the rock in Plankton's hand a silent testament to their newfound bond. The park's vibrant sounds muffle into a distant symphony, the world holding its breath for Plankton's return. Above them, the sun casts a warm, gentle light, the shadows dancing as if in a silent ballet of concern. The seconds stretch into eternity, each one a heartbeat of hope. Chip's eyes never leave his father, willing him back with all his might. The rock in Plankton's palm is a symbol of love and understanding, a bridge connecting them through the stormy seas of his mind. As Plankton's body remains frozen, the world around them seems to hold its breath. The rustling of the leaves above, the distant laughter of children, even the crash of waves in the background seem to hush in respectful silence. It's as if the universe itself is offering a quiet sanctuary for Plankton's return. Chip's eyes never leave his father's face, his grip on the love rock in Plankton's palm unwavering. His heart races with fear, but he squeezes the rock tighter, trying to channel the love and support he feels into his dad's unresponsive hand. Chip decides to whisper comforting words. "Daddy, it's ok," he says softly. "You're safe here with me and Mom." Karen's eyes are filled with a mix of fear and admiration for her son's courage. She watches as Chip decides to continue. "Remember the rock, Daddy?" Chip whispers. "It's my way of saying I love you." Plankton's antennae twitch slightly, a glimmer of recognition in his eye. The world around them seems to hold its breath, the very air thick with anticipation. Chip's voice is the only sound, a gentle lullaby in the cacophony of the playground. The rock in Plankton's hand feels warm, almost alive, as if it's absorbing the love Chip is whispering into it. Chip watches as Plankton's antennae slowly start to wiggle, a sign that he's coming back to them. "I'm here," Chip says, his voice barely audible. "I'll always be here." Karen's hand moves to cover Chip's, her eyes glistening with tears she's trying hard to hold back. The sight of her son's unwavering support is both heartbreaking and awe-inspiring. Plankton's chest rises and falls more steadily, his breathing evening out. The rock in Plankton's hand seems to pulse with a gentle warmth, a silent acknowledgment of Chip's words. Karen sees the tension in Plankton's features begin to ease, his antennae drooping slightly as he starts to come back to them. It's a delicate process, like waking a sleeping dragon. Any sudden movement could send him back into the storm. Chip's voice is a beacon, guiding Plankton through the fog. "It's ok," Chip repeats, his voice soothing, "You're with us." Plankton's antennae twitch again, and Karen can see the spark of understanding in his eye. Slowly, Plankton's body starts to relax. The tension in his shoulders eases, and his antennae twitch in a way that tells Karen he's listening, that he's with them again. His breathing evens out, and his eyelid flickers closed. For a moment, Chip is afraid. But then, Plankton's hand tightens slightly around the rock, giving him a squeeze that says 'Thank you'. Karen smiles, her eyes shimmering with relief. "Looks like he’s asleep," she whispers, her voice filled with a mix of humor and love. Chip nods, his own eyes never leaving Plankton's peaceful face. They stay like that for a while, the three of them, in the quiet sanctuary of the park bench. The storm in Plankton's mind has passed, leaving them in a gentle lull. The playground's sounds slowly start to filter back in, the chatter of children, the distant hum of the city, the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Chip keeps whispering, his voice a gentle caress in the stillness. "It's ok, Daddy. You're safe." Karen watches her son with a mix of love and sadness, knowing the weight he now carries. He's growing up too fast, she thinks, but he's handling it with more grace than anyone could ask for. Plankton's hand relaxes around the rock, his breathing deep and even. The storm inside him has passed for now, leaving them with a quiet, precious moment. Chip leans into her, his voice a whisper. "Is he going to be ok?" Karen nods, her eyes never leaving Plankton's peaceful face. "He'll be fine," she says. "Rest is sometimes the best thing for him after an episode." Chip nods, his grip on the rock in Plankton's hand loosening slightly. He looks around the park, the world coming back into focus. The other kids are playing, their laughter a gentle reminder of the life that goes on outside their little bubble of concern. "Should we go home?" Chip asks, his voice still hushed. Karen nods. "Let's get him into the shade," she says, gesturing to a nearby tree. "The fresh air and quiet will do him good." Together, they gently lift Plankton and carry him to the cool, shaded spot. Chip is careful not to jostle him too much, his little hands supporting Plankton's head. Under the tree, Karen lays a blanket on the ground and they place him down. His antennae are still now, no longer dancing with the stress of the seizure. His breath is deep and even, his features relaxed in sleep. Chip watches him intently, his thumb tracing the smooth surface of the love rock. "He's going to be ok, right?" he asks, his voice a barely audible whisper. Karen nods, her eyes filled with a fierce protectiveness. "Of course, sweetie," she says. "Daddy just needs some rest."

⣿⣿⣿⣿⠟⠋⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⢁⠈⢻⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⣿⣿⠃⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠈⡀⠭⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⣿⡟⠄⢀⣾⣿⣿⣿⣷⣶⣿⣷⣶⣶⡆⠄⠄⠄⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⣿⡇⢀⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧⠄⠄⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⣿⣇⣼⣿⣿⠿⠶⠙⣿⡟⠡⣴⣿⣽⣿⣧⠄⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⣿⣿⣾⣿⣿⣟⣭⣾⣿⣷⣶⣶⣴⣶⣿⣿⢄⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⣩⣿⣿⣿⡏⢻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣹⡋⠘⠷⣦⣀⣠⡶⠁⠈⠁⠄⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣍⠃⣴⣶⡔⠒⠄⣠⢀⠄⠄⠄⡨⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣦⡘⠿⣷⣿⠿⠟⠃⠄⠄⣠⡇⠈⠻⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⣿⡿⠟⠋⢁⣷⣠⠄⠄⠄⠄⣀⣠⣾⡟⠄⠄⠄⠄⠉⠙⠻ ⠟⠋⠁⠄⠄⠄⢸⣿⣿⡯⢓⣴⣾⣿⣿⡟⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄ ⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⣿⡟⣷⠄⠹⣿⣿⣿⡿⠁⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄

⠀݂⠀🦪⠀֯⠀ ᮫⠀ ⛤⠀ׄ⠀ 𓍢ִ⠀܄⠀ʬ ⭑ ˙ 𓍯⠀ׄ⠀🦋﹔ 𝓭ₒₙ'ₜ 𝓬ₒₚᵧ 𝔀ₒᵣₖ ᵳᵣₒₘ ₐₙₒₜₕₑᵣ, ₜₕₑ ₛₐₜᵢₛᵳₐ𝓬ₜᵢₒₙ ₒᵳ ₛᵤ𝓬𝓬ₑₛₛ ᵢₛ ₒₙₗᵧ ᵳₑₗₜ 𝔀ₕₑₙ ᵧₒᵤ 𝓭ₒ ᵧₒᵤᵣ ₒ𝔀ₙ 𝓭ᵤₜᵧ.

