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spencers-renaissance · 4 years ago

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I found my way home

Summary: After Spencer tells Hotch about his recent autism diagnosis, he expects that to be the end of it. Somehow, though, it keeps coming up, and Hotch keeps proving himself to be the best father figure he could have asked for.

Tags: autistic spencer, protective hotch, hurt/comfort, fluff, paternal hotch, team as family

TW: mentions of ableism, one small instance of ableism & homophobia

Pairing: Gen

Word Count: 4.1k

Masterlist // Read on AO3

This was borne from my conversations with @criminalmindsvibez about the lack of autistic spencer fics and her amazing headcanons. While I'm not autistic, Emily is, and helped me to portray Spencer's autism as accurately as possible. That said, please feel free to correct me on anything I got wrong :)

Spencer had made an effort to get into work even earlier than usual today. He’d ridden the metro through the city, dipping his hand into his messenger bag every few minutes to compulsively check that the slim letter he’d received in the post the other day is still in the front pocket where he’d safely placed it that morning. He brushes his fingers over the paper once more as he enters the near-empty bullpen, the letter cool from the winter air.

It’s still so surreal to him that this is where he works. After years of dreaming of working for the FBI he’s finally here, and even though it’s been his place of work for almost two months now, he’s still not used to it. The warm offices are a nice reprieve from the wintry December wind, and he can feel himself relaxing as he heads to his desk. Leaving his coat and messenger bag on his chair, he pulls the letter out of the front pocket and runs his index finger along the edge. He finds himself biting his bottom lip as he tries to work up the courage to go and see Hotch.

Sucking in a deep breath, he marches determinedly up to Hotch’s office, entering as soon as his knocks are answered.

“Reid,” Hotch says pleasantly as he takes a seat opposite his desk, realising belatedly that he probably should have waited until he was invited. “You’re in early. What can I do for you?”

Nervously, Spencer hands him the letter he’d couriered across the city so carefully. He’d taken care to open it neatly with his letter opener but the return address on the back has been stamped at a crooked angle, and it bothers him every time he notices it. He can’t stop looking at it now as he taps his fingers anxiously against his leg in the pattern of the Fibonacci sequence, a safe and familiar reassurance played out by his nervous fingers. He watches apprehensively as Hotch pulls the letter out of the envelope, unfolding it and skimming his eyes down the page, taking in the news Spencer’s been so anxious to share with him.

Diagnosis: Asperger’s Syndrome

God, it had been a long process. He’d had to seek out a doctor in DC who diagnosed adults, paid for all the consultations and diagnostics himself — his insurance certainly wouldn’t cover it, not that he’d feel comfortable using his cushy FBI insurance for something so personal anyway — and the whole process had taken far longer than he’d expected. Finally, though, the envelope had arrived in the mail, and he officially had a diagnosis.

Of course, he’d had his suspicions for years, especially after one of his professors during his second PhD had casually asked whether he’d ever been tested, planting a seed in his brain that led to many late nights in the library, reading all the literature available to him. It’s why he’d found it strange that it had felt so validating to finally receive that letter in the post. But it had.

The label made sense, and now that he had a diagnosis from a medical professional he felt comfortable to share it with others; he’d been far too paranoid about being questioned, not being believed or lectured about the evils of self-diagnosis no matter how he was confident in himself. He didn’t tend to be an insecure or self-conscious person, but after years of bullying and trauma surrounding what he now knew for sure to be his autistic traits, he couldn’t help but feel almost protective of his affirming label.

Now though, it’s an irrefutable statement. Dr Spencer Reid has autism, and the first person he wants to tell is Hotch.

“I had no idea you were getting tested, Reid,” Hotch says, a hint of surprise bleeding into his voice. “Is there any specific reason you wanted to share this with me?”

“Well… I felt like someone on the team should know,” Spencer starts carefully, afraid to give too much of himself away, “and I thought that someone in a leadership position was the best option. Gideon has never been very… supportive of my autistic traits or behaviour, so I thought that you— that you would be the best option.” He feels awkward, fidgeting in his chair as he watches Hotch’s serious face and kind eyes absorb the information.

“That trust in me means a lot, Reid,” he says, a rare smile making its way onto his face. In that moment, Spencer knows he made the right decision. “How can I make things easier for you? Is there anything you need me to be doing differently?”

