#Autism and ADHD are a combination I think

[shwoo]

22/12/2023 Non-exhaustive status update on the new Bugsnax Wiki! (Created by Betterdonutgalaxy; I've just been contributing and wanted to share)

Days Public: 42 Total Pages (Including Files, Categories, Templates, and Similar): 1,406 Total Content Pages: 211 Stub Pages (Content pages with large pieces still to be added): 169 Images Uploaded: 641 Sound Files Uploaded: 321 Bugsnak Pages: 75/112 Main Character (characters with dialogue) Pages: 16/16 Other Character Pages: 4 I Don't Know If The Snaxsquatch Is A Character Or A Bugsnak: 1/1 Area pages: 9/12 Quest Pages: 23/173 Tool and Sauce Pages: 12/19 Clue Pages: 1/12 Lists: 19 Edits Made: 2,966 Users With At Least One Edit: 12 Fancy templates: Several

So there's still a lot to do, and a lot of stubs to fill out, but a lot's been done, too!

[harkpow]

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

i love shiny hunters like they fucking do the same shit over and over again for tens of thousands of hours hunting like and they’ll make it even more difficult for themselves by hunting really obscure and rare things like? the fucking title screen minncino??? you can’t even keep that. people will do the most monotonous tasks for months or years for a cartoon sparkle and they enjoy it.

[none-tadashi-left-hiro]

I just realized my lasts two posts are complete tonal whiplash from my buttsecks post

[a-nice-egg-offering]

so with bpd emotion is a big part of it, but there's also splitting (where you either love or can't stand the same person, no middle ground), a lack of identity, no emotional regulation, a fear of being abandoned, hypersexuality is often a big one, and horrible self coping strategies. plus genetics are a factor, identical twins where one person has it, the other is likely to as well. if Dee had it, she'd manifest differently to Dennis ofc, but I'm thinking about it.

Yeah I think it is possible tbh but I also am not convinced Dennis is borderline I think he’s bipolar just bc he reminds me very much of my ex who is diagnosed with bipolar and I know a lot of people with bpd and it seems to align more with bipolar I know they diagnosed him with bpd in canon but still idk just based on his behaviours I’m not sure same with Dee but I’m open to being convinced either way for both of them

[vermont-bottoms-association]

I feel like I hear so so much about somatosensation (especially like clothing textures) being a problem for people, and a lot less about auditory sensation, which has always been the biggest thing for me. So this was definitely surprising to me! I’m curious, though, because auditory can definitely be broken into two categories— are people more overwhelmed by *amount* of noise, *number* of noises, or *processing* of noises?

wikipedia article on human senses for definitions and clarification

[nicespam1]

i do spend most of my time feeling like an actual alien in people skin and still really genuinely wonder if I’m really autistic it’s a lot of fun

[to-dance-beneath-the-diamond-sky]

in unrelated news I’ve realized that I might have more than a little autism

[copperbadge]

Recently I ran across an article about an art center that was doing creative expression classes for people with disabilities. Not that unusual, I've encountered that and trauma-oriented art therapy before, but it was the first time I'd come across the idea since getting diagnosed with ADHD. While the class was aimed more at high-needs disabilities, it occurred to me that I could -- if I wanted -- make non-prose art about being disabled.

Outside of my work in scene design I've never been much of a visual artist because I've never felt I had the combination of "something to say" and "a meaningful way to say it", but I started to question how meaningful and complex I really had to be to just make some statements about having ADHD. I can do it in prose, after all.

So I started thinking about how you would talk, in visual language, about things like time blindness, shame stemming from undiagnosed disability, the shift in behavior that medication can induce. Ways to express my condition to people who don't experience it. I still didn't really know how to build the pieces but whenever I went to an art museum I'd think about how I might do a gallery installation. The centerpiece of my mental gallery was a pair of barcodes, one marked "Neurotypical" and one marked "Neurodivergent".

[ID: An interior view of a small booklet, with pages marked 1 and 2, showing barcodes -- on the left, labeled Neurotypical, and on the right, in slightly weirder configuration, labeled Neurodivergent.]

And then I thought, why not make a zine? Nothing you're thinking of couldn't be put in zine form instead of on a gallery wall.

[ID: The booklet continues to pages 3 and 4; on page 3 is a postage-style label reading AUTISM with up arrows on either side, and on page 4 is a QR code labeled ADHD. The QR code technically should work but it just dumps a block of text I wrote about having ADHD into a browser.]

I grew up with zine culture in the 90s and I always wanted to make one but much like with visual art, I never felt like I had the right kind of thing to say; either I had too much to say or too little, and anyway I wasn't confident that what I wanted to do wouldn't just come off as trite and obvious. But you can make a six-page zine out of a single sheet of paper, so I did: I made Helpful Labels For Strange Brains by idab zines, a division of Extribulum Press. (i--dab is a term for a cuneiform tablet that contains a royal communication.)

[ID: The last two pages feature the same image -- a cereal bowl with a spoon in it, the spoon containing a single Adderall pill. One image, however, is captioned "Wake up. Pour yourself a cup of iced coffee. Fix a bowl of cereal. It's going to be a good day." while the other is covered in a detailed ADHD-style step-by-step process for the same actions, culminating in "It's going to be a day like that."]

I'm pretty pleased with how it came out -- the art all looks intentional and it still has that "taped this together after school" aesthetic I remember fondly from the 90s. And the confines of six pages, each only a few inches square, offers a good structure to keep things clear, simple, and meaningful.

[ID: The cover of the zine, labeled "Helpful Labels For Strange Brains" in a kind of esoteric stampy font.]

Especially nice is that if you wanted to you could just hand out the flat sheet, and let folks fold it into a booklet or not -- there's instructions for folding it on the back of the zine. Additionally I have some sticker backed printer paper so I could print it such that you could literally turn the labels into real labels.

Anyway if you want it, here ya go. You can print it on a single sheet of paper and follow the instructions on the back to fold it. I thought about selling it but I do not have the spoons to do a bunch of printing and folding and shipping.

[intern-seraph]

diagnosing the twst boys aka putting my psych degree to good use. wrote these on discord mobile at like midnight last night so forgive any weirdness.

Riddle: C-PTSD (his mother was/is very clearly abusive and extremely controlling. he has been experiencing trauma his whole life.), possibly on the spectrum as well

Trey: probably neurotypical and mentally well. the teeth thing is pretty weird though.

Cater: Major Depressive Disorder, but he masks pretty well.

Ace: honestly? Probably neurotypical and not mentally ill but if i were to diagnose him, perhaps ADHD Inattentive Type??

Deuce: Before i read his dorm vignette i may have said he has a learning disorder like dyscalculia or dyslexia, but he clearly shows that he doesn't struggle with academics due to disordered thinking so much as it's due to lacking the fundamentals. He picks up math pretty well just from using riddle's textbook. He may have had conduct disorder in his youth, but that also could have been him acting out for other reasons and i honestly think it's more likely the latter. Maybe has some form of ADHD but I'm not certain.