https://www.spectrumnews.org/features/deep-dive/unseen-agony-dismantling-autisms-house-of-pain/

1️⃣3️⃣

𝑟𝑚𝑜𝑗𝑖 𝑜𝑖𝑠16🕒

Everyone is NOT a little bit autistic. The Autistic Teacher Using the phrase "everyone is a little bit autistic" can be problematic for several reasons... Minimisation of the Challenges Autism is a complex neurotype that affects individuals in various ways. By saying "everyone is a little bit autistic," it trivialises the challenges and differences faced by those who are autistic. Stereotyping and Misunderstanding Autism is not just about being introverted, having social quirks, or being detail-oriented. It encompasses a wide range of challenges in communication, differences in behaviour, and sensory processing that are unique to each autistic individual. Lack of Understanding and Awareness Such statements can perpetuate misconceptions about autism and hinder efforts to create a more inclusive and supportive environment for autistic individuals. Invalidation of Experiences Autistic people have distinct experiences and struggles that should not be dismissed or equated to common personality traits found in everyone. Promoting Stigma Comparing personality traits to a complex neurotype can reinforce stereotypes and stigma associated with autism. Instead of using 'everyone is a little bit autistic', it's important to respect the diversity and individuality of autistic people and educate ourselves and others by listening to actually autistic voices. The Autistic Teacher

"You can't be Autistic... you're a girl! " Girls can be Autistic too! It's my neurotype... anyone can have an autistic brain. "You can't be Autistic... you can give eye contact!" Some autistic people have absolutely no problem with eye contact. Some of us make eye contact but are not always comfortable with it. Some of us find eye contact painful. Our level of eye contact does not determine our neurotype! "You can't be Autistic... you have empathy." Autistic people can be highly empathetic, though we may express it differently. For some of us, it's our intense empathy that drives us to help others. "You can't be Autistic.. you have friends!" Many autistic people have friends and some of us have lots of friends and enjoy socialising! But for some, relationships might look different. Many autistic individuals value friendships and relationships but may struggle with neurotypical social cues. "You can't be Autistic... because you're nothing like my autistic nephew." All autistic people are different, with different strengths and struggles. It doesn't make us less or more autistic... or less or more than anyone else... just uniquely autistic. "You can't be Autistic... you're terrible at maths! We're not all mathematical geniuses. Some autistic people are very creative or artistic. Some are very good writers or speakers. Some might have learning disabilities. Some autistic people have an amazing ability to make others smile. We are all different but all just as valuable.

NEW TO AUTISM OR POSSIBLE AUTISM DIAGNOSIS? OMeS SPEECHIE POS First Unlearn (almost) EVERYTHING you know about Autism and start FRESH! Autism is MORE than stereotypes! Autistic people can: Speak, be friendly, make eye contact, play creatively, be intelligent, enjoy hugs, go to college, tolerate different sensory sensations, respond to their name, get married, have friends, have jobs and careers, and more! Autism is a Pattern of Differences: Language: : Loe Take and Talking, may struggle saying wants/needs • Delay or decreased use of gestures, pointing, body language • Echolalia & scripting after age 2.5 • Uses words or phrases repeatedly/often • High pitch, melodic, sing-song voice • Uses another's hand/body as a tool to get help/gain access Interests & Routines: • Prefers sameness and routine, may struggle with changes and become anxious and dysregulated • Has strong, focused interests, may have early interest in letters/ numbers/ reading • Focuses on details and likes things to be "just right" (labeled OCD) • Repeats play activities or scenes (dumping/crashing, creative play) : Creies wakon router/patterns Social: • Eye contact: intense, avoidant, or inconsistent • Absent or inconsistent response to name • May be "overly" friendly/ lack stranger danger • May prefer to play alone or parallel play longer than others • May be better at responding to others than initiating social contact • Differences in joint attention • May need to direct/control play Sensory Processing: • Selective (picky) eating habits • Covers ears to loud sounds/ puts sounds up to ears, listens to sounds/songs on repeat • Watches items up close to study spinning or how they work, may look at eye level or side of eyes • Enjoys tight hugs, avoids hugs • Seeks movement: jumping, pacing, rocking back and forth, crashing • Sensitivity to grooming, washing, These are common examples & a non exhaustive list Autistic people can have many strengths, which often include: Hyperlexia: Reading letters & words at an early age Exceling in music, art, science, math, computer Hyper focusing on areas of interests Excellent memory skills Having an extensive knowledge in certain topics Knowing numbers, shapes, & colors early Motivated to teach self difficult skills. Remember that your feelings are valid. However you feel Keep in mind that some feelings should not be shared publicly where your child may see it one day. AND know that it's common for feelings to change over time, especially when you learn more about Autism and see your child progress with support. Consider Neurodiversity affirming support: Neuro-affirming support prioritizes the child's strengths and individuality, promotes self-advocacy, and ultimately allows and encourages children to be their authentic self. Be ready to advocate for your child while also teaching your child to advocate for themselves. Unfortunately, most people have a lot to learn when it comes to accepting Autistic and disabled people. While this should not fall solely on the shoulders of disabled people and/or their parents, we need to recognize that this does happen, and parents need to be ready. Accept that you may make mistakes. Everyone makes mistakes. I have made MANY. Keep in mind that when you know better, you can do better. Growth is the goal!

Autistic Masking The Autistic Teacher What is Autistic Masking? Masking is when we suppress or hide our feelings, needs, behaviours or another part of ourselves in order to fit in with those around us. Sometimes referred to as camouflaging. Everyone masks to a certain extent... but autistic people often have different social norms and so there is increased pressure and judgement from those around. An autistic person can mask so much that it becomes harmful to ourselves. We can spend our lives masking and hiding our real selves. Suppressing Some behaviours that we find soothing or help us to regulate can be considered a bit 'weird' and so many Autistic people suppress these 'stims' Making eye contact can be uncomfortable, even painful for some autistic people, but we might force ourselves to be uncomfortable to try desperately hard to appear to fit in, even to our detriment. Suppressing Most common for me is hiding my sensory discomfort. This could be staying somewhere that is too bright, too loud, too hot... because I'm trying really hard to cope and be like everyone else. But unfortunately it can take it's toll and can result in a meltdown, shutdown or burnout. Sometimes if you are feeling really shy you can force yourself to be out there and talking to people. But it's draining. Exhausting. Reflecting I have become very good at watching people and reflecting their behaviour. This too is masking. I might learn scripts... planning how a conversation might go and thinking about the correct responses. I watch and listen to what kind of behaviour or language is acceptable so that I can fit in. This might include suppressing the desire to infodump and tell them all about my current hyper focus or special interest. The Effects Autistic people who mask more show more signs of anxiety and depression. It's exhausting, draining...and people mask for so many years that they begin to lose their identity. Masking can lead to Autistic burnout and a mental health crisis Understanding and Acceptance Understanding and acceptance of neurodivergent behaviours and differences by neurotypical individuals is key. This would lessen the need to mask! As neurodivergent people, we can also be aware of masking and how it effects us. Knowing this and being kind to yourself, allowing some time to be your authentic self and recover is absolutely vital in protecting your own mental health.