“Uh—” He hadn’t really been anticipating that question and it catches him off guard: he’d predicted a quick nod of acknowledgement, a request to photocopy the letter so it can be put on file followed by a swift dismissal, but the letter is now sitting on his side of the desk: clearly, Hotch intends on keeping this between them. This is far from what he expected.

“Why don’t you start by telling me about autism and how it might affect your work?” Hotch corrects himself, recognising quickly Spencer’s need for specifics. “I’ll admit I don’t know much beyond some probably rather unhelpful stereotypes.”

Spencer nods. He can answer that question. “As everyone knows I often go off on tangents,” he begins, “and that’s because my special interests — or hyperfixations — often coincide with our work, so I know a lot about the topics we’re investigating. If I do that, just redirect me to the case and I’ll be fine. It’s also really hard for me to have to present myself in a certain way all the time. Vocal stims and gestures are the most satisfying to me but I often have to mask them, which I’ve never been very good at anyway, and it’s fairly exhausting. That’s why I often excuse myself; I go to the bathroom or a secluded hallway and stim on my own. My doctor also told me I tend to overcompensate in social situations and over-perform emotion. Those are the basics, I guess, but it’s a very complex disorder and since it makes up me as a human being, I can’t exactly explain all of it in one conversation.”

“No, that’s fine, Reid, you’ve given me a good picture of what to expect, thank you.” Hotch smiles at him, fondness in the crinkles around his eyes and the softness invading his usually stern expression. “First of all, you never have to feel like you need to excuse yourself to stim. Do you think it would be helpful if we told the rest of the team so they know what to expect? I’m assuming vocal stims are saying certain words or making sounds…?”

Spencer nods.

“Okay, so if you needed to do that we could just continue the conversation while you get it out of your system. Gestures certainly wouldn’t be a problem. How do you feel about that?”

He hadn’t really considered telling the rest of the team but it seemed sort of intimidating, like he’d be opening a vulnerable side of himself to people he didn’t even know that well. On the other hand, they’d all been so understanding of his quirks and odd behaviour so far without even knowing the reason behind it. He’d never once been made to feel the way he used to at school, forced to either pretend to be someone else completely or be isolated and ostracised.

He settles for, “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s fine. There’s no pressure,” Hotch assures him. “I’m very happy you told me, Reid. I hope you know you can come and talk to me about anything, whether it’s about this or something completely different.”

Spencer leaves his office with the letter back in his hands, no notes or copies having been made, feeling almost elated. Never in a million years would he have expected that to go so well.

⭐️

He doesn’t really expect it to come up again. He’d told Hotch so that he could understand him a bit better, and also because Hotch had quickly assumed a protective, almost paternal role in his life and he wanted to share the piece of news with him whether he was leading his department or not. That was supposed to be it, though, he didn't think anything would materially change, especially since he decided not to tell the team about the diagnosis just yet.

But almost immediately after he’d told Hotch his diagnosis, his rambles began to be gently redirected back to the case, sometimes without him even noticing. He wasn’t rudely cut off by anyone anymore, Hotch always steering him back on course before anyone else can jump in and hurt Spencer’s feelings. It’s so… kind that it almost feels foreign, and he finds himself gravitating towards the older man more and more, sitting next to him on every jet journey and staying glued to his side during cases.

His newfound protectiveness over Spencer is only demonstrated more clearly a few months after their conversation in Hotch’s office when they’re on their way to New Mexico for a case. The second he spots that the murder victims had all been found with different Fitzgerald quotes scrawled on sheets of paper found in their own personal notebooks, ripped out and left for investigating officers to find, he launches into an info-dump to rival info-dumps.

He can’t help that literature is a special interest of his, made all the more intense by the fond childhood memories of reading to his mother in her bed. Fitzgerald had been her favourite author of the Modern Era, and he’d spent hours analysing significant passages in his novels as a child, so he starts explaining the literary merit of each of the quotes left at the crime scenes.

Apparently, he doesn’t hear the first two times Hotch tries to direct him back on topic, but he hears it when Gideon shouts, “Spencer! Long and unnecessary tangents are not conducive to actually solving these cases. Get back on topic. Now.” He’s loud enough to briefly knock him back several decades to memories of his father screaming at his mother’s schizophrenic babbling, when she’d become convinced that the villains of her favourite novels were trying to break into the house.

Spencer stops mid-sentence and stares at Gideon, who is staring right back. Everyone’s watching the two awkwardly, but the short moment of silence is quickly broken by Hotch. “There is absolutely no need to be that rude, Jason,” he says disapprovingly, while he lays a hand on Spencer’s arm in a light, absent-minded sort of touch. “Reid may have been off-topic but he deserves respect just like everyone else on this team. Nobody needs to be shouted at like that.” He directs his attention back to Spencer. “Why don’t you tell us how those Fitzgerald quotes could help us solve the case, Reid?”