Leona: very clear case of Major Depressive Disorder.

Ruggie: C-PTSD (extreme poverty is, in fact, traumatizing)

Jack: bro is carrying the mental wellness of savanaclaw on his well-built shoulders

Azul: Body Dysmorphic Disorder and EDNOS (Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified). He has some serious body image issues to the point that i would definitely classify them as disordered, and he exhibits restrictive eating habits that also fall within the bounds of disordered eating. I wouldn't say he's anorexic or bulimic, so EDNOS is probably the best diagnosis.

Jade: okay. So. If Jade were over 18, i would say he might have a cluster b personality disorder (cluster b includes antisocial personality disorder, narcissistic personality disorder, borderline personality disorder, and histrionic personality disorder. Yknow. The most stigmatized ones.), but you CANNOT diagnose anyone under the age of 18 with a personality disorder... and also i don't think he quite meets the criteria? Maybe on the spectrum. He's a freak but idk if he's diagnosable.

Floyd: ADHD, either combined or inattentive type. people like to throw around the word "bipolar" with floyd but they have a fundamental misunderstanding of bipolar disorder. BD mood swings are not even close to the frequency of floyd's. They can last for weeks or even months and are far more extreme highs and lows. He matches ADHD symptoms far better (constantly seeking stimulation, emotional dysregulation, trouble maintaining focus, etc.).

Kalim: ADHD combined type and C-PTSD. Listen. It is not fucking normal to constantly be in fear for your life and it will leave a person traumatized. Also he matches the classical ADHD symptoms.

Jamil: probably also has C-PTSD. Wouldn't be surprised if he develops some kind of personality disorder either due to trauma.

Vil: okay like... honestly? I think he's okay. He has some inferiority complex going with neige but 1. That's not a diagnosis and 2. It's not particularly disordered aside from the SDC incident.

Rook: he's a freak. But idk if his freak is diagnosable.

Epel: "a bit of a dick sometimes" is not a diagnosis

Idia: Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Social Anxiety Disorder, MDD, autism, and PTSD. please god get this guy some antidepressants.

Ortho: he is a robot. he has a soul now but he seems like a very neurotypical and not mentally ill robot. Idk maybe autism??

Malleus: this guy is so full of autism it's unreal

Lilia: PTSD. Not even a question.

Silver: Narcolepsy, possibly with cataplexy, although I don't know if his sleeping spells constitute true cataplexy. Excessive daytime sleepiness is, however, a classical symptom of narcolepsy. Also probably on the spectrum. Flat affect king.

Sebek: Autistic ADHD legend. specifically ADHD hyperactive type.

[creativesplat]

Happy Zora Mermay! I love doing this, because it gives me a push to draw Mipha at least once in the year and I really love drawing her.

anyway here's a Mipha, one without ghostly lighting, and one with. I still haven't got the Zora armour on AoC 😭 I guess I haven't levelled up the characters enough! This might push me to blow the dust of the game card and put it back in again to try and get her armour! The weird thing about ADHD or AuDHD or Autism, whatever combination of those that causes this, is that hyper-fixations come and go in weird waves of different intensities and speeds. I haven't been hyperfocused on BoTW for ages, but it still holds a very special place in my heart, I think it's now more of a 'normal' way of enjoying a piece of media. I love it, and have really fond memories and fun facts, but not in the same obsessed way. Anyway, I'm going to go and play AoC now, and try and get that armour! 100th time's the charm! 😂

[tealvenetianmask]

I'm sick, so I'm going to do the very normal thing and wax poetically about the positive neurodiversity representation is in HB. That's because they manage to make it appear neither purely good nor purely bad. It's allowed to just be part of what makes our characters who they are in their beautiful complexity.

Exhibit A: Blitz (there's no exhibit B yet, but maybe there will be!).

He never gets a diagnosis. No one in this show does.

I think ADHD is obvious. I did a post on this a long time ago, but the man barely sits still, and he's always climbing and sitting on things in odd ways. He misses things other characters say when he's caught up in his own ideas. He sometimes falls on his face when distracted despite having literal acrobatic skills. He gets stuck . . . hyperfocusing on things to the point where he ignores other pressing matters. He's an out of the box thinker and has an infectious enthusiasm for life.

You've probably seen me on here arguing that he has dyslexia. ADHD and LD (learning disabilty) are a much more common combination than most people acknowledge, just like ADHD and autism. If this is your take on him, I welcome you to comment too, but to me the LD/dyslexia thing is pretty powerful because I have ADHD and LD too. We all come to these conversations with our lived experiences.

And just like lots of real people with these and other neurodiversities, he also deals with a shit ton of trauma and related disorders as an adult. BPD . . . PTSD . . . you get the gist. The trauma is portrayed as bad, and some of his resulting behaviors certainly are too, but he's still fundamentally a good person who's been through a lot.

I think the part of his story I most understand as a neurodivergent one is the concept of "not being good enough" that he carries around. It originated before the fire, with Cash devaluing him (literally) in favor of Fizz. Blitz has an ever-present itch to prove himself, believes that he is not worthy of love, and that what he can DO for people is all that will make anyone want him around.

I think that most neurodivergent and/or otherwise disabled people get this, either from the always pushing side or the giving up side, or both at different times . . .). I grew up with parents who expected A LOT, and frankly, to this day, I often CAN'T meet their expectations because of how my brain works. I learned that I need to accomplish things. I also learned that I need to accomplish them IN MY WAY, or else I'd just fall short. I spent a lot of time when I was younger thinking that no one was like me (cue angsty music), but it turns out, a lot of people are. We just weren't very open about it in the 90's/2000's. That's why representation is important.

Blitz finds ways to work. He works very hard for his company, because he cares deeply about it and about the people who work for him, and also about PROVING SOCIETY WRONG (yes, there's a pushing back against racism element here too). He chooses to not care too much about spelling or paperwork and leans on employees for some of that- not justifying Moxxie being stuck with it, but, yes, this reads as self-accommodation to me.

And having to work around having more trouble with certain things because your brain works differently? Well, when a person grows up like that, you can get a really inventive, dynamic problem solver. Some people will say that this is inherently part of ADHD, and I don't know, but it's part of Blitz.

Anyway, I'll try to write a more coherent essay on some of these issues as they appear in the show later. Stolas is also an interesting case.

But do discuss! Entertain me on my snotty sick bed. XD

[reveryfics]

Saw you might do Spencer Reid requests!! Spencer Reid x unsub!Reader? Either current or former

Sorry if the specifics for reader are uncomfortable (the unsub! part,) lol!! Any scenario. :3

Unsuspected

Spencer Reid x Male Reader

Summary: The BAU is on the hunt for a new unsub, but they're pursuing the wrong lead, and the life of an innocent person depends on Spencer Reid.