Ａｕｔｉｓｍ ｉｓ ｎｏｔ ａ ｔｒａｇｅｄｙ 𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖒 𝖎𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖆 𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖊𝖉𝖞 Ⓐⓤⓣⓘⓢⓜ ⓘⓢ ⓝⓞⓣ ⓐ ⓣⓡⓐⓖⓔⓓⓨ 🅐🅤🅣🅘🅢🅜 🅘🅢 🅝🅞🅣 🅐 🅣🅡🅐🅖🅔🅓🅨 𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓲𝓼𝓶 𝓲𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓪 𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓰𝓮𝓭𝔂 ᴀᴜᴛɪꜱᴍ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴛʀᴀɢᴇᴅy 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐦 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝𝐲 𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒎 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒅𝒚 𝖠𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗆 𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾𝖽𝗒 𝗔𝘂𝘁𝗶𝘀𝗺 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗮 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗲𝗱𝘆 𝘈𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘮 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥𝘺 𝘼𝙪𝙩𝙞𝙨𝙢 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙖 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙚𝙙𝙮 𝙰𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍𝚢 A̶u̶t̶i̶s̶m̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶a̶ ̶t̶r̶a̶g̶e̶d̶y̶ A͟u͟t͟i͟s͟m͟ i͟s͟ n͟o͟t͟ a͟ t͟r͟a͟g͟e͟d͟y͟ A̲u̲t̲i̲s̲m̲ ̲i̲s̲ ̲n̲o̲t̲ ̲a̲ ̲t̲r̲a̲g̲e̲d̲y̲ 🇦‌🇺‌🇹‌🇮‌🇸‌🇲 ‌🇮‌🇸 ‌🇳‌🇴‌🇹 ‌🇦 ‌🇹‌🇷‌🇦‌🇬‌🇪‌🇩‌🇾 ʎpǝƃɐɹʇ ɐ ʇou sı ɯsıʇn∀ 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜.

Lots of laughter Need for acceptance Passionate Strong emotions Loyal Full of love active & playful Kind hearted Happy hands Big smiles Because - Autism is not always *that* different

😊

COMMON ACCOMMODATIONS FOR KIDS WITH AUTISM ELIGIBILITY: OMeS. SPEECHIEPO Sensory/movement breaks Advanced notice of changes in routine Visual Schedules Allow for wait time Provide written instructions Chunking of work Clear, concise directions Access to calming area Give choices when possible Directly teach self advocacy skills

