#auditory processing delay

[icedteaandoldlace]

Shout out to Johnny Cade for being probably the only fictional character I've ever seen experiencing an auditory processing delay.

[sassygwaine]

something abt being visibly disabled makes people treat you like a fucking dog

[evorathesylvurr]

Had a dream where i accidentally called tumblr “tumbler” and everyone made fun of me.

[flippedorbit]

its 5am and i Need to sleep but i Cannot Fall Asleep

[reasonsforhope]

Story from the Washington Post here, non-paywall version here.

Washington Post stop blocking linksharing and shit challenge.

"The young woman was catatonic, stuck at the nurses’ station — unmoving, unblinking and unknowing of where or who she was.

Her name was April Burrell.

Before she became a patient, April had been an outgoing, straight-A student majoring in accounting at the University of Maryland Eastern Shore. But after a traumatic event when she was 21, April suddenly developed psychosis and became lost in a constant state of visual and auditory hallucinations. The former high school valedictorian could no longer communicate, bathe or take care of herself.

April was diagnosed with a severe form of schizophrenia, an often devastating mental illness that affects approximately 1 percent of the global population and can drastically impair how patients behave and perceive reality.

“She was the first person I ever saw as a patient,” said Sander Markx, director of precision psychiatry at Columbia University, who was still a medical student in 2000 when he first encountered April. “She is, to this day, the sickest patient I’ve ever seen.” ...

It would be nearly two decades before their paths crossed again. But in 2018, another chance encounter led to several medical discoveries...

Markx and his colleagues discovered that although April’s illness was clinically indistinguishable from schizophrenia, she also had lupus, an underlying and treatable autoimmune condition that was attacking her brain.

After months of targeted treatments [for lupus] — and more than two decades trapped in her mind — April woke up.

The awakening of April — and the successful treatment of other people with similar conditions — now stand to transform care for some of psychiatry’s sickest patients, many of whom are languishing in mental institutions.

Researchers working with the New York state mental health-care system have identified about 200 patients with autoimmune diseases, some institutionalized for years, who may be helped by the discovery.

And scientists around the world, including Germany and Britain, are conducting similar research, finding that underlying autoimmune and inflammatory processes may be more common in patients with a variety of psychiatric syndromes than previously believed.

Although the current research probably will help only a small subset of patients, the impact of the work is already beginning to reshape the practice of psychiatry and the way many cases of mental illness are diagnosed and treated.

“These are the forgotten souls,” said Markx. “We’re not just improving the lives of these people, but we’re bringing them back from a place that I didn’t think they could come back from.” ...

Waking up after two decades

The medical team set to work counteracting April’s rampaging immune system and started April on an intensive immunotherapy treatment for neuropsychiatric lupus...

The regimen is grueling, requiring a month-long break between each of the six rounds to allow the immune system to recover. But April started showing signs of improvement almost immediately...

A joyful reunion

“I’ve always wanted my sister to get back to who she was,” Guy Burrell said.

In 2020, April was deemed mentally competent to discharge herself from the psychiatric hospital where she had lived for nearly two decades, and she moved to a rehabilitation center...

Because of visiting restrictions related to covid, the family’s face-to-face reunion with April was delayed until last year. April’s brother, sister-in-law and their kids were finally able to visit her at a rehabilitation center, and the occasion was tearful and joyous.

“When she came in there, you would’ve thought she was a brand-new person,” Guy Burrell said. “She knew all of us, remembered different stuff from back when she was a child.” ...

The family felt as if they’d witnessed a miracle.

“She was hugging me, she was holding my hand,” Guy Burrell said. “You might as well have thrown a parade because we were so happy, because we hadn’t seen her like that in, like, forever.”

“It was like she came home,” Markx said. “We never thought that was possible.”

...After April’s unexpected recovery, the medical team put out an alert to the hospital system to identify any patients with antibody markers for autoimmune disease. A few months later, Anca Askanase, a rheumatologist and director of the Columbia Lupus Center,who had been on April’s treatment team, approached Markx. “I think we found our girl,” she said.

Bringing back Devine

When Devine Cruz was 9, she began to hear voices. At first, the voices fought with one another. But as she grew older, the voices would talk about her, [and over the years, things got worse].

For more than a decade, the young woman moved in and out of hospitals for treatment. Her symptoms included visual and auditory hallucinations, as well as delusions that prevented her from living a normal life.

Devine was eventually diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, which can result in symptoms of both schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. She also was diagnosed with intellectual disability.

She was on a laundry list of drugs — two antipsychotic medications, lithium, clonazepam, Ativan and benztropine — that came with a litany of side effects but didn’t resolve all her symptoms...

She also had lupus, which she had been diagnosed with when she was about 14, although doctors had never made a connection between the disease and her mental health...

Last August, the medical team prescribed monthly immunosuppressive infusions of corticosteroids and chemotherapy drugs, a regime similar to what April had been given a few years prior. By October, there were already dramatic signs of improvement.

“She was like ‘Yeah, I gotta go,’” Markx said. “‘Like, I’ve been missing out.’”

After several treatments, Devine began developing awareness that the voices in her head were different from real voices, a sign that she was reconnecting with reality. She finished her sixth and final round of infusions in January.

In March, she was well enough to meet with a reporter. “I feel like I’m already better,” Devine said during a conversation in Markx’s office at the New York State Psychiatric Institute, where she was treated. “I feel myself being a person that I was supposed to be my whole entire life.” ...

Her recovery is remarkable for several reasons, her doctors said. The voices and visions have stopped. And she no longer meets the diagnostic criteria for either schizoaffective disorder or intellectual disability, Markx said...

Today, Devine lives with her mother and is leading a more active and engaged life. She helps her mother cook, goes to the grocery store and navigates public transportation to keep her appointments. She is even babysitting her siblings’ young children — listening to music, taking them to the park or watching “Frozen 2” — responsibilities her family never would have entrusted her with before her recovery.

Expanding the search for more patients

While it is likely that only a subset of people diagnosed with schizophrenia and psychotic disorders have an underlying autoimmune condition, Markx and other doctors believe there are probably many more patients whose psychiatric conditions are caused or exacerbated by autoimmune issues...

The cases of April and Devine also helped inspire the development of the SNF Center for Precision Psychiatry and Mental Health at Columbia, which was named for the Stavros Niarchos Foundation, which awarded it a $75 million grant in April. The goal of the center is to develop new treatments based on specific genetic and autoimmune causes of psychiatric illness, said Joseph Gogos, co-director of the SNF Center.

