𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖠𝖫𝖫 pt. 6
(𝖻𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌)
𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗 : ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ
ᴡᴀʏ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟ
ʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ/ꜰᴀᴄᴛ-ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ
ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴛɪᴇꜱ.
ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇ
ᴏʀ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴏᴛᴇ ᴀɴʏ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ
ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ. ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ
ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴍᴇɴᴛ.
sᥙρρort to thosᥱ ιmρᥲᥴtᥱd
ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴩᴛ- 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳
𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 ➸ 𝐏𝐆-𝟏𝟑
ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ🙂ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴅᴀʏ
The sounds Plankton makes
shift again. "Skrink, skrink."
Karen's eyes light up with
understanding. "It's his brain's
new way of saying 'I'm okay',"
she whispers. "It's a
'stim'." Chip looks at his dad,
his curiosity piqued.
Plankton's antennae wriggle,
his eye glazed over. "Skrink,
skrink, skrink." The sounds are
soothing, almost hypnotic.
"It's like he's playing a tune,"
Chip murmurs. Karen nods.
"In a way, he is," she says. "It's
his brain's symphony."
The room is bathed in the
glow of Plankton's stims, his
autism's unique melody.
"Dad?" Chip asks tentatively,
his voice a whisper. Plankton's
head tilts slightly, his antennae
still. "Skrink skrink skrink," he
repeats. It's like he's in a
trance, lost in a world only he
understands. Plankton's eye flickers.
"It's okay, Plankton," Karen whispers.
"You can keep making your
sounds."
And then it happens. Plankton's
voice shifts, echoing Karen's words.
"It's okay, Plankton," he murmurs.
Chip looks at his mom, his eyes wide.
"Is he... is he okay?" Karen nods.
"It's his way of processing," she says.
"It's called 'echolalia'." Chip nods,
his gaze never leaving his father's.
"It's when his brain mimics the words
he hears to make sense of them," she explains.
"It's like when you repeat something
until it feels right."
Plankton's antennae twitch in time with
his echoes. "It's okay, Plankton," he says,
his voice a mirror of Karen's soothing tone.
Chip smiles. "It's okay, Plankton,"
he repeats, trying to enforce his dad's calm.
But Plankton thinks
Chip's making fun of
him. His antennae shoot
straight up, his eye wide
with hurt anger at Chip.
"It's not a game, Chip!"
Plankton snaps. "It's not
something to tck tck... to
mock!" Karen sighs,
knowing this conversation
needs to be handled with
care. "Sorry, Dad," Chip says, his
voice shaking. "I just... I
thought it would he-"
"It's not for you to think
about!" Plankton cuts him off.
Karen puts a hand on
Chip's shoulder, her gaze
on Plankton. "Chip didn't mean
anything by it," she says calmly.
"He just wants to understand
and connect." She turns
to Chip, her screen filled with
compassion. "I know it's hard to
see Dad like this," she says.
"But remember, his autism is
part of him, and we need to
respect it. He doesn't like it
when you mimic his sounds
like that."
Chip nods, feeling a
wave of guilt. "I'm sorry, Dad,"
he whispers. Plankton's antennae
droop slightly, but he doesn't
look at Chip. "It's okay," Karen
says, her voice soothing. "We're
all learning here."
Plankton's hand starts to
move again, tracing patterns
on the blanket. Karen watches.
"It's his 'stimming', Chip,"
she says. "It's his way of
self-soothing, and these movements
and sounds help him to cope."
Chip nods, his eyes still
wet. "But why did he get
so mad when I do it?" he
asks. Karen sighs. "Because
it's his own personal language,
his way of understanding the
world," she explains. "When you
address it, he feels like you're
invading his space, like you're
not taking his feelings seriously.
It's something his brain does for
himself only." Karen smiles
gently. "It's okay, Plankton," she
whispers. "Chip's just trying to
understand everything. You
can keep making your sounds."
Chip wants to help, but he doesn't
know how. "Just let him be,
Chip," Karen says, her voice
soothing. Plankton shifts again,
his eye teary. "It's okay,
Plankton," he murmurs, echoing
Karen's words from earlier.
Chip clenches. He didn't
mean to upset him, seeing his
dad's eye welling up with tears.
Karen's hand finds Plankton's,
squeezing it gently. "It's okay,
Plankton," she says. "You don't
have to hide it from us."