AUTIE AND DOCTOR BAD (Author has Sensory Processing Disorder) The doctor's office was a minefield of sensory assaults. Every creak of the floorboard, every fluorescent flicker, every rustle of paper echoed like thunder in the hypersensitivity of Autie. The sterile smell of alcohol and antiseptic hung in the air, sharp and stinging. The walls, a shade of blue that was supposed to be calming, instead made the room feel cold and unfriendly. Autie sat, knees pressed tightly together, hands fidgeting in her lap. Her eyes darted around, trying to take in everything and nothing at once. The chair's material was a torment against her skin. She waited for Dr. Baddy, the general practitioner. When he finally entered, his eyes didn't meet hers. He skimmed through her chart with a sigh, his pen tapping implicitly on the page. He mumbled something about her being overly sensitive, that her issues were all in her head. Each word felt like a sharp jab, a knife twisting in her gut. The room grew smaller, the sounds louder. The doctor's voice grew louder, more dismissive. He talked over her, his words a blur of condescension. Autie tried to speak, to explain how she felt, but her voice was lost in the cacophony. She could feel her heart pounding, her palms sweating, her throat constricting. Her mind was racing, trying to make sense of his dissonance. Why couldn't he understand? She knew they’re busy, but still.. He began the tests, his cold instruments probing and poking. Each touch was a violation, a scream in her soul. The bright lights above seemed to bore into her, exposing every nerve ending. Autie flinched with each poke of the needle, each squeeze of the blood pressure cuff, each cold stethoscope on her skin. Her hyperactive mind painted the worst-case scenarios behind her closed eyes. The doctor's voice was still a blur, but Autie managed to catch words like "anxiety" and "psychosomatic." Her cheeks burned with shame. Was she really just imagining it all? Were her pain and fears simply the figments of an overactive imagination? But she knew better, she felt the reality of it, the weight of each sensation like an anchor around her neck, pulling her under. Her body was a symphony of discomfort, and he was the one turning a deaf ear. “Dr. Baddy, please, I…” He looked up, his eyes sharp, and she saw a flicker of annoyance behind the professional mask. “Miss, I understand this can be uncomfortable. It's all in your head, you know? It’ll be over..” The words hit Autie like a wave, a cold, unyielding force that crashed over her. Her heart pounded in protest, but she bit her tongue, fighting the urge to scream. Her eyes filled with tears that she refused to shed in front of him. Dr. Baddy continued, his voice a drone in her ears, as if speaking to a toddler. His touch grew more invasive with each test, his dismissive tones grating on her already frayed nerves. Each time he said "it's all in your head," she felt a piece of her sanity chip away. The room was spinning, the pressure in her chest building, her breaths shallow and desperate. She clutched the arms of the chair, her knuckles white, willing herself to stay calm. He didn't look at her as he spoke, his gaze on the computer screen, typing away. The words were a slap in the face, confirming what she feared: he didn't believe her. The pain was real, but in his eyes, she was just another patient to be placated. Autie's voice quivered as she tried to protest, to explain that she wasn't just overreacting. But the words wouldn't come. Her mouth was dry, her throat tight. The room was spinning faster now, the walls closing in. The noise grew louder, a crescendo of doubt and frustration. Dr. Baddy's impatience was palpable. He didn't seem to notice her distress, or if he did, he didn't care. Each new test was a battle for her to endure, a silent cry for validation that went unheard. Finally, Autie reached her breaking point. She couldn't take the poking and prodding anymore, nor his dismissive accusations. With a tremble in her voice, she managed to interject, "It's not all in my head. My body isn't lying to me." Dr. Baddy's eyes snapped to hers, his expression hardening. "Young lady," he began, raising his voice, "you're not making this easy for yourself. These symptoms you're describing are mere textbook anxiety, but until you accept it, we won't get anywhere." His words were exploding in her ears. Autie flinched at his volume, the force of his tone sending shockwaves through her already overstimulated system. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape, but the walls remained steadfast in their judgment. The air grew thick with his accusations, suffocating her, no matter how hard she’s trying… Her heart hammered. Her mind raced, trying to find the words to explain, but they remained elusive, trapped by the fear that his skepticism had planted. Her breaths grew shallower, each one a struggle. “Sir, I’m neurodivergent…” He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Aren’t we all, I know. But that’s no excuse for overreacting like this. You need to learn to manage your anxiety. This isn’t your first appointment, Miss. I’ve seen worse cases than yours, and they don’t act like you do. Maybe it’s time you complied instead of wasting time with trivial complaints!” The words stung like a thousand needles, piercing her soul. Autie felt a tear slip down her cheek, hot and humiliating. Her body shook with the effort to keep herself from screaming. But she knew she had to keep it together, to fight for herself in this battle of perception. “Doc, if we can just…” Dr. Baddy leaned in, his face inches from hers. “Miss, if you can’t even sit through a simple exam, how do you expect to handle real-world stress? Your symptoms are textbook. I’ve seen it all before. Now, kids have done these tests yet they don’t cry wolf like you do. Get a grip!” Autie felt like she was drowning, his words like a heavy weight pressing on her chest, leaving her gasping for air. Her vision blurred with unshed tears, her body shaking uncontrollably. The doctor's, a place of hope and healing, now felt like a prison. Her heart ached with the injustice of it all. This wasn’t the first time she’d faced disbelief. She wanted to flee, to leave this cruel, albeit professional, man behind. But she knew that would only reinforce his misconceptions about her. But the nurse at the door, the one who had offered a sympathetic smile earlier, was busy with her own work. Autie was alone with Dr. Baddy’s disdain. “I’m going to need you to stay still,” he said, his voice a command. He moved to restrain her flailing limbs, his grip firm and unyielding. The pressure on her wrists and ankles was a new torment, each touch a branding iron on her already raw skin. Autie’s breathing grew quick and shallow, each inhale a battle, each exhale a defeat. She couldn’t see, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel. Her chest tightened, a vice squeezing the life out of her. The room swirled into a whirlpool of sound and color, dragging her under as she literally got sick, bringing her even more discomfort. The smell of bile and fear mingled with the antiseptic stink, and she heard Dr. Baddy’s voice, now sharp and accusatory, telling her to calm down. But how could she? The world was a symphony of pain and doubt, and he was the conductor, baton slashing through her defenses. Her stomach lurched again, and she felt the cold, wet floor beneath her knees. Autie was beyond soothing. She was lost in overstimulation, each sensation a new threat to her already fragile psyche. The doctor's hands, now removing the restraints, felt like a hundred biting insects, each touch a reminder of dismissal. Her legs wobbled as she stood, eyes blurry with tears. The floor spun beneath her, and she leaned heavily on the nurse. "It's okay, sweetie," she whispered, her voice a balm to Autie's raw soul. But it wasn't ok. Nothing was ok. The world was still a minefield, each step a gamble she wasn't sure she could win. The nurse helped her to a chair, handing her a cup of water. Autie sipped it gratefully, the coolness a brief respite from the fire raging inside her. Dr. Baddy stood back, arms crossed, his face a thundercloud. The room felt like it was shrinking, the embodiment of the doubt that plagued her. But the doctor's words were a weight, dragging her back under. Was she just overreacting? The nurse's voice was a whisper in the chaos. "Miss, let's get you cleaned up, okay?" Autie nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. Her body was still shaking, and her eyes stung from the tears. The nurse's touch was firm but kind as she helped Autie to the bathroom. The nurse handed her a wet cloth, and Autie gratefully wiped her face, the coolness bringing a tiny bit of relief. It was something she knew all too well: the look of someone who didn't quite believe her, who thought she was just being dramatic. An ableist microaggression, subtle but stinging nonetheless. "It's okay, you'll be fine," the nurse said, her voice soft but patronizing. Autie could see the judgment lurking beneath her smile. "You just need to learn to cope with your... issues." It was their lack of understanding that was the real issue. But all that came out was a weak, "Thank you." She just wanted some sensory accommodations, but they made it seem like an outrageous request, refusing as if inconvenient. Leaving the office, Autie felt broken, defeated. The sun outside was too bright, the sounds of the world a cacophony she couldn't bear. But she knew she had to find a better doctor, one who would listen.