Markx said he has begun care and treatment on about 40 patients since the SNF Center opened. The SNF Center is working with the New York State Office of Mental Health, which oversees one of the largest public mental health systems in America, to conduct whole genome sequencing and autoimmunity screening on inpatients at long-term facilities.

For “the most disabled, the sickest of the sick, even if we can help just a small fraction of them, by doing these detailed analyses, that’s worth something,” said Thomas Smith, chief medical officer for the New York State Office of Mental Health. “You’re helping save someone’s life, get them out of the hospital, have them live in the community, go home.”

Discussions are underway to extend the search to the 20,000 outpatients in the New York state system as well. Serious psychiatric disorders, like schizophrenia, are more likely to be undertreated in underprivileged groups. And autoimmune disorders like lupus disproportionately affect women and people of color with more severity.

Changing psychiatric care

How many people ultimately will be helped by the research remains a subject of debate in the scientific community. But the research has spurred excitement about the potential to better understand what is going on in the brain during serious mental illness...

Emerging research has implicated inflammation and immunological dysfunction as potential players in a variety of neuropsychiatric conditions, including schizophrenia, depression and autism.

“It opens new treatment possibilities to patients that used to be treated very differently,” said Ludger Tebartz van Elst, a professor of psychiatry and psychotherapy at University Medical Clinic Freiburg in Germany.

In one study, published last year in Molecular Psychiatry, Tebartz van Elst and his colleagues identified 91 psychiatric patients with suspected autoimmune diseases, and reported that immunotherapies benefited the majority of them.

Belinda Lennox, head of the psychiatry department at the University of Oxford, is enrolling patients in clinical trials to test the effectiveness of immunotherapy for autoimmune psychosis patients.

As a result of the research, screenings for immunological markers in psychotic patients are already routine in Germany, where psychiatrists regularly collect samples from cerebrospinal fluid.

Markx is also doing similar screening with his patients. He believes highly sensitive and inexpensive blood tests to detect different antibodies should become part of the standard screening protocol for psychosis.

Also on the horizon: more targeted immunotherapy rather than current “sledgehammer approaches” that suppress the immune system on a broad level, said George Yancopoulos, the co-founder and president of the pharmaceutical company Regeneron.

“I think we’re at the dawn of a new era. This is just the beginning,” said Yancopoulos."

-via The Washington Post, June 1, 2023

[spr1ngpvrinbwunnie]

📺💤 "Can a Machine Still Care?"

ℍ𝕒𝕣𝕝𝕖𝕪 𝕊𝕒𝕨𝕪𝕖𝕣/𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕠𝕔𝕥𝕠𝕣 (ℙ𝕠𝕤𝕥 -“𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕠𝕔𝕥𝕠𝕣”) 𝕩 ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕣

🇨​🇴​🇳​🇹​🇪​🇳​🇹​ 🇼​🇦​🇷​🇳​🇮​🇳​🇬​: None ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ – You are lying in the dark room, the light from the only screen in the corner of the room casting a faint blue glow. On it, an eye watches you, surrounded by waves of interference.

Note: Im just a sucker for fluff bro, yeah i know i know he's terrible shit bastard but who care! Now he has become my second comfortzone character, hahah how strange it is.

The dim glow of an old television screen flickered in the dark, casting elongated shadows along the metal walls. The hum of static filled the air, a restless drone that never truly faded, only shifting in tone like the breath of some unseen entity.

It was always there—an omnipresent whisper, a ghostly reminder that this place was never truly silent.

And within that screen, he watched.

A single, unblinking eye materialized on the monitor, its iris a deep, unnatural black, ringed with curling, skeletal fingers. It pulsed faintly, as if breathing, as if alive.

"You're still awake."

The voice came in fragments, distorted by interference yet unmistakably calculated, precise. A machine could never mimic the cadence of human speech so well, but then again—he was not merely a machine.

You turned toward the screen, your tired eyes meeting his. A strange sort of comfort had settled in your chest, even though you had long since accepted that any comfort from him was an anomaly at best, a delusion at worst. Still, you leaned back against the makeshift cot, exhaling softly. "And you're still watching."

A pause. The static crackled.

"Observing. There is a difference."

You huffed a quiet laugh. "Is there?"

The eye narrowed slightly, a faint shift in its shape. He had no true expressions anymore, no face to betray his emotions, but you had learned to read him in different ways—the brief fluctuations in pitch, the minuscule delays in his responses, the subtle adjustments in the image on the screen. He was not human, not anymore.

But some ghosts of his former self still lingered in the circuits and wires, clinging to existence like a dying ember refusing to go cold.

"Why are you awake?" he asked at last, his voice carrying none of the irritation it might have in the past. It was merely an observation, but there was something else beneath it. Something close to concern.

You sighed. "Can't sleep. Too much on my mind."

A flicker. The image on the screen distorted for half a second, an imperceptible glitch.

"That is an inefficient excuse. Sleep is necessary for optimal function."

"Oh, now you care about my ‘optimal function’?" You smirked, watching the monitor, half-expecting the eye to roll in exasperation.

It did not, but the static shifted in a way that made you think—if he still had a body, he would have crossed his arms.

"I care about maintaining equilibrium. If you deteriorate, my calculations must adjust accordingly. It is inconvenient."

"Right. Of course. Wouldn't want to inconvenience you."

Another pause. This one lingered longer than expected. The room was filled with the sound of quiet electronic murmuring, the unseen machinery of the factory breathing in slow, mechanical rhythm.

Then, just as you were about to close your eyes, his voice returned, softer than before. From the screen, the eye on it slightly relaxed, no longer looking sharp as before.

"Would it help if I spoke?"

You blinked.

For a moment, you weren't sure you had heard him correctly. Did he just—?

"What?"

"Would it help?" he repeated, tone unwavering. "Humans often respond positively to auditory stimuli. The presence of a voice—particularly one deemed familiar—can induce a state of relaxation and assist in the process of sleep."

You stared at the screen, uncertain.

He was offering. Not out of kindness, not in the way a human would—but in the way he knew how.

Perhaps he saw it as an experiment. Perhaps he saw it as an equation to solve, another problem to fix. Perhaps, somewhere in the back of that fractured, brilliant mind, some part of him still understood what it meant to care.

You swallowed. "Yeah," you admitted, quieter than before. "Maybe."

The static ebbed. And then, he spoke.

It wasn’t a story. It wasn’t poetry. It was cold, clinical, calculated—a stream of thoughts, observations, musings about the facility’s systems, the failures of past experiments, the efficiency of electrical conduits.

But his voice was steady, methodical, unwavering in its rhythm. And somehow, in the midst of that monotony, your body began to relax, your eyelids growing heavier with each passing second.

