CHIP AND FAIL xvii
(Autistic author)
Plankton quivered with
the effort to contain
his anger.
"Chip, your dad's right,"
Karen said, her voice
a soft current of calm
amidst the storm. "You
have to learn to respect
his boundaries."
Plankton's antennae twitched.
He looked at Karen, his
eye filled with a mix of
gratitude and pain. "It's not just
the touch," he whispered, his voice
raw. "It's the types of touch,
the expectations... It's like I'm
drowning every day."
Karen nodded, her eyes never
leaving Plankton's. "And
Chip," she said, turning to her son,
"you need to learn to swim
without pushing him under."
Chip's eyes were wide with
understanding. "What can I do?"
Karen took a deep breath. "Just
ask before you touch," she said.
"And if he says no, respect it.
Give him space."
Chip's eyes searched his father's.
"Dad," he whispered. "I'm sorry."
Plankton's antennae twitched, a
sign of his internal struggle.
Karen's hand squeezed his.
"Okay, Chip," she said, her voice
a gentle guide. "Ask your questions."
Chip took a deep breath. "What do
you mean by 'ask before I touch'?"
he ventured, his eyes on Plankton,
his antennae still a blur of agitation.
Plankton took a moment before
replying. "It means," he began,
his voice still sharp, "that I need
space. My brain can't handle
what yours can!"
"But Mom," Chip's voice was
still tentative, "How do we
know what touch..."
But Plankton's antennae shot up,
his eye a storm of agitation. "Just ask!"
he snapped. "It's not rocket
science, Chip. Just. Ask."
Chip took a deep breath, his
cheeks still flushed with anger.
"I'm asking what types of..."
But Plankton's antennae were
already back to their usual
calm state. "I know you're curious,"
he said, his voice softer. "But I can't
just list them. It's different every
day. Sometimes, a simple pat on the
back is too much. Other times, I
crave a hug."
Chip nodded slowly, his mind racing
with questions. "So, it IS a choice..."
But Plankton's antennae drooped. "No,
Chip," he said, his voice weary. "It's not
a choice. It's survival."
"Survival? Dad, a touch
won't kill you.."
But Plankton's antennae
twitched again. "It's not just
about living," he said, his voice
sad. "It's about living without pain."
Chip's eyes searched his
father's, seeing the weariness
and hurt. He took a step closer,
his hand outstretched. "Can I?"
he asked, his voice tentative.
Plankton flinched, his antennae
shooting up. "What are you doing?"
he snapped, his voice tight with
anxiety.
"Just asking if it's okay," Chip said,
his hand hovering in midair. "I don't
want to..."
Plankton's antennae stopped
twitching. "If you're going to ask,
make it genuine," he said, his voice
softening. "Don't just do it because
you think it's the right thing to do."
Chip nodded, his hand
still hovering. "I want to learn,"
he said, his voice earnest. "What
can I do to make it better?"
Plankton's antennae quivered
slightly, a hint of softening.
"You can start by listening," he said,
his voice a little less sharp.
"What do you mean?" Chip
asked, his hand slowly lowering.
"I mean," Plankton began, his antennae
calming slightly, "that I need you to
understand that my boundaries are not
up for negotiation."
"But what if I want to hug you?"
Chip's voice was hopeful, his
arms outstretched and already
reaching him.
Plankton's antennae shot
up again. "Chip, I said no!"
he yelled, his voice sharp with
pain. "How many times do I have to
tell you?"
Chip's eyes widened, his hands
falling to his side. "But I just..."
But Plankton's antennae were
a blur of agitation again. "You don't
get it!" he shouted. "It's not about
what YOU want, it's about what I need!"
Chip's eyes searched his father's,
his mind racing. "But Dad, I just
want to show you that I care," he
said, his voice quivering. "Is there
no way to do that without making
you uncomfortable?"
Plankton's antennae twitched. "Chip,"
he began, his voice weary, "just
because you don't see my struggle
doesn't mean it's not there."
Chip's eyes searched his father's, his
hands clenched at his sides. "But
how can I show you that I care?"
"Sleep, for now," Karen
says. "We're all
tired. We can
talk about this
another time."
Plankton's antennae
dropped slightly, his
body visibly
deflating. Chip
nodded, his eyes
on the floor.
"Okay," he murmured.
"I'll just go to
my room."
Karen watched him go,
her heart heavy with the
knowledge that she had
to be the one to mend
the fracture between
father and son. She
turned to Plankton.
"Bedtime," she said, her
voice a gentle nudge. "We're
all exhausted. It's late."
The next morning, Chip
awoke early.
He could feel the tension
in the air, thick and palpable.
The house was eerily silent.
He knew he had to make things
right for his dad.
Chip tiptoed to his parents's
room, his heart racing.
He pushed the door open.
Karen was sitting on the
edge of the bed. Plankton
was curled up, his antennae
twitching slightly.
Chip swallowed his pride. "Mom,
I'm sorry for what I said," he
mumbled. "Can you help me talk
to Dad?"
Karen's eyes softened. "Your father's
still sleeping," she said. "But I'll
talk to him when he wakes up."
Chip nodded. "I'll wait," he said,
his voice barely a whisper. "I'll do
whatever it takes."
Karen's eyes searched his,
seeing the determination in them.
"Alright," she said, her voice a
soft caress. "But remember, it's not
about fixing him. It's about
understanding him."
Chip nodded solemnly. "I know,"
he said. "I just want to be
there for him."
Karen's eyes filled with
pride. "That's all we can
ask for," she said. "But you
have to be patient."
Chip goes to his mom's
bed, sitting down.
"I'll wait," he says.
"I'm not leaving until
we talk."
Karen nods, her eyes filled with
understanding. "I'll stay with
you," she says. "But remember, we
have to give him space."
Chip nods, his gaze never leaving
his father's sleeping form. He
studies Plankton, his antennae
twitching slightly in his sleep.
He tries to imagine what it's like
for his dad, to live in a world
where a simple touch could be
torture.
He watches the rise and fall
of Plankton's chest, the gentle
sway of his antennae. He notices
how peaceful he looks when
his mind isn't bombarded by the
world's sensory assault, the way his
mouth is slightly open.
"Mom," Chip says, his voice
barely above a whisper. "What
does Dad's autism mean for his
sleep?"
Karen sighs, her eyes still
on Plankton. "It means that
his brain is always on alert,"
she explains. "Sleep can be
elusive for him. Sometimes, the
smallest sound can keep him
awake for hours."
Chip nods, his gaze still
on Plankton. "What
happened yesterday when I...
Dad was unresponsive?"
Karen sighs. "Sensory overload,"
she says. "It's like your brain
has too much to process, so
it just shuts down."
Chip nods, his eyes
still on Plankton. "Was he
like, awake?" he asks.
"Sort of," Karen replies,
her eyes never leaving
Plankton's restless form.
"It's like he's trapped
in his own head."
"Could he hear me?" Chip's voice
was a mix of fear and hope.
"Could he feel anything?"
Karen looked at her son, her
heart heavy with the knowledge
that she was about to reveal a
painful truth. "He heard you," she
said gently. "But his brain couldn't
process it all."
Chip felt a lump in his throat.
"Could he see?" he asked,
his voice tight with emotion.
Karen nodded, her eyes
still on Plankton. "He could see
you," she said. "But it's like
his brain was stuck in a loop,
replaying the same scene over
and over."
Chip felt the weight of his
father's pain, his own chest
constricting. "How long do
they usually last?"
Karen's gaze remained on
Plankton. "It varies," she
said. "Sometimes just seconds,
other times hours. It all depends
on how overwhelmed he gets."