AUTIE AND DOCTOR GOOD (Author has Sensory Processing Disorder) Autie’s determination grew with each step she took away from that cold, unfeeling place. This was not the end of her journey. Days later, Autie found herself in the waiting room of Dr. Goodie, a recommendation from a friend who understood her plight. The walls here were painted a warm, soothing color, and the air smelled faintly of lavender. The music was soft, a melody that seemed tailored to her soul. The furniture was plush, and the lighting gentle, not the harsh fluorescent glare she'd come to expect. When Dr. Goodie entered, her eyes met Autie's, a smile in them that seemed genuine. She didn't immediately dive into her charts, but sat down, her posture open and attentive. "Tell me, Autie, what brings you in today?" Her voice was calm, a stark contrast to the storm Autie had weathered before. Autie took a deep breath, her words tumbling out like a waterfall, explaining her symptoms, her fears, and the pain of being doubted. Dr. Goodie nodded, her gaze never leaving Autie's, her expression one of understanding. She asked questions, real questions, that didn't make Autie feel like she was being interrogated. Her touch was gentle, her explanations thorough. She acknowledged Autie's reality, validating her experiences without dismissal. The exam room was a sanctuary, designed with sensory needs in mind. The lights were dimmer, the sounds softer, and the air held a faint scent of calming essential oils. Dr. Goodie offered Autie noise-canceling headphones, and a soft, weighted blanket to hold during the exam. She moved slowly, giving Autie time to adjust to each new sensation. Her voice remained calm and soothing, a lifeline in the tumultuous sea of Autie's overwhelmed nervous system. "We'll go at your pace," Dr. Goodie assured her. "I have different tools and techniques that I can use to make this easier for you." Autie felt a spark of hope, a tiny flame flickering in the darkness. For the first time in a long time, someone was offering her choices, treating her not as a problem to be solved, but as a person to be heard. Before each test, Dr. Goodie explained what she was about to do, asking for Autie's consent. "Is this okay with you?" she would say, holding up a thermometer or a blood pressure cuff. It was a simple question, but it meant the world to Autie. Her nods were met with a warm smile and a gentle touch that didn't make her recoil. The doctor's fingers were light as they performed each procedure, and she talked Autie through each step, her voice a steady beacon in the chaos of Autie's senses. For the first time in this medical odyssey, Autie felt seen and heard. Dr. Goodie didn't dismiss her pain, didn't treat her like a puzzle to solve or a problem to fix. Instead, she offered empathy, a rare gift in a world that so often misunderstood her. With each question, each caring gesture, Autie felt a piece of herself being put back together, like a shattered vase being carefully glued. "Would you like the lights a bit dimmer?" Dr. Goodie asked, and Autie nodded gratefully. The doctor obliged, and the room transformed into a soothing cave of calm. The doctor then presented her with a tray of different textured materials to choose from. "Which one feels most comfortable for you?" Autie selected a soft, velvety material, and Dr. Goodie placed it over the chair's harsh fabric, giving her a small oasis of comfort. Next, she offered a variety of fidget toys, each designed to cater to a different need. "Which of these helps you focus?" Autie's eyes lit up as she chose a smooth stone, the weight of it grounding her in a way she hadn't felt since she first walked into the cold, uncaring environment of Dr. Baddy's office. She clutched it tightly as Dr. Goodie continued her exam, her thumb absently tracing patterns that soothed her racing mind. The doctor spoke softly, explaining that she understood how overwhelming the world could be for someone with heightened senses. "We're going to work together," she assured Autie, "to find what works best for you." It was a revelation, like stepping out of a nightmare and into a dream. Here was someone who didn't just tolerate her differences but celebrated them, who saw her as more than just a collection of symptoms. Dr. Goodie took out a small pad of paper and a pen, asking Autie to write down any particular textures or sensations that were particularly uncomfortable for her. Autie's hand shook slightly as she began to scribble, the relief making her almost lightheaded. She listed the cold metallic feeling of instruments, the rough cotton of the typical examination table, the sharpness of needles, and the unyielding grip of Dr. Baddy's restraints. The doctor nodded thoughtfully as she read, her eyes never leaving Autie's. "I see," she said, her voice calm and measured. "We'll make sure to avoid those triggers as much as possible. I have a few alternatives we can try." Her voice was like a balm, soothing Autie's frazzled nerves. "For instance, we can use a different material for the blood pressure cuff, and I can make sure to warm up any instruments before I use them on you." She paused, waiting for Autie to indicate her agreement. When she nodded, Dr. Goodie smiled gently. "Good. And I have some numbing cream that can help." The exam continued, but this time it was a dance of understanding. Each move was made with care, each touch a promise that Autie's needs were not just acknowledged, but respected. Dr. Goodie was patient, explaining each step before taking it, and Autie felt a burden lifting. She was not a problem to be solved, but a person to be cared for. The doctor's gentle touch was a stark contrast to the invasive poking of before, and Autie found herself relaxing under the weighted blanket, the soft light, and the steady rhythm of her voice.

https://www.autismwellbeing.org.uk/downloadable-resources

~ Doubting Blood My father got a DNA test done on my autistic, non-verbal little brother because he didn't think he was his child. The results came back and it turns out my brother is his son, but my mother has no idea my dad ever got that done.

౨ৎ 𓇼 ᡣ𐭩 .° ༘🎧⋆🖇₊˚ෆ ̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅ ✎ᝰ. ྀི ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ 𓇢𓆸 ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ᝰ.ᐟ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆♛*ੈ✩‧₊˚♕𝓥𝐕𓆙