A/N: So I switched this up a bit, instead of reader being the actual unsub they are instead suspected to be the unsub. Kinda a secret boyfriend scenario which plays into the fic. 5.979k words.....I enjoyed this to much.

TW: Blood - Violence - Death - Mental health - Mental illness

"Don't make the mistake of confusing a psychopath with a psychotic.”

-John E. Douglas

The humid air, thick with the scent of damp earth and something metallic, clung to Dr. Spencer Reid like a shroud. He stood at the edge of the crime scene, his gaze fixed on the body bag being loaded into the coroner's van. Another victim. The third in as many months, each one leaving the Behavioral Analysis Unit with more questions than answers.

This latest discovery, a young woman named Sarah Jenkins, had been a doctoral candidate in forensic psychology at Georgetown. Her body, found deep in the sprawling woods just outside of Fredericksburg, bore the same precise, almost ritualistic wounds as the previous two: deep lacerations to the carotid artery, a single, clean stab wound to the heart, and chillingly, a crudely carved symbol on her forehead that resembled an ancient alchemical sigil.

"The similarities are too stark to ignore," Emily Prentiss murmured, walking up beside Reid, her brow furrowed. "All three victims worked in the psychology field. First, a school counselor, then a research assistant, now a grad student. It's almost like he's targeting people who understand the mind."

"Or people he believes think they understand it," Reid corrected, his voice quiet but firm. He pulled out a small notepad, flipping through pages of his meticulous notes. "The signature wounds, the symbol… it all points to an unsub with a highly personalized belief system. Someone deeply disturbed, likely suffering from extreme delusions." He paused, tapping his pen against his chin. "And the sheer audacity of these attacks, the lack of discernible fear or remorse at the scene, suggests a profound lack of empathy. I'm leaning towards a strong manifestation of antisocial personality disorder."

Derek Morgan, leaning against the hood of a patrol car nearby, crossed his arms. "So we're looking for someone who thinks they're on a mission, but also doesn't give a damn about the consequences. That's a dangerous combination."

JJ walked over, her face grim. "Witnesses near the dumping sites described a young man, twenties, acting erratically. One person mentioned him hyper-focusing on something in his hands, almost like a tic, before quickly becoming agitated when approached."

Reid’s eyes widened slightly. "Erratic behavior, hyper-focus, potential agitation with social interaction… coupled with the meticulous nature of the crimes, the almost obsessive precision of the wounds, and the complex delusional system, it raises another possibility." He looked at his team, his gaze intense. "We could be looking at an unsub with Autism Spectrum Disorder, specifically one presenting with ADHD traits. The impulsivity of ADHD combined with the rigid thinking patterns and potential for intense, narrowly focused interests often seen in autism, especially when coupled with severe delusions, could create a uniquely dangerous individual."

Hotch, ever the stoic leader, finally spoke, his voice cutting through the heavy air. "So we have a young man, in his twenties, likely brilliant but profoundly detached from reality, possibly struggling with a combination of extreme delusions, antisocial personality disorder, ADHD, and autism. And he's escalating. The longer he's out there, the more sophisticated and deadly his delusions will become." He looked at each member of the team, his jaw set. "This unsub isn't just killing. He's sending a message. And we need to figure out what it is, before he claims his next victim."

The BAU's temporary headquarters, a sterile conference room in the Fredericksburg Sheriff's office, was plastered with crime scene photos and victimology charts. Coffee cups littered the table, testament to the long night the team had already pulled.

"Let's go over the victimology again," Hotch stated, gesturing to a whiteboard. "Sarah Jenkins, 27, PhD candidate in forensic psychology. Mark Ridley, 32, research assistant at a psychiatric facility. Brenda Chen, 45, high school guidance counselor. What's the common thread beyond their profession?"

Reid, who had been poring over a textbook on abnormal psychology, looked up. "Their proximity to the field of psychology. Not just working within it, but actively engaging with the human mind. Sarah was studying criminal behavior, Mark was involved in clinical trials for mental health treatments, and Brenda was shaping young minds, guiding their emotional development."

"So, our unsub sees them as either encroaching on his territory, or perhaps, failing to understand something he believes is critical," Prentiss mused, tapping a pen against her chin. "He's making a statement. But what statement?"

Morgan leaned forward, his eyes scanning the gruesome photos. "The wounds are consistent across all three. The carotid laceration, the stab to the heart, the carved symbol. It's precise, almost surgical. This isn't random rage. This is controlled, deliberate."

"And the symbol," JJ added, pointing to a magnified image of the crudely etched mark on Sarah Jenkins' forehead. "It's been identified as a variation of the alchemical symbol for 'solve et coagula' – 'dissolve and coagulate.' In alchemy, it refers to the process of breaking down and then reassembling something into a purer, more perfect form."

A chilling realization dawned on Reid. "He's not just killing them. He's performing a ritual. In his delusional system, these victims aren't just people; they're components in a process. He believes he's 'dissolving' their flawed understanding of the mind and then, through their deaths, 'coagulating' some purer knowledge or truth."

"Which fits with the autism and ADHD profile," Hotch interjected. "The rigid thinking, the intense focus on specific, often abstract, concepts. He's created his own complex, internal world, and these murders are how he interacts with it."

"And the antisocial aspect means he feels no guilt, no remorse," Morgan added, his voice grim. "He believes he's doing something righteous, something necessary, and anyone who gets in his way, anyone who thinks they understand what he's doing, is a target."

"We need to consider his access," Prentiss said, looking at the map of victim locations. "All three dumping grounds were relatively secluded, but accessible by foot or car. He's not leaving a large forensic footprint beyond the victims themselves."

"And the reports of him acting erratically," JJ reminded them. "If he's operating under such intense delusions, his public behavior might be increasingly noticeable. We need to focus our search on individuals in the Fredericksburg area who fit the age and behavioral profile, particularly those with a history of severe mental health issues."

Hotch stood, his gaze sweeping across the team. "This unsub believes he's purifying knowledge, and he's using human sacrifice to do it. He's not going to stop until he believes his 'work' is complete. We're looking for a young man, likely intelligent, deeply disturbed, and utterly convinced of his own twisted righteousness. Find him before he completes his next, deadly ritual."

The fluorescent lights of the Sheriff's office hummed, casting a pallor over the exhausted BAU team. Penelope Garcia, a whirlwind of caffeine and digital wizardry, finally pushed a thick printout across the table, her usually vibrant energy dimmed by the gravity of the case.

"Alright, hot stuff, buckle up," Garcia announced, though her voice lacked its usual playful lilt. "I cross-referenced all contact lists, university faculty rosters, patient intake forms from that psychiatric facility, and even local support groups. Then I filtered for individuals in their early to mid-twenties, no significant criminal records, and any reported history of mental health diagnoses, even self-reported."

The stack of papers seemed impossibly thick. "That's a lot of potential unsubs, Garcia," Morgan observed, flipping through the top few pages.