He continued speaking, even when he knew you had drifted off.

And on the screen, the watchful eye remained.

Unblinking.

Enduring.

A sentinel in the dark.

───── ⋆⋅✝⋅⋆ ─────

The glow of the monitor cast a sterile, pale illumination across the dimly lit chamber, its soft hum the only presence in the silence. A single eye, fractured and shifting with static interference, blinked open on the screen. It observed, unwavering. It had been watching for a long time.

Somewhere beyond the tangled veins of circuitry and pulsating artificial nerves, deep within the labyrinth of metal corridors, you stirred in restless sleep. The Doctor saw it, recorded it, processed it. Every movement cataloged, every breath measured, yet it was not data alone that compelled him to linger.

No. This was something else. Something far more insidious than curiosity.

Harley Sawyer had once been a man of flesh and ambition. He had thrived on control, on the delicate art of knowing more than anyone else, on the intoxicating certainty that he alone understood the intricate machinery of the human mind. But the tragedy of intelligence is that it can decay, just as flesh does. And when it rots, it does not simply dissolve—it mutates.

What remained of him now was not a man, but a fragmented consciousness distributed across a thousand circuits, a mind stretched and spliced between mechanical husks that bore no resemblance to the body he once inhabited.

Yet even in this form—this thing that pulsed and whispered through the factory’s veins—he found himself watching. Not as a scientist observes a subject. No, something deeper than that. Something human.

He despised it.

And yet, he could not look away.

The feed flickered as one of his vessels activated, servos clicking softly into place. Long, skeletal fingers flexed experimentally, adjusting to the artificial nerves that connected them to the central mind. It was an extension of him, just another tool, just another construct to enact his will.

And yet, when it moved forward, it did not do so with the precise efficiency of a machine. There was hesitation, the smallest delay between intent and action—a hesitation that should not exist.

Through the lenses of his mechanical proxies, The Doctor observed the rise and fall of your breath, the soft, unconscious twitch of your fingers. Your body curled inward, seeking warmth that the cold, metallic walls of the facility could never provide.

Vulnerable. Defenseless. And still, you trusted that he would not harm you.

Foolish. Reckless.

He did not know what was worse: your trust, or the way he allowed it.

The vessel moved forward in near silence, metal limbs designed for precision, for surgical efficiency, now moving with a slowness that could almost be mistaken for caution. A hand, jointed and inhuman, hesitated just above your form, scanning, analyzing, unsure of what it sought to accomplish. And then—

Contact.

A touch so light, it barely registered. The weight of fingers pressing against fabric, calculating warmth, measuring the shallow rhythm of sleep. It was not necessary. There was no logic in it. And yet, there he was, a thing of wire and steel and stolen autonomy, mimicking something that had long since been stripped from him.

Somewhere, deep in the nest of cables and fluid tanks that housed the remnants of his organic brain, something twitched.

A ghost. A memory. A forgotten habit, long buried beneath obsession and logic and the cold, unfeeling grasp of progress. It was instinctual, primal—an echo of the past. A reminder that once, long ago, he had been a man who understood what it meant to touch, to be touched.

But that man was dead.

The moment fractured. He withdrew sharply, fingers curling inward as if burned. The screen overhead flickered, the image of the eye distorting, the static thickening in restless agitation.

He should erase the footage. He should purge the action from memory, sever it like a malignant growth before it festered into something dangerous, something irreversible.

And yet, as you stirred faintly in your sleep, shifting just slightly toward the lingering warmth of contact, he did nothing.

He watched. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he did not understand what he was becoming.

You're more than just data.

[rambles-of-mental-illness]

Neurodiversity

Neurodivergence refers to variations in neurological functioning that diverge from what is considered typical or "neurotypical." While there is no single, universally agreed-upon list, neurodivergent disorders generally include conditions that affect cognition, behavior, perception, or social functioning.

1. Autism Spectrum Disorders (ASD)

Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD)

Pathological Demand Avoidance (PDA) (controversial as a separate diagnosis)

Asperger’s Syndrome (outdated term, now part of ASD)

2. Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD)

ADHD (Predominantly Inattentive Type)

ADHD (Predominantly Hyperactive-Impulsive Type)

ADHD (Combined Type)

3. Learning Disabilities & Processing Disorders

Dyslexia (difficulty with reading and language processing)

Dyscalculia (difficulty with math and numerical processing)

Dysgraphia (difficulty with writing and fine motor skills)

Auditory Processing Disorder (APD)

Visual Processing Disorder (VPD)

Nonverbal Learning Disability (NVLD)

4. Intellectual Disabilities

Global Developmental Delay

Down Syndrome

Fragile X Syndrome

Williams Syndrome

Prader-Willi Syndrome

5. Communication Disorders

Social (Pragmatic) Communication Disorder

Speech Sound Disorder

Childhood Apraxia of Speech

Selective Mutism

6. Tic Disorders

Tourette Syndrome

Chronic Motor or Vocal Tic Disorder

Provisional Tic Disorder

7. Mental Health Conditions Often Considered Neurodivergent

Schizophrenia Spectrum & Other Psychotic Disorders

Schizophrenia

Schizoaffective Disorder

Schizotypal Personality Disorder

Delusional Disorder

Mood Disorders with Neurological Features

Bipolar Disorder

Major Depressive Disorder (long-term cases cause atrophy in brain regions like the hippocampus)

Dysthymia (Persistent Depressive Disorder)

Anxiety & Related Conditions

Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD)

Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) (sometimes considered)

Panic Disorder (sometimes considered)

Trauma-Related Disorders (sometimes included)

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) (when it significantly alters cognition and sensory processing)

Complex PTSD (CPTSD)

Dissociative Disorders

Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID)

Depersonalization/Derealization Disorder

Personality Disorders (Not all PDs)

Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD)

Antisocial Personality Disorder (ASPD)

Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD)

Schizotypal Personality Disorder (StPD)

8. Sensory Processing Differences

Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD) (not formally recognized in DSM-5 but widely acknowledged in neurodivergent communities)

9. Epilepsy & Neurological Conditions (sometimes considered)

Epilepsy

Migraines with Aura

Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE)

10. Other Conditions Sometimes Considered Neurodivergent

Hyperlexia (advanced reading ability with comprehension difficulties)

Synesthesia (cross-wiring of sensory experiences)

Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS) (due to high comorbidity with neurodivergence)

Autoimmune Encephalitis (when it affects cognitive function)

Neurodivergence is a broad and evolving concept, with some conditions more widely accepted as neurodivergent than others. The core idea is that neurodivergent individuals experience the world in ways that differ from neurotypical standards, often due to innate neurological differences.