CHIP OFF THE OLD TALKS iii (Autistic Author) With a deep breath, Plankton nods. Karen heads upstairs and returns with Chip, his eyes wide and hopeful. She sits beside Plankton, her arm around him, offering silent support. Chip takes a seat on the floor, his legs folded under him as he stares up at his dad. "Don’t just stare at me like that!" Plankton yells, his voice echoing through the small room, causing Chip to flinch. Karen's grip on his hand tightens, a silent plea for patience. Chip's eyes fill with tears as he looks up at his father, not understanding why he's being yelled at. "I'm sorry, Dad," he whispers, his voice trembling. "I just wanted to know if you're ok." Karen's heart breaks as she sees the hurt on her son's face. She turns to Plankton, her voice firm but gentle. "Plankton, we need to talk to him. He's scared, and he loves you." Plankton's eye softens at the sight of his son's tears. He takes a deep breath, visibly fighting the urge to retreat into his anger. "Okay," he murmurs. "Okay." Karen squeezes his hand, her silent support a lifeline. She looks at Chip, her eyes filled with love and hope. "You remember when we talked about how everyone is different, and some people have challenges that others don't?" Chip nods, his eyes never leaving his father's face. "Well, Dad has something called neurodivergence," Karen begins, her voice calm and steady. "It means his brain works differently than ours. Sometimes it's like he needs a little break, to reboot." Chip nods, his eyes never leaving Plankton's. "But why does he get so mad?" he asks, his voice small but earnest. Plankton's antennae quiver with irritation. "Why do you think," he snaps. "You just don't know when to leave me alone." Chip's eyes widen, his bottom lip trembling as he tries to hold back his tears. "I just want to understand," he says, his voice shaking. But Plankton's anger is a storm that doesn't easily pass. "I don't have to justify myself to you," he snaps, his antennae quivering with agitation. "So, don't ask me about it again." Chip's eyes well up with tears, his voice small and trembling. "But, Dad..." Karen's heart breaks at the sight of their son's pain, but she knows that Plankton's anger is a defense mechanism, a way for him to cope with his fear and confusion. She tries to interject, but Plankton beats her to it. “Well guess what Chip, the world doesn’t revolve around your curiosity,” Plankton snaps, his antennae standing tall with indignation. “Some things are just private, ok? Just like how I don’t ask you why you think you’re entitled!” Chip cries. “But that’s not fair to me, I…” Plankton's face contorts with annoyance, his antennae twitching erratically. “Fair? Life’s not fair, kid. Get used to it. You think you’re perfect? Maybe you should go live in a sitcom where everything’s wrapped up with a neat bow at the end of the day.” Karen winces at the harshness of Plankton’s words, but she knows her husband’s bark is worse than his bite. He’s hurting, and his defense is to lash out. She opens her mouth to speak, but Chip beats her to it. "Father," Chip says, his voice shaky but determined. "I’m trying..." "Oh, I know you're trying," Plankton says with a sneer, his antennae waving in the air like he's swatting at an invisible fly. "But you're trying to make this about you. You wanna try something? Well how about you try to start understanding that sometimes people need space, huh? Maybe then you'd get it." Karen sighs, her eyes never leaving Chip's face. "Plankton, please," she says, her voice a gentle reprimand. But Plankton's on a roll, his words coming out in a rush of bitterness and pain. "You want me to sugarcoat it for you, son? Tell it's all rainbows and sunshine?" His antennae are a blur of agitation as he stands up. "You wanna know what it's like? Imagine the world's loudest, brightest, most obnoxious parade happening in your head all day, every day. And you can't turn it off, no matter how much you want to. That's what it's like for me. So, don't you dare make it about your feelings, Chip!" Karen's chest tightens, her eyes flickering between her husband and son. She knows Plankton's frustration is a product of his condition, but the words are harsh, and the sting is real. "You know what, Chip?" Plankton continues, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Why don't you go live in a world where everyone is just like you? A perfect little bubble where everyone thinks the same, feels the same, and Neptune forbid, doesn't 'zone out'." He makes air quotes with his fingers, his antennae still twitching with agitation. Chip's eyes are red-rimmed, his cheeks wet with tears, but his voice is steady. "But Dad, I just want to know why you get like this. I want to help.." Plankton's sarcasm turns to a cold, hard edge. "Help? What can you do, huh? You think a pat on the back and a 'good job, Dad' is going to make everything ok? News flash, kiddo, it doesn't work like that, so stop acting like you know anything!" With that, Plankton storms out of the room in frustration. The door to his bedroom slams shut with a resounding thud, leaving Karen and Chip in the quiet wake of his anger. Karen pulls Chip into a tight embrace, feeling his small body shake with sobs, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Chip, honey," she says, her voice soft and warm as she strokes his back. "Daddy's condition isn't something he chose. It's called Autism." Chip looks up at her with wide, questioning eyes. "What's that?" "It's a way his brain is," Karen says, her voice gentle and calm. "It's something he's had since he was born. It makes it harder for him to deal with certain things, like noise and touch. And sometimes, it's like his brain goes on a little vacation without him knowing it." Chip looks up at her with a frown. "But why didn't you tell me sooner?" Karen takes a deep breath, her eyes misting over. "Because we wanted to protect you, and we didn't want you to see him differently," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Plankton was diagnosed after we'd already fallen in love. We didn't want to define him, or for you to think of him as anything less than the amazing person he can be when happy." Chip sniffs, his grip on her tightening. "But why does he get so mad?" Karen's gaze follows Plankton's retreating form, her heart heavy with the weight of their conversation. "His condition can make him feel overwhelmed," she explains, her voice gentle. "Sometimes, it's hard for him to control his emotions. When that happens, he says things. It's not necessarily you personally, honey, it's about him trying to deal with his own frustrations." Chip pulls back from the embrace. "But why doesn't he like to be touched by me, but meanwhile hugs you the same way I tried to?" he asks, his eyes searching hers for answers. Karen takes a deep breath, trying to find the right words to explain something so complex to a young mind. "Daddy's love is different, Chip," she says, her voice gentle. "He shows it in his own way. When I know he's had a hard day, I don't just come up and hug him. I look for signs, like if he's been more quiet than usual, or if his antennae are drooping. That's how I know he might need a hug or just some space." Chip's frown deepens. "But how do you know…" "I've learned to read him," Karen says, her voice filled with understanding. "When he needs a hug," she adds with a sad smile, "his eye gets this soft look, like he's asking for it without saying the words." Chip nods, trying to process this new information. "But what about me?" he asks, his voice small. "How do I know?" Karen sighs. "When he's about to get irritated," she begins, "it can be like he's bracing for something. That's a way I can tell." Chip nods, his curiosity piqued. "How does his face look?" Karen takes a moment, her eyes reflecting on her years of experience. "When Daddy's about to get irritated," she says, "his eye tends to narrow, just a bit." Chip looks confused. "But why does he have only one eye?" he asks, his voice innocent and curious. "It's a condition called cyclopia, which runs in his family."

Affirmations for Autistic People @neurodivergent_lou Your worth isn't defined by your productivity. You are not lazy for resting. You are not too much as an autistic person. You are not a burden for advocating for your needs and requesting accommodations. Society needs to adapt to you too. You are not faking being autistic. People who aren't autistic don't spend time worrying if they are autistic. Self diagnosis is valid. It is not your fault for struggling in a world that is not built for you. Your sensory issues are very real even if other people have different sensory experiences to you. You are not making things up You are not broken, you are not incomplete.