He gives him an encouraging look, and when he looks around the jet, everyone else is, too. Carefully, he starts speaking again, a little afraid of being cut off again, but after a few sentences of relevant explanation he regains his momentum. It’s more than a little vindicating when it’s his ‘unnecessary tangent’ that ends up being the key to cracking the case.

⭐️

Soon after Hotch’s split from Haley, he approaches Spencer one evening when they’re the only two left at the office with a dinner invitation. Within the hour, they walk into a nice, low-key Italian place in the city and take a seat in the far corner of the restaurant.

“Is everything okay?” Spencer asks a little uncertainly, confused as to why his boss is suddenly taking him for dinner.

“I had this idea almost as soon as you told me about your autism,” Hotch explains, knowing by now that preambles and niceties only frustrate Spencer instead of setting him at ease. “I wanted to take you out for dinner every week to try and give you a space to ramble about all your special interests and not feel like you have to mask around everyone. But when I was with Haley, all my personal time was obviously spent with her and Jack. Now, I have the time to dedicate to you and all the incredible knowledge you’re hoarding in that brain of yours.”

“Really?” Spencer asks excitedly. The idea of uninhibited space to talk about the recent knowledge he’s acquired and not have to feel insecure or worry about performing social skills he doesn’t see the point of is everything he’s ever wished for, and something so wonderful being provided by Hotch only makes it better.

“Really.”

Spencer wastes no time. He dives right in. “I was just watching a documentary the other day about volcanoes and their ability to trigger lightning storms with their voltage,” he begins. “Basically, magma rises toward the volcano’s surface, its water rapidly turns to vapor, which shatters the molten rock into tiny particles and creates charged particles. When the ash plume erupts into the atmosphere, the densely packed particles collide, driven by momentum. Friction then affects their electrons, becoming electrically charged. Positively and negatively charged electrons separate in the ash plume which creates a charge imbalance that builds an electric charge strong enough to trigger a lightning storm.”

“That’s incredible.”

“I know,” Spencer says excitedly. “If the ash plume rises high enough in the atmosphere ice forms, and when ice, hail, and supercooled liquid droplets collide, the rates of lightning explode, it’s crazy.”

They’re briefly interrupted by a waitress taking their orders, but as soon as she leaves, Hotch gets him to jump back in. “What about that lecture you attended last week… the literature of 18th Century England or something?”

“19th Century English Lit, yeah!” He’s so eager to finally share this with somebody who will genuinely listen to him, and he can’t help it when his arms start to flap excitedly. Remembering where he is, he doesn’t try to mask it, pin his arms to his sides and simply deal with and suppress the innate urge to stim, he lets his body do what it wants to. Instead of eliciting a strange, sideways look, Hotch just smiles fondly.

“The lecturer had this fascinating theory on Dickens. I’ve always seen him as a pretty straight forward author of picaresque fiction, obviously combined with facets of melodrama. And it’s common knowledge that he was inspired by the novel of sensibility, of course. But I’d never thought about the stylistic and lexical choices in his works beyond standard analysis, and this lecturer went on a deep dive into his use of collocation and it opened my eyes…”

He spends the whole evening stimming to his heart’s content while detailing every current interest of his to Hotch, who simply listened intently while eating his meal slowly, dragging out the meal for as long as Spencer needed. “Let me give you a lift home,” Hotch insists after footing the bill, leading him out into the warm evening air.

“Oh, I don’t mind taking the metro,” he replies truthfully.

“I know. But it would make me feel better to drop you home safely. It’s late and seeing you into your apartment building would give me peace of mind.”

“Sure,” Spencer agrees happily, he’s still buzzing from such a nice evening and the least he can do for Hotch is let him rest easy tonight, so he climbs into the passenger side of his car. A few minutes into the car ride home, he realises he should probably actually verbalise just how much he enjoyed dinner. “Thank you, Hotch. I don’t think anybody’s ever done something so nice for me before.”

“Don’t mention it, Spencer,” Hotch replies, smiling even though he doesn’t take his eyes off the road. Spencer very much likes it when Hotch uses his first name, and he’d been doing it all evening. He doesn’t really understand why it feels so nice, just that it makes him feel… special, maybe.