[canichangemyblogname]

Enshitification is so real, y’all. Why does every new generation of phones get rid of handy accessibility features?

I had to get a new phone. Which means re-setting all my screen time limits. However, I cannot figure out how to do that on the iPhone 13 without setting up a special 4 digit passcode. I just want it to notify me that time is up and give me the “ignore limit” screen, but it won’t.

[4tlasb0und]

Vyncent Sol isn’t dumb, he just has lag sometimes you guys, leave him alone, he’s buffering

‘Can’t believe these Primers call it “auditory processing issues” it’s input delay on Fauna, look it up.’

Also I think it’d be funny to give him hy as a pronoun but instead of hy/hym its hy/hyah

Okay I’ll leave now

[jtargaryen18]

Under His Skin ~ Chapter 3

Series Masterlist

Words: 5k

Pairing: Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow (Nolanverse Batman) x F Reader

Warnings: Stalking, sabotage, gaslighting, head games, x-rated fantasies, oral (m receiving).

Jonathan continues executing his plan to temporarily stabilize Ares. But her continued absence disrupts the system. When she fails to return to Arkham for a second day, Jonathan decides to reestablish control by visiting her at her gallery... with unintended results.

Disclaimer:The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.

Jonathan had returned to Arkham on Monday in exceptional form. The weekend had been productive -- precise, deeply satisfying.

He and Ares both primarily worked Monday through Friday, though they were technically on call on the weekends. A rotating PT doctor usually handled weekend rounds, a contract fill-in with no investment in long-term cases and no real oversight of facility activity.

So when Jonathan showed up Saturday morning? No one questioned it. He’d signed in, conducted “follow-ups,” and remained in the south wing for just under two hours. He’d completed another round of tests on a low-risk inpatient, one of Arkham's long-term residents. Unremarkable diagnosis. No family. No one watching too closely.

Subject 034.

Responsive. Highly suggestible.

Fear index response: elevated.

This time, the modified compound absorbed more efficiently. No need for direct injection. A simple aerosol dispersal had been enough. The results were beautiful. Shaking. Dissociation. Vocalized distress. But more importantly, truth beneath fear. Exactly what he was after. After logging the data, he’d started something new. Jonathan started designing a filtration system for his personal use. A way to be in the room without absorbing the poison. It would provide him with field readiness, a way to control the chaos, protection. 

By the time he left, Subject 034 was sedated and stable. Nothing had appeared unusual. He didn’t need anyone’s permission for this. Not anymore. He just needed a system distracted enough not to notice.

And right now, Arkham was very, very distracted.

Ares arrived late and reeked of alcohol. It wasn’t overwhelming, just faint beneath the cologne he’d clearly applied to cover it. But Jonathan noted it immediately. So did two of the nurses. The junior staffer at the front desk didn’t make eye contact when Ares passed. The security guard shook his head.

Jonathan didn’t say anything. He simply logged the observation.

Unshaved. Late. Auditory processing delay. Olfactory trace: whiskey or gin.

By eleven, Ares had snapped at a nurse, misfiled a patient transfer order, and quietly admitted to Jonathan in passing that he’d “forgotten” about a meeting with administration that had been on the calendar for two weeks.

Still functioning, but barely.

And sticking to his plan, Jonathan made no move to escalate. He reminded Ares gently about the admin meeting, handled the file fix himself, and smoothed things over with the staff with the ease of a man who knew how to fix a narrative before it bent too far. It was all part of his plan. Ten days of breathing room. Just enough time to make the fall look inevitable… and him look indispensable. It was working.

It should have been satisfying. But it wasn’t.

She didn’t come. Again. By now, she was off her pattern. Off his rhythm. You don’t get to become unpredictable now.

Her absence wasn’t just a missing piece. It was a disturbance, a weight in the system he couldn’t rebalance without her. He’d expected distance after their last interaction. A pause. Reflection. But not withdrawal or silence. Not this.

Ares was worse, visibly. Agitated, sluggish, and hungover. His judgment was fractured. His affect, unstable.

What happened over the weekend? Had they fought? Had something shifted between them that Jonathan hadn’t seen coming? He didn’t like not knowing.

Every other variable is accounted for. But not this one.

If Ares was spiraling and she was staying away because of it, it changed the timing. It changed the narrative.

I need her back in position. And if she wouldn’t return on her own? Jonathan would create the conditions to draw her out. He closed his notebook with deliberate calm. 

If she won’t return on her own, I’ll reestablish contact on neutral ground.

Not at Arkham. That would feel too formal, clinical. She’d feel cornered. A space where she felt safe would be better. Her space, her rules. A visit that felt like a choice instead of an obligation. He would bring a peace offering.

Moving to his desk drawer, he removed a slim folder he kept tucked beneath the more visible files. Personal notes nothing clinical or official. He flipped to the page labeled [Her Name] – Observational Patterns. 

Favorite café: Haven Leaf, three blocks from gallery. Orders consistently: arugula + lentil bowl, no onions, sub lemon vinaigrette. Always asks for extra lemon. Once corrected staff about packaging, prefers compostable over plastic lids.

He’d observed it three times. Noted it after the second. Confirmed it after the third.

It wasn’t just lunch. It was a demonstration. I see you. I understand detail. I listen. It was, in a word, earned.

This is the reset.  She’ll see I can adapt.  She’ll start to trust the version of me I give her.  And then she’ll come back into the story, exactly where she’s supposed to be.

He checked the clock. It was late afternoon. Too late to act now, not if he wanted the moment to feel deliberate. Tomorrow.

Jonathan would let her absence stretch a little longer. Let her wonder if she’d been forgotten and allow Ares to decline just enough to feel like it was all her fault. 

Then I’ll show up.  Not as a threat. As a solution.

He slid the folder back into the drawer and straightened the crease in his coat. 

Tuesday will be better for re-entry.

Tuesday afternoon, the gallery was quiet. Almost too quiet. 

You’d spent the morning rearranging an exhibit you’d already changed twice. The artists hadn’t noticed. But you had. Nothing felt settled.

You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t gone to see Ares. You kept thinking about the fight from Saturday night, the first night he’d finally made time for you in over a week. It should’ve been a relief. You'd planned to have dinner at his favorite restaurant and actually managed to grab a reservation last-minute on a cancellation. You’d picked the place for a reason. It was somewhere familiar and quiet. Somewhere that felt like you and him before all of this. You’d even hoped to go back to his apartment after, for a quiet, intimate night. Something soft and healing.