＃ＫｎｅｅＳｕｒｇｅｒｙ pt. 18 "What are you guys doing here?" he asked, his voice still gruff but with a hint of confusion. Sponge Bob smiled, his thumb still tracing the edge of Plankton's cast. "We just wanted to make sure you're okay," he said. Plankton's antennae twitched. "I'm fine," he said, his tone gruff. Karen stood up, her movements smooth and efficient. "Why don't we get you into your chair?" she suggested, picking up his crutches. Plankton nodded, his movements slow and deliberate as he carefully swung his casted leg over the side of the couch. With a grunt, he hoisted himself up, balancing on his good leg. Patrick watched, his eyes wide with interest. "Look at him go," he whispered, his voice filled with awe. "It's like he's learning to walk all over again like a wittle baby." Plankton shot Patrick a glare, his face flushing with embarrassment. "I'm not a baby!" he snapped, his voice echoing in the quiet living room. "Patrick, that's not helping," Hanna whispered, trying not to laugh. Sponge Bob's expression was one of shock. "Patrick, that's not nice," he admonished gently. Patrick scrunched his face up in confusion. "But he looks like one," he said, his voice innocent. Plankton huffed. "No, I'm not!" But Patrick's on a roll. "You know what else babies have?" he said, his voice rising. "Naps!" Plankton's face grew redder, his antennae twitching with anger. "Patrick," Hanna warned, but Patrick was on a roll. "Hey, Plankie, you need help while you're all broken. Wa-a-agh, wa-a-agh!" The room fell silent. Plankton stared at Patrick, his single eye twitching. "That's it," he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "I guess I'll just have to take naps like a baby now." Hanna could see the hurt in his eye. With a quick motion, Plankton set down his crutches and stood up, hopping on one foot. Without another word, he turned and limped away, his casted leg thumping against the floor with each step as he headed towards his bedroom. The group watched, stunned, as he closed the door behind him with a slam. Hanna's laughter died in her throat, replaced by a look of horror. "Oh no," she whispered. Karen sighed, setting down the magazines. "I'll go talk to him," she said firmly. But before she could move, they heard sobs from behind the door. Her heart aching, she knocked softly. "Plankton, are you okay?" The sobs grew louder, and she exchanged worried glances with Sponge Bob and Patrick, who looked equally mortified. "I'll go," Sponge Bob volunteered, standing up. He approached the door, his steps tentative. "Plankton, buddy, it's me," he said gently. "Can I come in?" The sobbing subsided for a moment before Plankton's voice, muffled by the door, replied, "I don't want to see any of you right now." The words hit Hanna like a brick, her chest tightening with sadness. Sponge Bob looked back at them, his expression pained. He shrugged helplessly before sitting back down. Patrick's face fell. "I didn't mean to make him cry," he said, his voice small. Hanna nodded, her eyes still on the closed door. "We know you didn't, Patrick," she said, trying to comfort him. "But sometimes words can hurt, even if we don't mean them to." Sponge Bob placed a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "We'll apologize later," he said firmly. "But right now, let's just give him some space." They both left, the only sound being Plankton's muted sobs. Karen stood, her heart heavy with disappointment at his pain. She moved to the door, wanting to comfort Plankton but respecting his request for solitude. Her hand hovered above the knob, unsure of what to do. Through the crack in the door, she could see Plankton's form hunched over his bed, his tiny fists clenched. His sobs grew quieter, his breaths coming in shuddering gasps. Karen's chest tightened, watching his vulnerability. With a deep breath, she pushed the door open, moving slowly towards the bed. "Plankton," she said softly, her voice soothing. He looked up, his eye red and swollen. "I just want to check on you," she said, her tone gentle. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to, but I'm here." He nodded, his antennae drooping. Karen sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb his cast. "You've been through a lot," she said, her voice soft. "It's okay to feel upset." Plankton's chest heaved, his sobs growing softer. "But you know, tomorrow we have that appointment with the doctor," Karen reminded him gently. "They'll check how your leg's doing, make sure everything's on track. And Hanna is coming along, as her home is still under repair." Plankton sniffled, his eye still wet. "Yeah, I know," he mumbled, his voice small. Karen smiled gently. "But you don't have to push yourself too hard. You're still healing." The next morning, Karen gets out of bed early, the sun not yet fully risen outside. She can hear Plankton's snores as she sneaks past his bed. Hanna stirs in the guest room, waking up. "How's he doing?" she asks, coming into their room. "Asleep," Karen whispers. "Let's get ready for his appointment." Hanna nods. "What time is it?" "Five thirty," Karen says, glancing at her clock. "We have to leave in a moment." Plankton's snores grow softer. Hanna looks at Karen, who's gathering his crutches. "Should we wake him?" Karen nods. "We have to. The doctor wanted us there early to check the cast." They tiptoe over to Plankton's bedside. Karen places a hand on his shoulder. "Plankton, sweetie," she says gently. "Time to wake up." His snores stop abruptly, and his single eye snaps open. "What's going on?" he croaks, his voice rough from sleep. Hanna smiles tentatively. "We have an appointment with the doctor," Karen reminds him, helping him sit up. "We need to get going." Plankton groans, his casted leg thumping against the bedframe. "Okay, okay," he says, rubbing his eye. Karen loaded his wheelchair into the back as Plankton used his crutches to get in the car. The drive was quiet, each of them lost in their thoughts. Plankton was nervous about the doctor's visit, his leg throbbing with each bump in the road. Hanna sat beside him. When they arrived at the hospital, the waiting room was deserted except for the receptionist, who gave them a knowing smile. "Mr. Plankton," she said, her voice cheerful. "Right this way." Plankton grimaced as he wheeled himself in. The doctor, a stern-looking crab, took one look at his cast and said, "Ah, yes. Your appointment. Let's have a look." Setting up the x-ray, the doctor turns to Plankton, his expression professional. "You've got quite the cast," he says, eyeing it curiously. Plankton nods, gritting his teeth as he lifts his leg up onto the examination table. Karen's hand rests on his shoulder, offering silent support. The doctor taps the cast. "How's the pain?" Plankton's antennae twitch. "Better," he says, his voice strained. Karen squeezes his shoulder. Hanna, seated beside Karen, holds her hand.