"Tell me about it," she sighed. "But there's a strong correlation here. These are people who, in some capacity, have had contact with all three victims. Maybe a student in a class Sarah Jenkins taught, a former patient at Mark Ridley's facility, or someone Brenda Chen counseled."

Reid, who had been nervously tapping his pen against his pad, reached for the list. He started scanning names, his eyes moving with their usual lightning speed. The team watched him, accustomed to his ability to absorb vast amounts of information in mere moments.

As he moved further down the list, a subtle shift occurred in his posture. His shoulders tensed, and the rapid movement of his eyes slowed, then stopped. A name, in bold font, seemed to leap off the page and punch him in the gut.

His breath hitched. The room, already quiet, seemed to fall utterly silent around him. He felt a cold dread seep into his bones, a feeling more profound and disorienting than any he’d experienced on a case before. It wasn’t just a name. It was the name.

He didn't need to read the accompanying notes. He knew the age, the reported diagnoses, the quiet intelligence that belied an intricate and sometimes fragile internal world. He knew the history of the severe delusions, the battles fought and won, and sometimes, the ones that lingered. He knew the shy smile, the thoughtful silences, the way you’d listen intently to his esoteric ramblings after a particularly draining case, the comforting presence in his apartment after the horrors he’d witnessed.

Your name. The one he whispered against your skin in the quiet of his bedroom. The one that, in the deepest, most guarded corners of his mind, he called 'boyfriend.'

His mind raced, a torrent of contradictory thoughts. It couldn't be. Not you. You wouldn't hurt anyone. You were gentle, artistic, brilliant in your own unique way. You had struggled, yes, but your struggles manifested as withdrawal, as quiet battles waged in the confines of your own mind, not as violence. You understood pain, you understood mental anguish – you felt it yourself. You had been a source of comfort, a safe harbor.

He remembered the late-night conversations about the complexities of the human psyche, discussions about philosophy, about art, about the very nature of reality. Had there been a flicker, a hidden darkness he hadn't seen? No. He refused to believe it. He knew you. He knew you.

He swallowed hard, the paper feeling heavy in his trembling hand. He could feel the team’s eyes on him, sensing his sudden, profound distress. The secret, the quiet joy he'd found in your company, was suddenly a volatile thing, threatening to erupt. He couldn't expose it now, not with this, not when the very thought of it tainted everything.

"Reid?" Hotch's voice was calm, but edged with concern. "What is it?"

Reid closed his eyes for a brief, agonizing moment, then opened them, forcing a neutral expression onto his face. His voice, though strained, was carefully modulated.

"I... I'm just thinking," he managed, gesturing vaguely at the name on the page, hoping his internal turmoil wasn't bleeding through. "There's a… a peculiar correlation here I'm trying to process."

The team exchanged glances, sensing the unusual hesitation in Reid's typically forthright demeanor. They knew he often retreated into thought, but this felt different, more fraught. Yet, they let it pass, accustomed to Reid's unique processing methods. Hotch simply nodded, accepting the explanation for now. But Reid knew, with a horrifying certainty, that the correlation he was "processing" was tearing his world apart.

The air in the squad room was thick with the scent of stale coffee and unspoken dread. Reid's mind, usually a finely tuned instrument of logic, was a cacophony of fear and denial. He could feel the weight of Hotch's gaze, the questioning glances from his team. He needed a moment, a breath of air that wasn't contaminated by the name now burned into his retina.

"Excuse me," Reid mumbled, pushing back from the table with such force that his chair scraped loudly against the floor. He didn't wait for a response, practically bolting from the room.

He stumbled out into the cool night air, the oppressive humidity of the day replaced by a welcome, if fleeting, chill. His hands fumbled in his pockets, finally producing his phone. His fingers, usually so nimble, trembled as he navigated to his contacts. Your name, stood out starkly against the glowing screen.

He pressed call, the sound of the dial tone a hollow drumbeat in his ears. One ring, two, three… each unanswered chime a fresh stab of anxiety. Finally, it clicked over to voicemail.

"Hey, you've reached me. I'm probably off exploring some forgotten corner of the internet, or maybe just… not near my phone. Leave a message, and I'll get back to you eventually!"

The familiar, almost playful cadence of your voice sent a visceral chill down Reid's spine. It was the same tone he’d heard countless times, the one that used to soothe him. But now, all he could hear was the carefully constructed casualness, the slight hesitation before your fake explanation. "Exploring forgotten corners of the internet" – a gentle euphemism for your deep dives into obscure topics, sometimes bordering on the obsessive. "Not near my phone" – an easy out.

He disconnected, his heart hammering against his ribs. There was another number, one he rarely used but always kept. Your mother. She was your anchor, always knew your schedule, your appointments, your quiet routines.

He pressed the number, his thumb slipping on the cold glass. The ring seemed impossibly long this time.

"Hello?" Your mother's voice was soft, laced with a familiar weariness that only a parent of a neurodivergent adult could truly understand.

"It's Spencer," Reid blurted out, his voice high-pitched and breathless, words tumbling over each other. "I… I need to know. Where is he right now? Is he… is he safe? What's he doing?"

Your mother paused, clearly taken aback by his frantic tone. "Spencer, dear, slow down. You're rambling. What's wrong?" She paused again, trying to soothe him. "He's fine. I just dropped him off for his therapy appointment with Dr. Aris. He's at the clinic on Main Street, just like every Tuesday afternoon."

Reid gripped his phone tighter, the knot in his stomach loosening fractionally, replaced by a different kind of dread. "Dr. Aris," he repeated, the name echoing in his mind.

Back in the Sheriff's office, the team, though curious about Reid's abrupt departure, had wasted no time. Garcia had pulled up background information on several individuals from the filtered list, projecting their profiles onto the large screen. Morgan, Prentiss, and JJ were rapidly sifting through the data.

"Okay, so here's our guy," Morgan stated, pointing to your profile. "Early twenties, diagnosed with delusions, ASPD, ADHD, and autism. Fits the profile like a glove."

"And look at the contact overlaps," Prentiss added, highlighting various entries. "He was a former patient at the facility Mark Ridley worked at. Brenda Chen was his high school guidance counselor. And Sarah Jenkins taught an elective on criminal psychology at Georgetown that he audited online."

"So he's had direct, sustained contact with all three victims," Hotch summarized, his gaze fixed on the screen. "And his diagnoses align perfectly with our unsub's projected profile."

JJ, meanwhile, had been scrolling through the more recent entries in your profile. Her eyes widened. "Hold on. Under current mental health treatment… he's seeing a Dr. Evelyn Aris. A psychotherapist specializing in delusional disorders."

A sudden, shared realization rippled through the team. The victims were all connected to the field of psychology. If the unsub's delusional system was about purifying knowledge, about striking at those who 'understood' the mind…

"Dr. Aris," Prentiss breathed, her eyes snapping to Hotch. "She's not just a therapist. She's the one who would have the most direct, intimate access to his thoughts, his delusions. She would represent the ultimate 'authority' on the very thing he's trying to 'solve and coagulate.'"