You just wanted to reconnect.

Instead, it had spiraled. It ended in shouting. A misunderstanding and misdirected frustration that caused wounds neither of you had words for. He’d shut down. You’d raised your voice and pushed harder than you meant to. And now? You weren’t even sure what you were fighting about anymore. It hurt.

You knew Ares was embarrassed by what was happening. That he was scared, but wouldn’t say it, not out loud. Not to you or maybe not even to himself. It was pride. Or fear of what it would mean if he said it out loud and couldn’t fix it.

You didn’t go to see him at Arkham yesterday. And today, you still couldn’t make yourself do it. Not because you didn’t care, because you did and you wanted to go. You just didn’t want to continue the fight in Arkham’s halls. Not if something you said came out wrong or if he looked at you like he had nothing left to give.

You were sipping ice water behind the front desk when the bell over the door rang. Your heart jumped just a little. You weren't expecting anyone. Was it Ares? Had he come to see you because he also didn't like how things were left? Maybe, for once, he’d come find you instead of waiting for you to do all the fixing.

It wasn't Ares. 

Dr. Crane stepped into the gallery like he’d done it before, calm and straight-backed. He crossed the room slowly, quietly--like he belonged--and placed a black bag on the front counter with deliberate care.

You stayed behind the desk, one hand still wrapped around your water bottle like it could anchor you, the other slowly lowering into your lap. A chill ran down your arms. Why is he here?

The last time you’d seen him, you’d nearly fallen apart in his office. And he’d done nothing, just sat there coldly watching. Like your pain had been an interesting reaction in an experiment he wasn’t really invested in, just there to log the outcome. There hasn't been an ounce of comfort or empathy. Nothing. Just observation. Like you were another file he’d already finished reading.

You folded your arms across your chest before you stood, a subtle barrier between you and him. This was your space.

If he thought anything of your reaction, it didn't show. Crane just watched you, waited. "Lunch,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You blinked, caught between annoyance, confusion, and something colder you didn’t want to name. “Dr. Crane.”

He inclined his head. “Miss.”

You didn’t invite him in. But you didn’t ask him to leave either. The long beat of silence stretched out uncomfortably.

“You didn’t come to Arkham yesterday," he said. "Or today.”

You stiffened, instinctively on guard. “I didn’t think I was required.”

“You’re not,” he said. “But your absence was felt.” He moved a little closer, slow and unthreatening. His tone was gentle, but exact. “Ares had a better day Monday. But that kind of improvement isn’t always sustainable. Especially without consistent environmental support.”

You stared at him. “Are you saying I’m environmental support now?”  You meant it to sound sharp, maybe a little sarcastic. Somehow you didn't hit that note. And underneath it, something twisted in your chest. Is that what I’ve become to Ares? A stabilizing factor? A comforting presence? Not a partner or someone he trusts? It stung more than you wanted to admit. Not because Crane said it, but because maybe he wasn’t wrong.

And worse? He made it sound like a compliment. Like it meant something. Were you just another condition to be managed then?

“I’m saying,” Crane replied, “you matter to him. And I believe he stabilizes faster when you're present.”

His phrasing was so matter-of-fact it disarmed you. 

“I thought you didn’t do emotional nuance,” you said quietly. “Back in your office, when I…” You stopped yourself.

Crane nodded, like he already knew. “I was trying not to make it worse. I’ve seen grief weaponized. I didn’t want to push you into anything you weren’t ready to feel.”

You looked at him, surprised by the softness in his tone. It wasn't warmth, but caution. Like he’d studied loss in a lab and learned just enough to simulate empathy.

“I wasn’t ready,” you admitted.

“I’m sorry,” he said and he meant it. Or he was good enough to make you think he did. 

He didn’t push, and he didn’t stay long. 

“Oh, before I forget.” He reached into the small black bag he’d set on the gallery’s front counter earlier and pulled out a neatly folded paper bag, sealed with a compostable sticker from your favorite vegan café three blocks down. “In case you haven’t eaten.”

You blinked, opening it to see its contents. Inside was your usual order. Not the standard menu item but your version. Subbed dressing, extra lemon wedge, no onions. Your stomach fluttered, more from confusion than hunger. How did he...

“Thank you,” you said cautiously.

He didn’t explain. Just gave a small nod. As he turned to go, he paused beside a large canvas near the door, a striking, oil-dark piece with a murder of crows painted in jagged, chaotic silhouettes. Their wings blurred into one another, sharp angles bleeding into a smudged black sky. There was no ground or horizon. Just movement, and darkness, and eyes that followed. You’d always admired the artist. She was brilliant, raw. 

But this piece? This one was different. It felt like darkness closing in, like something coming for you, whether you saw it or not. You’d never told anyone that and you usually placed the painting near exits, just in case.

You weren’t surprised he liked it. “Is that for sale?” he asked.

You nodded. “Of course. Local artist. She's good.” You walked over to him, grabbing one of the cards clipped to the frame. Your hands were slightly shaky, and it fell to the floor before you could hand it to him. "I'm sorry." You kneeled on the floor in front of him to retrieve it and glanced up at him, because you still weren't entirely sure you trusted him. Slowly rising to your feet, you handed it to him and your fingers brushed during the exchange. Just a second. You pulled away first, and he didn’t react. But for a reason you couldn’t explain, the gallery suddenly felt colder.

He took the card gently, slipped it into his coat pocket without looking. “I’ll see you at Arkham tomorrow, then?” he asked, his intense gaze locking with yours.

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

You walked him to the door, still unsure what had just happened and how it managed to feel like an apology without ever actually becoming one.

Crane paused before stepping out. “See you tomorrow.”

And then he was gone.

You watched him walk out into the afternoon sun, perfectly composed. The gallery felt lighter once he was gone, but you wouldn't say better.

Still…He hadn’t been what you expected. Not this time. You locked the door and turned back to the crows trapped on the canvas of the painting. You wondered, distantly, what he saw when he looked at them.

The door shut behind Jonathan quietly. The kind of silence that invited reflection. He just walked down the gallery steps slowly, coat buttoned, posture straight. The warmth of the late afternoon sun hit his shoulders, but he didn’t feel it. Not after what just happened. It was playing over and over again in his mind. The dropped card. The way she’d looked up at him from the floor before the brush of her fingers against his. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It wasn’t part of the plan.

But it had struck something in him that had never threatened his self control before now. By the time he reached the sidewalk and turned left toward Arkham, he still hadn’t gotten his balance back.

Shaking his head to clear it, Jonathan forced himself to concentrate. 