Plankton's tears spill
over, tracing a silent
river down his cheek.
Karen's eyes never leave
his. "You don't have to hide,
Plankton," she whispers. "We're
here for you." Chip watches. He
doesn't know what to do,
his mind racing. "Mom," he says,
his voice shaking, "What can
I do?" Karen turns to him, her
expression gentle. "Just be here,"
she says. "Just listen and
learn."
Plankton's tears stream down.
"It's okay, Plankton," he hears
his wife say again. The
words echo in his mind, a
comforting mantra. "It's okay,
Plankton," Plankton murmurs, trying
to mimic her tone. But it
sounds forced, wrong. He
swallows hard. "That's right,
Plankton," Karen says,
smiling. "You're okay. You're
safe, Plankton," she repeats.
"You're here with us."
Chip watches his dad, his heart
breaking. "Mom, why is he...?"
Karen's eyes are filled with
pain. "It's his way of
telling us he's okay," she says.
"He's using my words because
right now, his brain can't find
his own." Chip nods, his eyes
on his father. Plankton's
hand is still moving, tracing
the patterns on the blanket.
"It's okay, Dad," Chip whispers.
Plankton's crying intensifies,
his tics becoming more
pronounced. "Tck tck tck," he
murmurs, his antennae flailing.
Karen reaches for him, but
he flinches away. "It's okay,
Plankton," she says, her voice
calm. "We're here."
Chip watches, his own
screen wet with tears. He's never
seen his dad like this before.
He feels like an outsider in a
conversation he's always been a
part of. "You don't have to hide
your tears," Karen whispers to
Plankton. "We're a family."
Plankton's sobs become
louder, his tics more pronounced.
"Tck tck tck," he says, his
body convulsing slightly.
Karen's hand is firm but gentle
on his back, offering silent
support. "It's okay," she murmurs.
"Let it out."
Chip watches. "Why is he...?"
his voice trails off. Karen looks
at him, her screen full of love.
"It's his way of saying
he's overwhelmed, Chip," she
whispers. "When he repeats
my words, it's his brain trying
to find the comfort it needs."
Plankton's cries become
louder, his tics more erratic.
"Tck tck tck," he sobs, his
body shaking. Chip feels
helpless, his mind racing.
He wants to make it stop,
but he doesn't know how.
"Just be here, buddy," Karen
says, her voice calm. "Sometimes,
that's all he needs."
Plankton's tics morph into
full-body shudders, his cries
now muffled by the blanket.
"It's okay, Plankton," Karen
whispers, her hand still rubbing
his back. "We're with you."
Chip watches as his father's
sobs echo in the room, each
one a heartbreaking testament
to the weight he carries. "You're
not alone," he whispers, his voice
tiny in the face of Plankton's
distress.
The words tumble from
Plankton's mouth, a mix of
Karen's soothing tones and
his own raw pain. "It's o-okay,
P-Plankton," he repeats, his voice
broken. "It's o-okay." Karen's eyes
well up too, but she remains
steadfast. She's seen this before.
"Tck tck tck," Plankton says,
his body convulsing with
each sob. "You don't have t-to
tck tck hide it-t." Karen nods, her
thumb brushing away a tear. "It's okay,"
she whispers. "We love you just
as you are." Plankton's sobs
turn into hiccups, his antennae
twitching. "It's okay, Plankton,"
he says, his voice mimicking hers.
Karen's hand moves in gentle
circles on Plankton's back, her
eyes never leaving his.
"It's okay, Plankton," Karen says.
"You're safe here." Plankton's sobs
subside slightly. Karen nods. "That's
right," she whispers. "Your sounds,
your tics, they're part of you."
Chip watches. He's never seen his dad
so vulnerable. "But... but why?"
he asks. Karen takes a deep
breath. "His autism, Chip," she
says. "It's like his brain has
its own language, and when
he's overwhelmed, it comes out."
Plankton's tics become less
erratic, his breathing even.
"It's okay, Dad," Chip says,
his voice trembling. "You're not
alone." Karen smiles sadly.
"He knows that, Chip," she says.
"But sometimes, his brain just
needs to speak its own words."
Plankton's eye meets
his wife's, the panic
receding slightly as Chip
watches.