“Don’t mention it, Spencer,” he repeats, before freezing as he realises what he’s said. He’s got so used to not masking all evening, he’s not in the right rhythm and mindset to suppress the urge to repeat Hotch’s words. He’s been so nice the whole evening, the last thing Spencer wants is for Hotch to think he’s mocking him.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Hotch reassures him, tapping his arm lightly as he smiles encouragingly.

“Don’t mention it, Spencer,” he says again, repeating it a few times in relief before the itch is satisfied. He really does have the best boss/friend in the whole world. There’s no doubt about that.

⭐️

Rossi’s initial reaction to Spencer had admittedly been a bit rocky, and having Hotch undeniably on his side was the only thing that made those first few months bearable. He never let them go off on their own; never put Spencer in a position where he’d have to be alone with him. Gradually, though, Rossi adjusted to his quirks and he became almost as protective of Spencer as Hotch.

That doesn’t bode well for the local sheriff when they’re on a case in North Carolina. He’s been prickly since they arrived, being as stubborn and uncooperative as possible, slowing down their progress on actually solving the case, and Spencer’s noticed him being a little extra rude to him in particular. It doesn’t massively bother him — it’s not exactly like someone’s aversion to him is a novel concept — but he can feel some sort of tension coming from the others. It happens a lot more now that they know about his autism and are more aware of themselves and others.

He tries to ignore it the best he can; he puts his head down and focuses on the geographical profile, going wherever he’s sent. Besides, the sooner they solve this case the sooner they can get out of North Carolina and back to DC. On their third day on the case, he’s working quietly in their designated corner of the police department alongside Hotch and Rossi while the others are out investigating in various different places. It’s a nice environment, and even though both men are his superiors, he feels more relaxed in their company than in anybody else’s.

It’s a relatively pleasant morning — considering the whole trying to catch a brutal serial killer thing — until they need to ask the sheriff a question. He saunters over, a tense and angry expression on his face, and Spencer can’t help but feel a little off, the confusing tension in the air that Spencer can’t quite identify making him anxious in his inability to properly decipher it. “Gentlemen,” he says, already frustrated. Spencer suspects it’s a pride thing; not many police departments like being shown up enough to have the FBI called in.

Eager to know the answer to their question, Spencer’s the one to jump in and ask. “Sheriff, we were just wondering whether the town gets much traffic from the local university or—”

He’s cut off by the sneering, towering man. “I’m not taking any questions from your kind,” he says aggressively.

“I’m sorry?” Spencer squeaks as Rossi and Hotch both prepare to say something in response.

The sheriff cuts them off before they can get their likely diplomatic and calming words out. “Homo retards aren’t welcome around here.”

“Hey!” Rossi shouts as he leaps out of the chair, grabbing him by the collar as he’s helped by the element of surprise. “You don’t fucking talk to Spencer like that, you hear me? Weak, cowardly men like you—”

“Dave,” Hotch says placatingly, putting a hand on his shoulder and diffusing the situation. “Listen, Sheriff, we are only here to help you. But if you can’t respect my agents then we’re going to have a problem. Either you’re civil to Dr Reid, or I’m reporting you to the NC Sheriff’s Association. You hear me?”

The sheriff’s pride is clearly wounded, but he at least nods before giving them all a scornful look and walking away.

“We didn’t even get to ask the question,” Spencer says anxiously, suddenly feeling out of his depth, like he can’t quite get enough air.

“Dave, try and get an answer,” Hotch directs, taking charge of the situation. “Spencer, come with me.” He takes him into a secluded hallway for a little privacy, sitting him down on the cool linoleum before sinking down next to him. “You’re okay.”

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Spencer whispers over and over to himself as he rocks backwards and forwards, trying desperately to self-soothe.

“Do you want me to touch you?” Hotch asks. He’s been in enough of these situations with Spencer to know he’s usually in two very different headspaces: he either longingly craves the grounding touch of a hug or a hand on his back, or he needs complete space. He’s also learned that asking outright is the only way to get an direct answer.

“Yes,” Spencer replies, before repeating it over and over again as he’s wrapped up in Hotch’s arms, head pressed against his chest, his hand pressing gently against the back of Spencer’s head. He starts to calm down as he manages to breathe to the heat of Hotch’s calm, steady heartbeat, the comforting touch of someone he trusts with his life also helping to bring him back down to earth. A good ten minutes after the altercation with the sheriff, he’s feeling much better and brings his head out of it’s safe cocoon between Hotch’s chest and hand.