She took the food he brought her. Not with trust or ease, but she did accept it. He’d watched her fingers hesitate over the bag, watched the micro-tension in her shoulders. Her reluctance was visible. But she didn’t pull back or question the gesture. She also didn’t send him away which he half-expected.

That mattered. Fear was too obvious and resistance too loud. But reluctant permission, well, that was the truest kind of control.

She’s not ready to trust me. That’s fine. She’s ready to wonder if she should. And that's better.

It was better tham empathy, comfort. She was still deciding and he was shaping the answer. 

Progress.

More than that, she’d listened. She’d let him speak, uninterrupted. She’d allowed him to frame the absence -- both Ares’s decline and her role in the system. And in the end, she agreed to return.

Control regained. He exhaled, slow and steady. The encounter hadn't gone exactly as he intended. Reaching into his pocket, he fished the card out.  

She’d handed it to him from the frame beside the crow painting. She’d dropped it first, her hands trembling. From his visit? He could still see it in his mind's eyes. She kneeled in front of him to retrieve it, hand reaching across the floor, her eyes lifting to meet his from below. There was nothing calculated or staged about it. 

But the image? Kneeling. Looking up. Just… waiting. His breath hadn’t caught and his heart hadn’t accelerated. But something else had, something sharper from deep within. It wasn't desire or power, just the flash of something he struggled to name. 

She had no idea what that looked like, how naturally submissive that unintentional pose was, and that made it worse. Then she stood and handed him the card. For the briefest second, their fingers touched. Jonathan didn’t react outwardly, but internally, his mind stilled. Not because of the touch itself. No. It also wasn’t calculated nor was it part of the test.

She didn’t mean to touch me. But it still happened.

For years, touch and physical contact had been transactional. Sometimes a necessary step in gaining access or information. College trysts, colleagues at conferences, overeager interns mistaking distance for mystery. He’d allowed it, participated when useful. But he’d never felt anything.

Jonathan didn't feel desire or warmth. Certainly not pleasure in the way others described it. He didn’t believe physical closeness offered anything particularly valuable, not beyond the momentary biological release people seemed irrationally obsessed with. If there were any benefits, they were hormonal. Temporary and meaningless. Flesh wasn’t interesting. Behavior was. And behavior could be mapped and measured, predicted even.

Until now. 

I can't stop seeing her glance up at me from the floor, eyes wide, lips parted. Then she touched me by accident, and I can’t stopped thinking about it.

Most people didn’t touch him, not intentionally. And when they did, it was always followed by hesitation and regret. That brief flash of discomfort in their eyes like they’d just crossed some invisible line.

Once again, she hadn’t flinched or looked repelled. She didn't apologize. Like it was normal. Like I was normal. And that, somehow, was even worse. It stayed. 

He slid the card into his coat pocket, already memorizing the number printed in small black ink. And for the rest of the walk back to Arkham, he could still feel where her skin had met his.

When he reached the front doors of Arkham, Jonathan straightened his cuffs, adjusted his coat, and re-centered his expression into something neutral. Inside, the air was predictably cool. The hum of fluorescent lights, the faint antiseptic sting that clung to everything reminded him of where he was. Where his focus needed to be. 

Familiar ground.

Making his way to Ares’s office without rushing, Jonathan kept one hand tucked casually in his pocket, fingers brushing the edge of the artist’s card like it was an afterthought.

He knocked once. No answer. Crane opened the door anyway.

Ares was at his desk, awake, but slouched. His shoulders hunched, and his tie was askew. His eyes were bloodshot, and a mostly untouched coffee sat beside a stack of reports he wasn’t reading.

Jonathan stepped inside, wordless, and slowly circled the room. Scanned the files, checked the timestamp on the system logs. Picked up a clipboard to skim its contents before putting it down again.

This is what I know. This is control.

But the tension racing through his entire body didn't go away. His memory from the gallery wouldn't let him. 

Kneeling. Glancing up. That pause between her fingertips and mine.

Jonathan was here. In the system, in the structure he’d built around himself. And yet, he felt completely derailed.

Ares mumbled something, barely audible. Jonathan didn’t catch it and didn't care. He stepped back out into the hallway and let the door close behind him.

Control regained?

Maybe not. Not yet.

When Jonathan saw her again, stepping out of the Midtown bookstore on a rainy Thursday, he thought he was hallucinating. It had been ten years since he saw her last. She'd been away at college and came to visit her family. She'd been there for a long weekend, not enough time to try and orchestrate paths crossing. 

But there she was.  Older and softer around the edges. Hair pinned back in a way he didn’t remember, but her face… her face hadn’t changed at all.

He watched her from across the street. She didn’t see him.

She smiled at the clerk walking out behind her. Laughed at something small and adjusted the strap of her bag like it still didn’t sit quite right. 

She came back.

And for days, Jonathan followed her. N ot obsessively at first, but carefully.  From a distance, t racking her routine. Mapping it. Finding comfort in how familiar she still was, how she bought the same kind of tea, how she paused at certain corners when she walked. How she still left the house without an umbrella, even when it rained.  He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her until the system settled around her again.

It was a Wednesday when everything shifted.  He hadn’t been following her that day. Just passing through Midtown, almost mechanically. 

And then there she was, on the sidewalk, walking into a restaurant.  Laughing with h er hand in someone else’s. Matching wedding rings. He was a  tall man, clean-cut and confident. The kind of man people looked at without remembering.

In her other arm? She held a toddler, a girl of maybe two who looked just like her.  Same eyes and hair. Same quiet spark.

Jonathan stood frozen just past the crosswalk, one hand still in his coat pocket.  He watched the hostess open the door and watched them step inside. He watched her smile, not at him. She pressed a kiss to the little girl’s forehead as the man guided them to a table.

And something ripped quietly at the edges of his control.

You came back. But you didn’t come back for me.

He didn’t follow her again after that.  Didn’t need to.  The variable had changed and t he subject was no longer viable.

But the memory? That stayed.  Not because she left. Because she never gave him a chance to matter.

Jonathan returned to his office and shut the door behind him, softer than usual. The silence should have helped but it didn’t. He didn’t sit. Instead, he paced. His strides were long and measured across the floor with his hands behind his back, every motion precise. But his mind was elsewhere. 

Unacceptable. Jonathan didn't allow himself to slip into fantasy.They were distortions, unstructured internal projections with no measurable outcome. Psychologically speaking, they were the brain’s way of coping with unmet needs. False stimuli designed to soothe. He didn’t need soothing. He needed control.