Hotch's eyes narrowed, a grim certainty settling over his features. "She would be the logical next target in his ritual. The unsub isn't just killing. He's escalating, and he's going after the deepest understanding of his own twisted psyche."

"Garcia," Hotch commanded, his voice sharp with urgency. "Get me the address for Dr. Evelyn Aris's clinic. Now."

The sirens were a distant wail, growing louder with each passing second. Hotch drove with grim determination, Prentiss navigating beside him, her phone pressed to her ear, coordinating with local units. Morgan and JJ were in the SUV behind them, a silent tension filling the space. Reid, his face pale and drawn, sat in the back of Hotch's car, the earlier conversation with your mother replaying in his mind. Dr. Aris… just dropped him off… The words, once a fleeting relief, were now a hammer blow of dread.

The clinic, a modern brick building tucked away on a tree-lined street, appeared quickly. As they rounded the final corner, the scene unfolded in agonizing slow motion. Marked and unmarked police cars, their lights flashing, were already converging, surrounding the building.

Just then, the front doors of the clinic swung open.

And you stepped out.

Head down, you were fidgeting with your hands, seemingly lost in your own thoughts. The late afternoon sun, filtered through the trees, cast long shadows around you. You looked so utterly normal, so familiar, so you.

"Down on the ground! Hands where I can see them!" Morgan's voice, amplified by his position and the urgency of the moment, cut through the air like a knife.

Your head snapped up, your eyes wide with a fear Reid knew all too well. The fear of misunderstanding, of being overwhelmed, of a world that didn't make sense. And then, as you registered the glint of metal, the pointed weapons, the sheer number of uniforms, true terror flared in your eyes.

Reid was out of the car before it had even come to a complete stop, a choked sound escaping his throat. He saw Morgan move, swift and decisive, closing the distance to you. But then another figure emerged from behind a parked car, a woman clutching a purse, her face etched with a bewildered concern that quickly morphed into panic.

"What's going on?!" Your mother's voice, shrill with alarm, pierced the chaotic air.

Reid flinched, his heart clenching. Of course. She was there to pick you up. To take you to dinner, to talk about your session. He reacted on instinct, reaching out and gently but firmly taking your mother's arm, holding her back from rushing forward. "Please, stay here. It's the FBI. We need you to stay calm."

He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief, tortured second as he heard the thud. Morgan had you on the ground, pinning you with a practiced swiftness. You offered no resistance, no fight, just that wide, terrified stare. In a blur of motion, you were hauled to your feet, your wrists secured behind your back, and quickly guided towards the waiting SUV.

As you were pushed into the back seat, your gaze, still brimming with a raw, uncomprehending hurt, locked onto Spencer. Your lips were pressed into a thin, silent line. You didn't cry out, didn't argue, didn't utter a single word. Not even when your mother, still held back by Reid, began to sob, her voice choked with desperate pleas. "Spencer, please! What's happening? Tell me what's going on! My son, he… he wouldn't… "

Reid could only meet your eyes for a moment, an apology, a profound anguish, and an overwhelming disbelief swirling in his own. The silence from you was louder than any scream. It was the silence of a deep, inexplicable wound.

The interrogation room was stark, sterile, and cold. You sat alone at the metal table, your posture slumped, eyes red-rimmed from the silent tears you'd desperately tried to hold back. Every few seconds, your gaze would flick to the two-way mirror, a silent plea for understanding, for answers.

On the other side of that mirror, Spencer Reid stood rigid, his own eyes burning with unshed tears. He watched as Hotchner took the chair opposite you, his presence calm but unyielding. Spencer’s mind screamed. Why didn't he say anything? Why couldn't he say anything?

You were his boyfriend. The man who understood him better than anyone, who didn't flinch at his rapid-fire facts or his unconventional perspectives. You saw beyond the genius, beyond the quirks. He’d sat at your family’s dinner table, entertaining your father with obscure historical anecdotes and scientific theories that others would dismiss as simply "weird." You were home.

The answer, agonizingly, was simple. Reid was already "the weird guy," the one only seen as the smartest person in the room, constantly battling perceptions that painted him as socially inept or emotionally detached. He'd been judged too much about things he couldn't control – his intellect, his social anxieties, his sometimes alienating brilliance. He didn't want to be judged for being with you. More importantly, he didn't want you to be judged for being with him, not on top of everything else you already carried. His secret wasn't about protecting himself; it was about protecting you from another layer of scrutiny and misunderstanding.

Hotchner's voice, muffled through the intercom, began the familiar dance of interrogation. "We need to understand what happened to Sarah Jenkins, Mark Ridley, and Brenda Chen."

Your eyes were fixed on the table, your hands clasped tightly together. You remained silent.

"All three of them were connected to you," Hotchner continued, his tone even. "They were your therapist, your high school counselor, a professor of a course you audited."

A beat of silence. Then, Hotchner slid a stack of glossy photographs across the table towards you. Brutal, unforgiving images of the victims' bodies, the precise wounds, the crudely carved sigils.

Spencer watched, his breath catching in his throat. He saw your face contort, not with recognition, but with a profound, visceral disgust. Your eyes widened, darting from one gruesome image to the next, a tremor starting in your hands. You recoiled slightly, a soft gasp escaping your lips.

"They were only trying to help you," Hotchner's voice cut through the air. "They had success in making you feel better, didn't they?"

You pulled your hands back from the photos as if burned, clutching them to your chest. Your head shook slowly, a silent, horrified denial etched across your features. You looked up at the mirror, your eyes, still red-rimmed, pleading. But you still said nothing, the weight of your internal struggle a palpable force in the silent room.

"He's not reacting like an unsub," Reid murmured, almost to himself, his voice tight. "He's reacting like someone who genuinely doesn't understand why these images are being presented to him, someone who finds them horrifying."

Prentiss, standing beside him, her brow furrowed in concentration, overheard him. "I agree, Spencer. The lack of defensiveness, the visible revulsion… it's not what we typically see from an unsub being confronted with their crimes."

"Unless he's extremely good at masking," Morgan interjected from the other side of the mirror, his gaze unwavering on you. "Or his delusions are so pervasive that he genuinely believes he didn't do it, or that someone else is responsible."

Reid shook his head, a fierce protectiveness rising within him. "No. His delusions, while severe, have always been highly personalized, internal. They don't typically manifest in outward violence, especially not against people who were actively trying to help him. And that disgust… it's real."

Hotchner, seeing your continued silence, pushed another photo across the table—a close-up of the alchemical symbol carved onto Sarah Jenkins' forehead. "This symbol. Do you recognize it?"

Your eyes flickered to the symbol. You tilted your head slightly, a familiar analytical posture. Spencer knew that look too – the way you focused when a complex pattern or symbol piqued your unique intellectual curiosity. You frowned, tracing the lines in the air with your finger.