“Come on,” Hotch says kindly. “Let’s get back to the case, yeah? You can just sit and work quietly until you’re ready to hold a proper conversation again. How does that sound?”

Spencer nods tiredly, knowing that work will perk him back up again, and being surrounded by his team will make him feel safe, asshole sheriff or not.

⭐️

Over the years Hotch helps him through any hurdles that come his way, learning the exact nuances of Spencer’s characteristics and requirements, making sure to accommodate him in every way possible.

He brings an extra, super-soft sweater in his go-bag in case Spencer ever forgets his and needs something gentle on his skin but tight enough to make him feel secure. He buys him stimming toys, dropping them on Spencer’s desk before he even arrives at work and lets him use his office whenever the lights and noise of the bullpen get too much, drawing the blinds and giving him the space he needs. Rossi doesn’t even question it anymore when Hotch shows up with a stack of paperwork and moves into his office for the morning.

It wasn’t until Hotch made a concerted effort to make his life easier that Spencer realised how hard it had been fighting through life on his own. So when he realises Hotch’s birthday is coming up, he decides he wants to show his gratitude. It’s never been easy for him to express emotions, especially since he’s never really found it rude when people don’t thank him, but he knows that for most neurotypical people, appreciation is important.

So he talks it over with Derek and on Hotch’s birthday, he comes into work to see Spencer waiting in his office with balloons, a cake, a card, and a present. He’d spent hours trying to find the right words to explain how he feels, to find the right words to show Hotch just how much everything he’s done for him means, but eventually he’d settled on something simple:

Caroline B Cooney wrote: “I found my family. I found the right thing to do. I found my way home.”

I found all of these things when I joined the BAU, but more specifically when I walked into your office, hands shaking, clasping a letter I’d been waiting for all my life. Thank you.

Hotch reads it with tears in his eyes before taking in the cake, a classic birthday cake Spencer had bought at the store, the words “Happy Birthday Dad” written in blue icing. He didn’t really understand why the cake had stood out to him, or why he associated the word ‘dad’ with someone who wasn’t related to him at all, but he’d trusted his gut and with Derek’s cheerleading, he’d bought it.

“Oh, Spencer,” Hotch says tearfully. “Can I hug you?”

Feeling only mildly uncomfortable at the visible display of emotion Spencer doesn’t know what to do with, he nods and steps into Hotch’s comforting embrace. “This means the world to me,” Hotch murmurs quietly as he stands, hugging Spencer for as long as the younger man can stand it.

Spencer��s still not completely sure why he’s managed to make him so emotional, but at least he can trust that it’s a good thing, that Hotch is happy and pleased and reassured. And if he can make him feel even a smidgen as happy as Hotch has made Spencer over the years, well. He’ll consider his long and boring trip into the city to buy the cake, present and card worth it.

Quick Note: Spencer is diagnosed with Asperger’s because that part of the fic is set in 2005. These days he would be diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD)

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @strippersenseii

#criminal minds #criminal minds writing #criminal minds fic #spencer reid #aaron hotchner #hotch & spencer #spencer #hotch #my writing #autistic spencer reid #autistic spencer #dad hotch

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sam-not-samantha · 5 years ago

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The Blackwoods & the Rheiders

“A train wreck dynasty of cash stacks and funny farms.”

#sltask02

[Photos embedded, but not all characters have a faceclaim.]

The Blackwoods (Immediate)

Andrew Blackwood | Father | June 21, 1969-April 30, 2017 “Paycheck giver. Businessman. Quiet and kind, yet so apathetic.” Eliza Blackwood (née Rheider) | Mother | October 28, 1971-April 30, 2017 “Whiny bitch. Passive-aggressive. Judgmental. Tasteless. Fucking DEAD.” Samantha “Sam” Blackwood | Self | February 5, 1995 “Best fucking person you’ll ever meet.”

The Extended (And not-so-distant)

Jodi Rheider | Maternal aunt | July 1, 1975 “Anti-vaxer. Vegan. Cunt. Used to get cocktails with Kris Jenner.” Jenna Rheider | Maternal cousin | April 14, 1994 “Brainless twit. And a narc; ratted me out for doing coke only for her mom to do the rest.” Connor Rheider | Maternal cousin | November 2, 1999 “Quirky. Genius. Loves drones. Probably in charge of WikiLeaks.”