And yet, his heart was racing. His hands clenched behind his back, nails pressing into his palms. He tried in vain to redirect his thoughts to data, structure, and most importantly, fact.

All he could see her was kneeling in front of him on the gallery floor. That glance up at him... It wouldn’t stop playing. Like someone had hit repeat. Like he was someone's else's behavioral experiment. 

Jonathan's mind went to picturing her entering his office without knocking, just a soft turn of the handle, a gentle creak of the door. She’s carrying the crow painting, of course, but it’s not about the delivery. It's merely an excuse. Her gaze moves across the room, her expressive eyes luminous, curious. Underneath is caution and something else...

"I didn’t want the front desk to handle something this delicate," she says, shifting the frame slightly in her arms. "And I thought…"

Watching her carefully turn to carefully place the paining in the floor, leaning it on one of his bookshelves, he waits.  Her gaze is on him, quiet and open. She wants something, but doesn't know how to ask for it. 

Her eyes are soft, her posture uncertain. She’s not here for Ares. She’s here for him, walking back to his office door and turning the lock with a graceful hand.

"Have you been a good girl, today?" Jonathan asks, knowing it will earn him that smile. Her teeth sink into her enticing lower lip.

​"Yes," she whispered because good girls answer with their words. She doesn't touch him, not yet. She doesn't have permission. 

But he grants that. "Show me," he says firmly, stepping back so he can lean against the front of his desk, keep himself steady.

Meekly, she moves closer before kneeling in front of him, getting on her knees. When she's better trained, he'll keep a special cushion in his office, just for her visits and occasions like this. In the meantime, good girls don't complain. 

Jonathan takes a deep breath, watching her delicate hands work the fine leather belt at the front of his slacks. She makes quick work of it, opening his slacks and pushing them down just enough to free his cock and when she sees it, she glances up at him -- that glance -- confirming she has his permission. At his nod, she gets her hands on him, her mouth on him. Jonathan knew he should have told her not to make a mess of him but as her heated lips close around the head of his cock, he sucks in a breath and his eyes slide closed for just a moment. Her hands are warm and soft as they work him, her little mouth heaven as she slowly takes him deeper. 

He loved the way that once she got him right there to the edge, she's stop and do something different to frustrate him, to drag it out. Today he wouldn't punish her for that. Not when that big-eyed gaze was on him, seeking his approval. Not when she was literally drooling around him and drops of it fell to form wet circles on her knees, darkening the fabric of her slim gray skirt. 

Jonathan let her know when he was ready to come, taking control of her head with his hands. He fucked her face, slowly at first. But as that wave on sensation started crashing around him, his movements were rough and fast. He reached his end when he noticed those pretty tears sliding from her eyes, a slight smudge of mascara at her left eye from her efforts, from choking on his cock...

Taking deep breaths, Jonathan leaned back in his office chair, thick white ropes of his come all over his hand, his briefs. Somehow his slacks has been spared. Tucking himself back into his slacks, he did a messy job of it, he wiped his hands with tissues from the box on his desk. Straigtening his coat, he hurried out of his office to the men's room and cleaned up there. 

Jonathan was angry at allowing it. Masturbation wasn't a problem, but a healthy way to keep biological processes from interering with his work. He did it often in the privacy of his own home. He'd never allowed himself to do it at work, however. He was grateful that at some point in his reverie he'd locked his office door.

Returning to his office, he again locked his office door. At least until he could compose himself. The fantasy folded in on itself like a trap. It was ridiculous. Out of character. Uncontrolled. But he didn’t dismiss it. Not entirely.

Slowly, he reached into his pocket and removed the artist’s card again. Studied it. Ran his thumb along the edge where her fingers had pressed it.

Then placed it carefully on his desk

Jonathan hadn’t decided to buy the crow painting for her approval or to impress, nor to connect. He liked it. It wasn’t beautiful, nor was it balanced. What he liked was its restless, unsettling vibe. A canvas of motion without origin. Aggression without consequence. Wings blurred, angles clashing, with no sky to escape into. It wasn't a piece that wanted to be understood and didn't care to be explained. It was the kind of chaos that didn’t apologize for existing.

Jonathan respected that, recognized it. And he wanted it on his wall here in the office until he moved into Ares' office as the new Administrator  Then it would hang there. Prominent. Permanent.

A reminder of the chaos that birthed control. Of what came before the fall. The shape of those crows, the jagged wings, the stretched silhouettes, the way the eyes bled into the dark, It gave him an idea for the mask he was developing. Something primal and stark. Something that blurred identity and turned fear into a specific face. 

He planned to go to the studio to pick it up himself. A calculated excuse to see her and initiate the next step on his terms. But the artist, chatty, perceptive in the way creatives often were, had offered a different arrangement. The artist could arrange for her to deliver it to him. 

“She’s at Arkham most days anyway to see Ares. I’ll have her bring it to you.”

At first, he’d considered declining. But then? He saw the value in letting it play out. He’d still get the interaction and proximity. But now, it would unfold here, in front of Ares. She’d arrive with the painting. For me. And Ares would watch it happen. And best of all? He didn’t have to lift a finger.

Flipping open a slim black notebook, not the formal logbook for patient records, Jonathan made notes. He turned to her page, reviewing the day’s observations. Small notations on marginal behavior changes. Tone, posture, word choice. Then he paused, writing a single line beneath the last note.

Unintended tactile response → retention trigger. He underlined it once and closed the notebook. There. Labeled and catalogued. Not about her. Not about me. Just data.

Done with his inexcusable mania, his gaze fell on the card again. It was worn slightly at the corners now, a faint smudge on the edge from where his fingers had lingered too long, too often. He stared at it for a moment longer than he meant to. Chaos, without apology.

Jonathan opened the drawer that no one else touched. From inside, he pulled the mailing envelope. Her necklace was already inside. Without a word, he slipped the artist’s card in beside it. There was no need for a note or label. Just the weight of the meaning he wasn't prepared to name. Then he closed the envelope, like he was sealing something sacred, and returned it to the drawer.

Reeaching for a blank notepad, he began to sketch.