"It's a variation of solve et coagula," you finally said, your voice raspy from disuse, but clear. "It's an alchemical principle, a core tenet of transformation. Dissolution and coagulation. Breaking down and building anew." You looked up, meeting Hotchner's gaze, your expression still one of profound unease. "But… why would that be there? It's… crude. And violent. That's not the purpose."

Spencer's breath hitched. You knew the symbol. You understood its meaning. But your interpretation, your immediate condemnation of its violent application, was entirely consistent with the person he knew.

"He's analyzing it, not denying it," JJ observed from the observation room, a hint of confusion in her voice. "He knows what it means, but he's expressing revulsion at its usage in this context."

"He just described our unsub's motive to us," Morgan said, his voice flat. "But he said it with disgust. What does that tell us?"

Reid didn't wait. He knew what it told him. "It tells us he's a victim too," he said, stepping forward, his voice gaining conviction. "He understands the concept because it's part of his intellectual framework, but he's horrified by its application. He's not the unsub."

Hotchner, however, remained unmoved, his focus still on you. "Look,” Hotchner stated, his voice devoid of emotion, "we believe your therapist, Dr. Evelyn Aris, was going to be your next victim."

A tremor ran through your body. Your eyes widened, the last vestiges of composure crumbling. A low, keening sound escaped your throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated grief and shock. Your head dropped into your hands, your shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

"No," you whispered, the word barely audible, broken. "No, she… she helped me. She understood."

The raw, unfiltered anguish that erupted from you was a powerful current, flowing through the two-way mirror and hitting Reid with full force. This wasn't the cunning dissimulation of a killer. This was the shattered grief of a man who had just lost someone vital to his fragile equilibrium. This was the you he knew.

"He's breaking," Prentiss said quietly, her eyes softening. "That's genuine."

Morgan nodded slowly, his earlier certainty wavering. "That's not faked. He just lost someone important to him."

Reid finally found his voice, louder, more insistent. "Guys, stop. You're wrong. He's not the unsub. This reaction, this grief... it's genuine. Someone is framing him. Someone is using his vulnerabilities, his knowledge, to make him look guilty."

Hotchner stepped out of the interrogation room, the muffled sounds of your ragged breathing fading behind the thick door. He leaned against the cool metal, his gaze sweeping over his team. They were all looking at Reid, their expressions a mix of concern and burgeoning suspicion. The emotional display in the interrogation room, coupled with Reid's increasingly frantic denials, had been too potent to ignore.

A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the distant hum of the building's ventilation. Finally, Morgan, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on Reid, cut through it. "Spencer. You want to tell us what that was?"

Reid flinched, his shoulders tensing. He opened his mouth, then closed it, his jaw working. The carefully constructed wall he'd built around his personal life, particularly this most private part of it, was crumbling around him. He could feel their gazes, dissecting him, trying to piece together the unspoken truth.

"You've been acting... different, since his name came up," Prentiss added, her voice gentle but firm. "You're clearly upset. And the way you looked at him in there..." She trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.

JJ's eyes, usually so focused and empathetic, now held a new, questioning light when they landed on Reid. "Spencer, is there something you're not telling us about him?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken accusations and revelations. Reid looked at each of their faces – Hotch, the stoic leader; Morgan, the protective older brother; Prentiss, the perceptive friend; JJ, the compassionate confidante. They were his family, his rock. And he had kept this from them. The shame was immediate and hot, but it was quickly eclipsed by a surge of overwhelming need to protect you, to make them understand.

He took a shaky breath, his gaze dropping to his hands, which were now trembling. "He's…he and I are together." The words came out in a rush, barely a whisper, but clear in the quiet room.

A collective intake of breath. Hotch's expression remained unreadable, but a flicker of surprise crossed Morgan's face. Prentiss and JJ exchanged a quick, knowing glance, though their surprise was evident.

"He's my boyfriend," Reid continued, his voice gaining a desperate urgency as he looked up, meeting their eyes one by one. "We've been… seeing each other for a while now. He's… he's the man I go home to after cases, the one who understands my mind, who doesn't judge me for how I think." His voice cracked, raw with emotion. "I know he has these diagnoses. I know about the delusions, the struggles. We've talked about them, extensively. But he is not a killer. He is not violent. His mental health issues manifest as withdrawal, as sensory overload, as intense internal battles, never as aggression towards others."

He stepped closer to the mirror, as if trying to bridge the gap between himself and you. "He would never hurt anyone, especially not people who tried to help him. Those pictures… his reaction was genuine disgust. He just lost people, people he relied on, people who were helping him navigate his world. His grief, his shock, that's real. He's being framed. Someone out there knows about his vulnerabilities, knows about his specific knowledge of these concepts, and is using it to make him look guilty."

Reid's eyes pleaded with them, a vulnerability laid bare that few had ever witnessed. "You have to believe me. You have to see that he's a victim, not an unsub."

Suddenly, you shifted. Your gaze, which had been fixed on the cold metal table, drifted towards the collection of gruesome crime scene photos Hotchner had laid out. Your eyes, still swollen from silent crying, seemed to fixate on one particular image—a close-up of the crudely carved symbol on a victim’s forehead.

Reid, watching from behind the two-way mirror, felt a familiar flicker of recognition. It was the intense, almost obsessive focus you exhibited when a complex puzzle presented itself. Your head tilted slightly, a subtle gesture that, to Spencer, spoke volumes. You reached out, your fingers hovering inches from the picture, as if compelled to touch it, to decipher it. Then, you looked up, your eyes scanning the empty room, almost as if you were silently pleading for someone to return, to bear witness to what you were seeing.

That was all the prompting Reid needed. The protocol, the rules, the distance – it all evaporated. He pushed past Hotchner, and flung open the interrogation room door. Hotchner’s head snapped up, a surprised grunt escaping him. Morgan, Prentiss, and JJ watched, equally stunned, as Reid practically lunged into the chair opposite you.

He didn't wait for permission, didn't offer an explanation. He simply reached across the table, his hands enveloping yours. Your cold, trembling fingers instantly found purchase in his warm grip.

"Baby," Reid breathed, his voice thick with emotion, "what is it? What are you seeing?"

You looked at him, your eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and profound relief. Your lips parted, and words started to tumble out, a torrent of frantic, yet brilliant, observations.

"The symbol," you rambled, your eyes darting back to the pictures, your free hand gesturing wildly. "It's… it's wrong. Dr. Aris. I showed it to her. Weeks ago. I brought it up during a session. I was looking into obscure alchemical texts, and I found it. The solve et coagula. I thought it was fascinating, a metaphor for self-integration, breaking down unhealthy patterns to build something new. She was interested. She'd doodle it on her notes while I talked."

You squeezed Reid's hand, your voice rising in pitch. "But she always got it wrong, Spencer! Always! The lower bar, the way it connects, it was always off. Just like in these pictures! She never quite got it right, no matter how many times I tried to show her the proper way!" Your voice cracked with a mixture of terror and dawning clarity. "These aren't random, Spencer. This is her version of it. The mistakes are identical."