Luke Rheider | Maternal uncle | May 4, 1966 “Pretentious. Thinks old money is anything over a year. Football fan. Moron.” Charli Diamond | Maternal aunt-in-law | October 31, 1982 “Second wife. Thinks Luke’s gonna die soon, but she deserves gold. Refused the name.” Bastien Rheider | Maternal cousin | January 28, 1988 “One of the two actually cool people in this family. Sarcastic. Sick. Sweet.” Evie Rheider | Maternal first cousin, once removed | September 12, 2008 “Started sweet, is now fully demonic.”

Paul Blackwood | Paternal uncle | October 6, 1965 “Loudly republican. Loudly terrible. Horrible suits. Still calls me ‘Squirt’.” Charlotte Blackwood (née Gilfrey) | Paternal aunt-in-law | May 10, 1967 “If Ann Coulter was slightly younger and somehow slightly worse.” Kim Blackwood | Paternal cousin | August 1, 1987 “Couture PotteryBarn expert. Insufferable. Screechy. Trend-chaser.” George White | Cousin-in-law-to-be | November 7, 1980 “The manifestation of Kim’s daddy issues. Wedding date is permanently TBD.” Lisa Blackwood | Paternal cousin | April 9, 1989 “Mini-Eliza. Clothing terrorist. Should’ve been aborted.” Salvatore Stracci | Cousin-in-law-to-be | October 22, 1976 “Tall, Italian and scary. Also in a state of perpetual engagement and dissatisfaction.” Alessandro Blackwood | Paternal first cousin, once removed | May 31, 2010 “Had to hold him at a party once. He spat on me.”

Michael Blackwood | Patnernal uncle | May 1, 1967 “I legitimately don’t know if he and Paul are different people.” Natalie Blackwood (née Gainsbourg) | Paternal aunt-in-law | July 1, 1968 “Quiet, but clearly judgmental. Alopecia. Clings to Michael desperately.” Heather Blackwood | Paternal cousin | March 14, 1990 “The only sane woman. Editor at Harper’s Bazaar with Natalie. Goddess. Soul sister.”

Matthew Blackwood | Paternal uncle | Stillborn August 8, 1970

Dances– The Blackwoods | A Personal Essay (Written pre-parental death).

It was a dance.

It always was, no matter what. No, there was never any music. No stage. No choreography. But conversations with my mother were always an intricate samba on a tightrope.

It could begin at any moment, about anything. Simple small talk about where I went for brunch yesterday morning could turn into a bitchfest about my weight– as if being 110 was something to be ashamed of. The mere presence of an unopened, monthly bank statement could turn into a lecture about financial responsibility– as if she wasn’t surrounded by new, shiny things and maxed out AMEX cards. And, far more recently, a quick, innocent glance at the alcohol cabinet would have me sat down with some professional life coach while she watched, a vodkatini in hand.

Eliza Blackwood (born Eliza Rheider in 1971) was a bitch. An absolute bitch. A wretched, spoiled, high-strung, narcissistic, classist, borderline-anorexic, Valium-addicted, Shalimar-drenched, Kris Jenner-wannabe bitch. She was lucky she came from money, because if she wasn’t, I don’t think she’d be alive right now. I mean, I’m lucky, too, but I’m grateful for what I have.

Her parents were corporate assholes– her dad worked for Goldman Sachs, and his wife was a vapid, shrill, useless little brat not unlike her daughter. And, of course, that unloveable little bitch went and married someone who could satisfy her financial needs and not embarrass the family name– Andrew Blackwood, a New York politician from a family of Wall Street types (Some of whom also worked at Goldman Sachs, which is how the two met). On paper, they were a match made in heaven. A wealthy politician and his obnoxious jetsetter wife.

But, fortunately for me, even though I hadn’t been born quite yet, Andrew was a good, caring man. While Eliza was (and still is) ruthless, selfish and absolutely disgustingly horrible, Andrew had a heart. He cared about people. And things. Which was why he went into politics. He wanted to make a change. While his family was a bunch of wealthy Republicans, he was entirely Democratic, a fact that nearly alienated from them entirely (if only it had actually managed to keep his family out of my life) which is why I’m still in awe that he wound up with a pathetic Paris Hilton knockoff. A politician with a heart of gold wound up with a blue blood twat who measures her love in karats.

But back to her dances.

I’m not entirely sure where they come from. I mean, no matter how much you analyze someone and their family and upbringing and everything, you can’t pin point their personality traits and their behaviors. That said, I think I have a fair amount of clues as to where Eliza’s horrid personality came from.