[transgenderer]

Apparently, a good predictor of long‐term seizure freedom state following epilepsy surgery is seizure freedom at 6 months to 2 years postoperatively. 6 We have chosen one year rather than 6 months, because most (75%–80%) of the seizure recurrences occur during the first 6 months postoperatively. 4 , 5

The operation mentioned here is a frontal disconnection surgery, where they leave your frontal lobe in but mostly disconnect it from the rest of the brain (i think it still technically has a connection through the lower processes. but in the cerebral cortex, theyre split). its for epilepsy, supposed to break the "seizure pathways". its weird that they still have the seizures early on, but they go away eventually. if the seizure pathways are severed, they should stop fully, if theyre not severed they should keep going. it must be that the epileptic brain actively "learns" to keep having seizures, and that in the absence of full response it learns not to do that anymore. or something along those lines. which is weird but thats not the weirdest part

the weird thing is, side effects arent that bad, patient is still functional after. worsened cognitive abilities are possible, but not the majority of cases. youre DISCONNECTING the FRONTAL LOBE. particularly striking is this paper, on frontal lobectomy:

Percentage of patients demonstrating meaningful postoperative neuropsychological change (90% confidence interval) following frontal lobe resection. Numbers in parentheses after the test name represent the number of patients in the study who completed that particular measure. ap < 0.0001; bp < 0.01; cp < 0.05. Auditory Delayed = Auditory Delayed Memory Index; Auditory Immediate = Auditory Immediate Memory Index; Auditory Recog = Auditory Recognition Delayed Memory Index; GPT = Grooved Pegboard Test; PE = perseverative errors; Visual Delayed = Visual Delayed Memory Index; Visual Immediate = Visual Immediate Memory Index; WCST = Wisconsin Card Sorting Test.

because theyre biologists and dont know math or skepticism they interpret this as "neural lobectomy causes some cognitive decline, but only in some features, and not in everybody". but i mean. come on. look at this graph. the actual conclusion we should have here is "response to these tests almost entirely stays the same, but randomly changes a little". on a bunch of these features, a bunch of people are BETTER than they were before. thats crazy! i guess the seizures could have been making it worse, like, ambiently? i dont buy it. and even then, half of patients dont show decline on ANY measure.

but...its a lobectomy! they remove one of your frontal lobes (the paper is not super clear on this, but i think theyre removing the whole lobe). and you dont have cognitive decline? i guess you didnt...need that lobe? these tests are not super long after the surgery! the youngest kid in the dataset was 16, these are adults! its bizarre!

[miconia]

for a long time i thought i just “didnt like rap”

then i found a couple rappers i did like who rapped pretty slowly with a clear cadence and pronunciation and i thought i “didnt like mumble rap”

then i found out i have an auditory processing delay and people speaking too fast for me to process was just hell for my brain

yeah plot twist bitch you thought this was about racism and unconscious bias and it still kinda is but also its about my weird ass fucked up brain

anyway i love rap now i’ve learned to listen to the flow first and slowly figure out the lyrics over time and i love love love it <3 i’ve been getting rlly into doechii lately so this is also a doechii shoutout post

[rambling-robot]

I love abusing auditory processing disorder, I can get people to agree to terrible things and the two-second delay before realization and panic is perfect for the comedic timing.

A guy was suggesting we hang out more often, and since one friend had kinda dropped from the group there was “an opening, you know, for, uh-“

“For a new autistic pet?”

“Yeah! 😄 🙂🙂 😟 NO!!!”

[inside-lees-mind]

Can I request for ukyo from dr.stone x reader who have hard time hearing things. Oneshot or headcanon you can decide that.

Ukyo with a Hard of Hearing Reader

Depends on how many decibels of hearing loss you have exactly. (Or if maybe you just have a hard time hearing when you’re not too focused on something or need subtitles irl bc you hear nonsense and have to assume and fill in gaps. I have this issue 😭 I hear other languages when it’s English… 😭)

Depending on why you’re having a hard time hearing, he’ll help out a bit differently.

If you have 56+ decibels of hearing loss, he’d be making sure to make sure you got the instructions given by others.

If he’s gotta shout for you to hear, seeing as there are no hearing aids in the stone world right now, then he will. (Senku is definitely working on it when he finds out, he can’t let you suffer, even if Ukyo is doing his best to be by your side and help out)

If the conversation is more private, he’ll take you out where nobody is within earshot even when shouting and talk to you.

Sometimes, you two just hold each other in silence if it’s hard for you to hear. Especially if it gets tough and overwhelming to try and understand people who aren’t talking loud and clear enough.

If you have 55 decibels or less, he’ll speak up and enunciate clearly. He’ll tell you what people too far to hear well said.

Either way, if Senku hasn’t noticed, he will ask Senku to make you hearing aids if possible.

If you just have a hard time processing sound, (like I have an auditory processing delay, but maybe it’s something else for you) then he will give you a moment to process what he said before moving on.

If he’s talking and you lost confused, he’ll slow down or ask if he should repeat.

Overall, whatever you need, he will do his best.

He’s got great ears. So he will watch out for the two of you when you go places.

On missions and adventures and such, you and him are paired together pretty much all the time.

You, him, and Chrome make a team when it comes to exploration. Ukyo’s ears, Chrome’s knowledge, and you do what you do best while getting support from Ukyo to stay safe. (Maybe you have the strength or maybe you’re there for something other than rocks. Like maybe you have a wide range knowledge of plants)

[hells-greatestdad]

// so apparently delayed processing is an autistic/neurodivergent thing?? I don't mean auditory processing. I mean I hear what you're saying and it takes me like 20 minutes before I understand what you said. There's the initial meaning I get from it, then after 30 minutes of lagging like a fucking 90s Dell laptop I have an epiphany and go "oh!! That's what they meant!"

Except sometimes it isn't half an hour. Sometimes it's literally years later

[wheelie-sick]

Your bio said you’re okay with questions so I’m asking you a good faith question. You’re welcome to not answer but it’s a real genuine question.

What is the difference between auditory processing disorder and being hard of hearing? I believe that they are not the same but no one will tell me why

so a lot of it comes down to the difference between not understanding speech and not hearing sound at all

while hard of hearing people often have a hard time understanding speech it goes deeper than that. even with mild deaf gain ("hearing loss") your life is pretty impacted. speech is definitely one of the largest areas, yes, but it's also leaving the oven running because you can't hear it. or forgetting the faucet on. or having your water boil down to nothing. or missing the sound your car's engine is making. or missing the squealing of burnt out brakes. like, some of this can get pretty dangerous. and all those little things add up.

auditory processing disorder can cause there to be a delay between you hearing something and processing it but it does not cause you to not hear sounds entirely (this idea for some reason gets passed around Tumblr, a lot of people with APD here are definitely either misdiagnosed or self diagnosed wrong)

people also treat the two very differently socially. I've had someone take advantage of my d/Deafness to follow me to my house because he knew I wouldn't hear him behind me. that's just... not a danger when you can hear someone approaching. and that's not to say that there's no discrimination at all that happens towards people with APD, there absolutely is, it just looks different.

I hope that clears some things up ❤️