Reid’s grip on your hands tightened, a profound understanding dawning on him. He saw the pattern, the implication that had just sent a chill down his spine. He offered you a small, reassuring smile, a silent promise that he saw you, he believed you. "I am," he whispered, his voice thick with regret, "I am so, so sorry this happened to you."

You squeezed his hand back, a half-smile ghosting your lips, the first hint of genuine relief breaking through your terror. You didn't need to ask for forgiveness for his earlier silence.

The realization of Dr. Aris's culpability had hit the BAU with the force of a tidal wave. Reid’s frantic explanation, combined with your detailed observation about the symbol, had been the key. While Hotchner kept you in the interrogation room, now with a less adversarial approach, the rest of the team sprang into action. Garcia, fueled by a fresh pot of coffee and a newfound sense of urgency, immediately began digging into Dr. Aris's background.

What they found was a carefully constructed facade. Dr. Aris wasn't just your therapist; she was a brilliant, but deeply narcissistic, psychologist who felt stifled by the academic world. She believed her insights into the human psyche were revolutionary, but constantly overlooked. The victims were not random; they were all individuals who, in her twisted perception, had either achieved recognition she craved, or had failed to truly grasp the profound depths of the mind – a depth she believed only she possessed. She had targeted individuals in the psychology field to symbolically "purify" their flawed understanding, leaving her unique, flawed interpretation of the alchemical symbol as her signature, and then meticulously framed you, her most vulnerable and brilliant patient, knowing your diagnoses would make you the perfect scapegoat.

The takedown was swift and precise. Dr. Aris was apprehended attempting to flee the city, a disturbing collection of research on delusional disorders and a journal filled with increasingly erratic entries about "purification" found in her car. The evidence was overwhelming, and with a full confession, your name was cleared.

Spencer took your arm the moment you stepped out of the Sheriff's office, blinking in the late afternoon sun. Your mother, who had been waiting anxiously, rushed forward, enveloping you in a tearful embrace. After a long, emotional reunion, and countless apologies from the local authorities, Spencer gently guided you towards his car. The drive to your apartment was quiet, filled with a comfortable, understanding silence.

The second the front door clicked shut behind you, Spencer's arms were around your waist, pulling you into a tight embrace. He buried his face in your hair, holding you as if you might disappear.

"I am so, so sorry,." he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "For everything. For not saying anything when I should have, for letting you go through that. I was… I was so scared. And I shouldn't have let my fear of being judged, or of you being judged, stop me from standing up for you sooner."

You didn't say a word. Instead, you pressed your face into his chest, holding him just as tightly. The scent of his worn tweed jacket, the steady beat of his heart against your ear – it was familiarity, safety, and unwavering love. For Spencer, your silence, the strength of your embrace, was more profound than any words of forgiveness. It was your way of expressing your love, your understanding.

He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. "I love you," he whispered against them. He pulled back slightly, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "You know, seeing you in there, seeing how you picked up on that inconsistency with the symbol… you'd probably make a really good profiler for the BAU."

You gave him a soft, genuine kiss in return, then patted his chest lightly. "I'm perfectly fine with the life I live, Spencer," you said, a hint of your usual quiet humor in your voice. "And I'm perfectly fine with you being the only resident genius around here."

[anexperimentallife]

EDIT: CRISIS AVERTED, THANK YOU!

Interracial US family w/ disabled autistic dad and toddler needs to get to the US for medical treatment

(New post because the old one was getting LONG with the updates. Details are under the "read more" to save your dash, with updates in the notes.)

TL;DR: If I'm going to live long enough to watch our daughter grow up, we need to get back to the US and get set up in a disability-friendly place where I can use my medical benefits.

Although I was already disabled (autism, adhd, and spine, joint, and head injuries), my health was stable--until four bouts of COVID left me immunocompromised, and utterly destroyed my health (including damage to my heart, blood clots that damaged one eye, neurological and joint issues, etc.), and although we started off fine, we've been hammered with one crisis after another, both medical and financial, that no one could have predicted.

Until we have enough to get back to the US, a chunk of whatever comes in has to go towards medical care that can't be put off, so the sooner we can reach critical mass on that, the better.

If you can help, or reblog, or share the links on other platforms, we'd be grateful!

The "Donate to Little or None" Paypal donation link takes the lowest fees, I think. (Kept the same link from when we were fighting to get our daughter's birth certificate fixed so we could get her citizenship affirmed.)

Then there's Ko-Fi:

And my little sister started a GoFundMe for us!

EDIT: The donation links above still work, but I removed the GoFundMe link.

IF YOU WANT ALL THE DETAILS SEE THE "READ MORE."

(There's more in my "rob gets medical" tag if you want a blow by blow account of how we got to this point over the past few years, but this is the gist.)

HOW IT STARTED:

I moved to the Philippines six years ago, after the deaths of my adult sons, in part to make my disability payments stretch further. Shortly afterwards, I was joined by my now-wife @thesurestthing (also from the US) for what was supposed to be a visit, but which turned into a permanent arrangement.

After I got a contract to license an old story for a mobile game (which tripled our income*), we found out we were having a baby, which was fine, because despite my disabilities (autism, adhd, two spine injuries, traumatic brain injury, a herniated esophagus, joint issues, etc.), my health was stable, and thanks to the contract, we were fine financially as well.

HOW IT STARTED GOING DOWNHILL:

Zoey's pregnancy was complicated, requiring two hospitalizations, and our daughter's birth was complicated, too--requiring a C-Section--which tripled our hospital bill. A few weeks after our daughter was born, the aforementioned contract was canceled without warning. THEN, when we tried to register our daughter's birth with the US embassy, we discovered an error on her birth certificate that left her stateless, and which took nearly two years, all our savings, and a fundraiser (thank you, generous people!) to resolve. Combined with medical expenses, that left us in a lot of debt.

A brief summary of went else wrong (leaving a lot out for brevity's sake):

I got COVID three four times during all this, became immunocompromised, and developed a slew of other medical issues (heart damage, eye damage and temporary facial paralysis from blood clots, persistent infections, a worsening of my joint issues, neurological issues, etc.) as a result of Long Covid.

I've had to be hospitalized a couple of times, undergo surgery, and was on an oxygen machine twice--once for an entire month, while I was bedridden. As of 24 January, 2024, I'm still recovering from my fourth bout of covid, which started at the beginning of October 2023.

There's a lot more, but you get the idea. COVID has completely wrecked my health, including tearing up my immune system.

And yes, I'm as fully vaxxed against COVID as one can be in the Philippines, with all available boosters, but again--I'm immunocompromised, plus they don't have the vax for the newest variant here yet. Zoey is vaxxed, also, and as a result, her bout with covid was extremely mild. El isn't vaxxed yet because they won't give the covid vaccine to kids under five here, but she's been able to share Zoey's antibodies from breast-feeding--which is apparently a thing.