While her relationship with her mother is mostly concealed to me, their lifestyle was no secret. Eliza always went on about how well she lived as a kid, how luxurious her house was, how high the thread count in the sheets of her crib was, and how she washed her face with caviar or something. But how she got along with her mother was never fully described. I’ve seen hints here and there– a glare across a table at a gala or whispers on the phone. But I don’t know too much. As far as I know, Eliza’s mother– Mrs. Karen Rheider– didn’t even bother to raise any of her three children. I wouldn’t have been surprised had they all been raised by a nanny while Karen went went on living as a trophy wife. But I assume that the two of them, when they did interact, got along the same way Eliza and I do– and that would make it safe to assume Eliza picked up her bitchy words, malicious intentions and passive-aggressive, condescending demeanor from her mother. The family bitchiness is hereditary.

Passive-aggressiveness is definitely a running trait in my family. I see it to an extent on my dad’s side– his brothers and him bicker endlessly, and they seem to show some slight disapproval for his opposing political stance, as if world views are trivial dinner conversation. But it pales in comparison to the Rheider family’s guilt. Aside from me, and my mother, I see it in the rest of the family.

My aunt Jodi, mother of two, is another disgusting person. Like Jenny McCarthy, she refused to vaccinate her kids because she believed it would make them autistic. Her son, Connor, has caught the flu every single year since he was six. The three (including her daughter Jenna) currently reside together at a nudist resort, where the kids were homeschooled… because they lack their immunizations. But that’s kind of besides the point– any time Jodi decides to dress up and sneak out into the world of normalcy, she misses no opportunity to make slick comments that everyone else in the family is living incorrectly. Thankfully, everyone else has mastered the art of clapback.

Eliza’s brother, Luke, and his wife, Charli (a full 16 years younger than him) are an obnoxiously pretentious couple who are all too proud of their FormDecor relationship and all too ashamed of everyone else’s. Luke has a son, Bastien, who he had with his first wife, that’s only 6 years younger than Charli. However, Bastien’s one of the few people on my mother’s side of the family that I actually enjoy. We share similar morals, and gratefulness for what we’ve been given, and spend every single family function together ripping the family apart. It’s a shame they never hear us.

Even the family elders have the same disapproving, condescending disdain for everything that my mom displays. But they’re far too silent around me to reveal anything noteworthy. The most words I’ve ever heard from my great grandmother Dorothy Cross (my mother’s mother’s mother), was scolding Jodi for her nudist colony being racially integrated, so it’s safe to say not much good was going to come from that generation. Fortunately, most of them are dead– Dorothy passed in 2011 (though her husband is still living off of a diamond-encrusted life support machine), and Eliza’s father’s parent’s are both long gone. Three out of Andrew’s four parents are deceased, his mother’s mother Clarissa Pullock (or something like that) is still alive, though I’ve never met her and probably never will– our first interaction will probably be at her funeral where I’m forced to pretend to mourn.

While Eliza’s family is dominated by a vile matriarchy, Andrew’s family has been dominated by powerful men with miniature dicks who made the Blackwood name known very much for investment banking until bank holding companies began to reign supreme, after which the family figured they would be better off in electoral politics. Andrew’s grandfather, Adam Blackwood, worked up a networth of slightly over $1 billion, and while his successors haven’t exactly been slacking, I don’t think any of them are ever going to do as well as him (but at the end of the day, if Andrew decided to have a bonfire using $100 bills as kindling, we’d recover before the fire even went out). Adam had two sons– Matthew and Bernard, and both received their jobs at Wall Street after him in a clear sign of nepotism. Bernard married a real estate agent named Elaine or Elle or something like that and had a million kids– most of which were boys. I don’t know much about them, and I don’t really care to. Matthew married some Janet something and had four kids– Paul (1965), Michael (1967), Andrew (1969), and Matthew Jr. (stillborn in 1970).

Unfortunately for this generation of men, who, unsurprisingly, continued the trend of nepotism and began work at the same place as their ancestors (save for Andrew who stayed in school, exploring his interests), none of them were able to produce any boys to continue the line. Paul was the first to reproduce– shooting out Kim and Lisa in 1987 and 1989, and as soon as the Kardashian sisters came around, they tried their hardest to be them but soon settled with just being their very close friends (and it’s safe to say I can’t stand any of them). Michael had Heather in 1990, and somehow, amidst a family of putrid, selfish monsters, she wound up a tasteful and snarky angel of hope. Like Bastien, we spend our family events together, an unholy trio of stylish black sheep.