NEUROBEHAVIORAL PLANKTON vi (Autistic author) (see notes below) * ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴs ᴏғ ᴅɪsᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ Plankton's eye closed slowly, his breathing evening out under her calming touch. His body relaxed into the cushions of the couch, his mind still racing but his body succumbing to the siren call of sleep. The smoothie and Karen's comforting presence had worked their magic. Karen sat beside him, wrapped protectively around his small form. She watched his chest rise and fall with each breath, her heart heavy with the weight of the day's events. The Chum Bucket was quiet now, the silence a stark contrast to the shouts and sobs that had filled it moments before. Karen's heart breaks for Plankton yet she knows Hanna's never met him, never heard of the accident nor diagnosis. With a sigh, she picked up the phone that lay on the end table and dialed Hanna's number. The line rang once, twice, three times before Hanna's voice filled the line. "Hello?" Karen took a deep breath, steeling herself for the conversation she had to have. "Hanna, it's me," she said, her voice calm despite the whirlwind inside her. "I need to talk to you about what happened." Hanna's tone shifted immediately, concern lacing her words. "Is Plankton okay?" Karen's grip on the phone tightened. "No," she admitted, her voice a whisper. "He's asleep now, but he's not okay." Hanna's voice was a mix of shock and disbelief. "What do you mean?" Karen took another deep breath, her eyes never leaving Plankton's peaceful face. "There was an accident," she began, her voice steady. "He hit his head and..." She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Acquired Autism Spectrum Disorder." The line was silent for a moment before Hanna's voice came back, filled with horror. "Oh Neptune, I had no idea!" Karen's tentacles trembled slightly as she recounted the doctor's words, the diagnosis that had turned their world upside down. "It's permanent," she whispered. "They said his corpus callosum and cerebellum were damaged. He's...he's not the same, Hanna." On the phone, Hanna's voice was a mix of sympathy and confusion. "But why didn't you tell me sooner?" Karen's sigh was heavy with regret. "We've been dealing with this alone," she explained, her tentacle tracing patterns on the couch cushion. "It's so new, so overwhelming." Hanna's voice was gentle now, understanding in a way that made Karen feel less alone. "I'm so sorry, Karen," she said, her concern genuine. "I had no idea." Karen's eyes remained locked on Plankton's face, his chest rising and falling with each breath. "It's been a rollercoaster," she admitted, her voice tight. "But we're trying to make the best of it." Karen hangs up and turns her focus back to Plankton, his small body curled tightly under the blanket. She notices the way his antenna twitches as if he's dreaming. Her hands gently adjust the blanket, her touch feather-light against his skin. Plankton's face is a mask of peace in sleep, a stark contrast to the turmoil of the waking world. His snores are faint, a soothing rhythm that fills the otherwise silent room. Just as Karen begins to relax, the door to the Chum Bucket bursts open, letting in a rush of sunlight and SpongeBob's unmistakable laughter. "Plankton?" he calls out, his voice high and cheerful. Sponge Bob's entrance is a whirlwind of energy, a stark contrast to the heavy silence that hangs over the laboratory. He doesn't notice the tension in the air as he bounds towards the couch, his eyes widening in surprise when he sees Plankton's unusual position. "Whoa, Plankton," Sponge Bob says, his voice a chirp of curiosity. "Looks like you're taking a siesta!" He laughs, not comprehending the depth of emotion that has just played out in the room. Karen looks up from her watchful vigil, her eyes tired but determined. "Sponge Bob," she says, keeping her voice steady, "Plankton's not feeling well." Sponge Bob's face falls, his cheerfulness dimming. "Oh no," he says, his concern genuine. He approaches the couch with caution, his eyes fixed on Plankton's peaceful form. "What happened?" he asks, his voice hushed. "Is he okay?" Karen's eyes meet Sponge Bob's, full of a sorrow he can't quite comprehend. "It's been a...difficult day," she says, her tentacles tightening slightly around Plankton. "He had an accident." Sponge Bob's expression shifts from confusion to alarm. "Is he going to be okay?" he asks, his voice filled with concern. Karen sighs, her tentacle stroking Plankton's forehead in a soothing motion. "He's just...different now," she says, her voice tight. Sponge Bob frowns, his bubbles popping with worry. "What kind of different?" Karen's expression is guarded, her eyes never leaving Plankton's sleeping form. "He's been diagnosed with... autism," she whispers, the word sounding foreign even to her. "Hey, I was born with idiopathic Autism!" Sponge Bob says. "Well Plankton's got an acquired form, it's a rarity," Karen explains to Sponge Bob, her voice barely a murmur so as not to disturb the sleeping Plankton. Sponge Bob nods slowly, his understanding of the situation deepening with each word. "So his accident gave him autism; when?" "Yesterday, when he hit his head on an invention." Sponge Bob's eyes widen with realization. "Oh," he says, his voice filled with sympathy. He sits down on the floor beside the couch. "It's okay, Karen," Sponge Bob says softly, his eyes full of understanding. "We'll figure this out together." Plankton stirs beneath the blanket, his small form shifting slightly. Karen's gaze snaps to him. "Plankton?" she whispers, her tentacles poised to comfort him if his distress resurfaces. But his eye remains closed, his breathing even. Sponge Bob's expression is thoughtful as he looks at the sleeping Plankton. "You know, Karen, being different isn't so bad," he says gently. "I mean, look at me." Karen's tentacles relax slightly as she looks at Sponge Bob, his optimism a balm to her weary spirit. Karen smiles. "Tell that to Hanna," Karen mutters to herself. "Who's Hanna?" "A friend," Karen explained, her voice still tight. "She came over today, didn't know about Plankton's diagnosis. She said things she shouldn't have." Sponge Bob's frown deepens. "What kind of things?" "She said he's a burden, that maybe I should put him in an institution," she whispers, her voice shaking with anger. Sponge Bob's face falls in shock. "That's not right, Karen," he says firmly. "You don't have to listen to her. What's an institution?" "It's a place where clinically crazy people are sent to rehabilitation be 'taken care of.' But it's not like that really for neurodivergent people. It's more like a...a prison where they deprive them, and often...never make it. But mostly it's for people who are violent, which isn't the case for..." Her voice trails off as Plankton stirs again, his antennae twitching slightly. Sponge Bob looks at Plankton, his eyes filled with compassion. "He's not going anywhere, Karen," he says firmly. "You guys are like family to me. I'll help you take care of him." Plankton's single eye opens slightly, his gaze unfocused. "Shh, it's okay," she whispers, her voice a soothing caress. Plankton blinks slowly, his eye coming into focus as he sees Sponge Bob. A smile spreads across his face, a rare expression of pure joy that lights up his features. His body uncoils from its tense curl, his antennae perking up with excitement. "Sponge Bob," Plankton whispers, his voice filled with a warmth that surprises Karen. He sits up slowly, his movements calculated to avoid any jolts to his sensitive system. Sponge Bob's face splits into a beaming smile, his eyes shining with joy. "Hey, Plankton!" He says. Plankton's gaze remains fixed on Sponge Bob, his expression a mixture of gratitude and comfort. "You're here," he says simply, his voice a rough whisper. Sponge Bob nods, his smile never wavering. "Of course I am," he says, his voice gentle. He reaches out a hand tentatively, his movements slow and deliberate. Plankton's antennae twitch, then he reaches out, his grip firm but not too tight. The two of them sit there, the silence comforting rather than oppressive. **NOTEs As an autistic writer (and I used AI to help me with the words) I do not encourage the ableism people have shown in their ignorance. Depending on when and where you live, some people have thought such therapies might be good, without actually accepting nor helping. Even Hans Asperger has supported eugenics during the war, sending people to internment camps leading to demise. I came across the site autismmemorial.wordpress.com if you'd like to educate yourself about how people have endured such.*

During the appointment, a small sample of cells are taken from your cervix and checked for certain types of human papillomavirus (HPV) that can cause changes to the cells. The procedure might also interact unhelpfully with common Autistic qualities such as differences in how we understand what our body is feeling (interoception), our experience of pain (hypo/ hyper sensitivity) and difficulties in noticing and identifying how we feel (alexithymia). Co-occurring conditions commonly experienced in the Autistic community such as gastro-intestinal issues and joint hypermobility disorders can also have an impact on an Autistic patient’s experience of a screening procedure. Nurse practitioners and doctors may have a limited understanding of the unique and significant ways in which autism and its associated issues impact a patient’s experience of a given medical procedure. This means that the particular supports that might help to alleviate discomfort could be lacking. We might encounter resistance to our own attempts to self-regulate and take care of our sensory and emotional needs during the appointment. We may even experience medical gas lighting or invalidation when attempting to express our experience or request much needed accommodations. For those of us with a history of these types of experiences, just being in a medical environment could feel threatening and unsafe. The communication of pain experienced has often been minimised or overlooked which has resulted in a heightened feeling of dread in advance of appointments and a lack of confidence in the support offered during. We also think that it is deeply wrong that people in our community continue to pay the price for unmet access needs in medical settings. This is an urgent problem that demands institutional change on a broad scale and a shift in mind set amongst medical staff on the ground.