The only way we can see for me to stay alive long enough to watch Eleanor grow up is to get back to where I can use my Medicare and VA benefits**.

WHY SO MUCH MONEY?

First, while we're still here, we need to pay for whatever medical care can't be put off. Plus, since I'm now immunocompromised, we have to get LOTS of vaccinations before we have to spend 24 hours or so in crowded planes and airports.

Second, we're going to be arriving with only what we can carry with us on the plane, and we'll need to get into a place near a VA hospital that I can easily get around in while I'm recovering from surgeries and getting various treatments. We'll need to pick up some secondhand household goods, and some kind of used transportation (because, you know, it's the US, where you kind of need a vehicle to get around).

We'll also need enough on top of my and El's disability payments to get by for a couple of months while Zoey looks for work. And all this is while we're still paying off the debt from the stuff I mentioned above.

So we're figuring that unless we catch some very lucky breaks, it'll probably cost between 20K and 36K altogether.

(We can't simply stay with friends when we get back, because literally every single close friend we have in the US with extra room and who lives close to a VA hospital has cats--to which I have a severe anaphylactic reaction. As in my entire respiratory system shuts down, and I have to be rushed to the ER to keep from dying; this has happened more than once. The only way I can be around cats is if I'm on immunosuppressants, and my immune system is ALREADY compromised, so I CAN'T do that.)

So again, if you can kick in, or reblog, or post our crowdfunding links (or the link to this post) on whatever other platforms you use, we'd appreciate it.

(*When I told social security about it, they said I could keep getting disability, too, because licensing IP rights didn't count as work income, and since it was a Moldavian company, it also fell under a special tax clause for getting paid by a foreign company while living overseas, so no taxes on it, either. )

(**VA benefits--I was a cold warrior in 1980s Germany. It was less than forty years after WWII, there was a lot of sabre-rattling--some of it nuclear--and we were there as a deterrent to prevent in Germany the kind of thing that's happening in Ukraine right now. Disclaimer because I'm tired of people accusing me of "invading" folks in the early 1980s when I was a dumb, heavily propagandized pre-Internet kid fixing generators in Europe. I wouldn't join today even if I could.)

[rocketbirdie]

Y'know, while Cloud definitely has autism, Zack absolutely has ADHD. I think that's why they get along so well.

oh for sure. i think they should do some kind of magical girl transformation in part 3 where they combine into the ultimate adhd-autism wombo combo. This is how we can defeat sephiroth

[youcouldmakealife]

2024 Writing Wrap

Well, my goal for 2024 was 225,000 words, and I did exceed that, so I believe that is what we call a success. Never mind that my ~secret goal was 250k and that the 225k goal was just in case anything came up. And it did. So that is technically still a success! So I’m trying not to be grumbly about it.

What I’m not grumbly about at all is how, exactly, that final word count broke down by project (actual numbers below).

I don’t think the COTT and SAIT word counts could be closer than if I’d been intentionally trying to balance them. Which, I cannot stress enough, I was not. I was actually expecting a 2:1 COTT v SAIT ratio, mostly because, well, SAIT hasn’t been easy to write at times, and I was fully prepared for that to continue. But then something happened. I won’t investigate it too closely — gift horses, etc — but the floodgates finally broke, and a character that was so reluctant to speak honestly about himself and his life that it left him (and me) mute was suddenly willing to talk.

(We all know what happened. Robbie Lombardi happened.)

So, coming into this year I set myself a 13 part (approx 27.5k) goal for SAIT, and a 60k goal for COTT. They both ended up around 75k. Add in the SOTWs&Ms, which ended up around 65k combined (goal was 60k), and on all counts, I beat my individual project goals, and absolutely smashed the one for SAIT.

Considering this year I also got the TOTI paperback done and published the final installment of Between the Teeth, I think it was a pretty productive year, particularly considering I was finally diagnosed with Audhd in January, and have spent a lot of time and energy processing that, reframing a lot of things, and adjusting my work style to better accommodate my neurotype.

It's all been a big learning process, though one slightly derailed by the arrival of COVID and the…refusal to leave of COVID…and a fraught one at times, but it’s really been a relief to look at things like ‘this doesn’t work for me because my brain isn’t wired that way’ versus ‘this doesn’t work for me because I’m lazy/not trying hard enough/not living up to my ‘potential’, ad nauseum. It’s been…good. Tough, and emotional, and sometimes exhausting, but good. And I think that might be the other reason that Georgie started to speak again: how the fuck was I supposed to write him starting to move forward when I was still masking? How could I?

Meanwhile my other project was literally ‘okay, what if I worked through some of this by making my ADHD and my autism kiss? What if I did that?’ And COTT has been an absolute delight for me as a somewhat chaotic way for me to examine how these totally different beings co-exist. Throw in me shoving a ton of common romance tropes, gleefully undermining them (sometimes even intentionally! Though COTT can indeed be marked down as yet another failure in my quest to write some proper hate sex), a whole lot of ‘look, he actually gets me’ that is probably a liiiittle too close to home (and, I think, the home of most ND people), and everybody Doing Their Best (even when it fails, even when it doesn’t look like it, even when they aren’t rewarded for that), it is probably the closest thing I’ve ever written to pure Id fic, and I’m including the fucking Scouts here.

So thank you for all being very patient with me working through my ~stuff via narrative, and I’m really glad some of you (Audhd, autistic, ADHD, and otherwise) see yourselves reflected in Holden and/or James as well. Every single thing that annoys about them is probably something I do. (Uh. Off the ice. I don’t throw dirty hits. And I sadly don’t have a hockey room either.) I love them both a lot and I genuinely think my loving them, with all their faults (that are often my faults), has made my relationship with myself better, because I too am Always Doing My Best, even when it doesn’t look like it. And sometimes I forget that.

Okay, enough of the navel gazing, time for numbers!

These may seem slightly different than the word counts on, say, AO3, but at the end of each writing day I log my process. It’s always a little inflated -- some of it ends up on the cutting room floor, some of it applies to works currently still in progress, etc.

But, end of the year, here’s the breakdown*:

*rounded up/down to the nearest thousand, but that was the extent of the rounding, they're just naturally handsome numbers

Cards on the Table: 75k

Still Always in Tandem: 75k

SOTW/Ms and Extras: 82k

(Comprised of: SOTWs: 34k, SOTMs: 33k, Extras 15k)

For a combined total of 232k, squeaking in a mere 7k above my 225k goal.

But wait! There’s the misc (includes some Gritty work, last minute BTT additions, the bracket challenge, and other things that don’t fit the categories above), which adds an additional 13k.

So, in fact, it all adds up to 245k. Which is pretty damn close to 250k in my humble opinion, especially considering I spent a full quarter of 2024 sick. So I think we can call this year a success, at least on the writing front.