And then finally, February 5, 1995, I came around. Eliza and Andrew had been married for about three years, and finally had me. Adam was still alive at the time and was praying for a great grandson– only to be disappointed for the fourth time. Almost as a sign of flippancy towards him, they named me Sam (well, Samantha, but I’ve grown accustomed to Sam and refuse to be called by my full first name unless I’m being charged with something). My mother made my middle name Elizabeth– because she hoped that I would follow in her footsteps. She once said naming me after her was “the biggest mistake” she ever made, which I don’t think is entirely unfair because taking after her is the last thing I ever want to do. And I’ve spent the last twenty-one years learning all of this.

People always say that blood is thicker than water, or whatever. That we’re supposed to stick with our families (over friends, or, well, anything). There’s been some mindset that family comes before all, that you honor your last name above anything and everything. I don’t believe that for one second. As if who happened to bang should determine everything about you. I despise almost all of that. And I won’t claim any of the ones that I don’t like for one second. I’ll take a tango any day. Fuck blood. And fuck the Blackwoods.

#sltask #sltask02

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kaleidographia · 6 years ago

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[Reflection] The Final Piece of the Puzzle

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I spent the new year at my cousin’s beach house, overlooking the warm waters of the Southern Brazilian coast. Inside the open plan kitchen/living room, cooled by the chilly ocean breeze, we gathered round for one of our old family pastimes: six pairs of hands, or seven, or eight, depending on who dropped in or out, deftly sorting through piles of tiny pieces, seeking out shapes, patterns, colors, snapping them together; little by little, a skeletal frame emerges, blocks of attached pieces sliding from hand to hand, a box passed around the circle, an auntie asking “does anyone have this corner?” — from a jumble of one thousand units, a picture comes together within a few hours. Someone presses down on the final piece, locking it into place. We take a moment to appreciate the results of our efforts, congratulate each other on a job well done, and then tip the board back into the box, scattering the fragile creation into its constituent parts.

This memory of communal jigsaw puzzle solving goes back as far as my conscious awareness can reach. Almost every family function involves a coffee table spread out with a freshly opened puzzle box. Sometimes everyone sits down to solve it, but often it’s left as an open challenge, with solvers drifting towards it in between coffee, cakes, gift exchanges, and naps. It could take hours, or it could take days, but eventually it is finished at whichever leisurely pace it requires.

In an old home video, a 2-year-old me delightfully solves a wooden toddler puzzle, excitedly showing off my skills to my parents. From then until this most recent holiday gathering, puzzles have been a part of my life, whether they be jigsaws, logic exercises, sudoku, or videogames. Beyond the thrill of intellectual challenge, puzzle-solving is intertwined with a sense of community and belonging. It’s as much about getting together with loved ones to solve a problem together as it is about solving the problem itself. Some families play games, some watch movies, ours solves puzzles. It’s how we enjoy each other’s company.

As I write this, it is April 2nd, Autism Acceptance Day. On this day, and throughout the month of April, autistic people warn of the dangers of Autism Speaks, an organization that treats autism as a disease to be eradicated, as opposed to a neurotype inseparable from our own personhood. Among its many problems, Autism Speaks uses a puzzle piece symbol, historically representing autism as “a puzzling disorder”, at other times evolving into other meanings, such as “the complexity of treating autism”, “the diversity of autistic people”, “the missing part that makes autistic people incomplete”, “trying to put together the pieces of the disordered mind”, “solving the mystery of autism”. Regardless of what meaning is in common usage, the autistic community rejects this symbol; with few exceptions, the negative connotations are too great, its iconography too closely associated with an organization which has done us far more harm than good.

This breaks my heart.

I know my individual feelings can’t erase the damage this symbol has done to our community, or the hurt it has caused my fellow autistic friends. Even I take a step back whenever I see a puzzle piece, suspicious of the intents of the user, as it often indicates someone who hasn’t taken the time to talk to and understand autistic people. But the puzzle piece is a symbol so special and significant to me, I want to open up a space to reclaim my own meaning.

When I think about being autistic, I don’t think about the difficulty recognizing people, the overwhelming sensory sensitivity, or the auditory processing issues requiring subtitles on most things I watch. Those are part of my life, sure, but they’re not “me” — not like the drive to research a special interest, the excitement of infodumping, or the elation when I see an airplane fly overhead. It may be a cliche, but those traits that make me a so-called “little professor” are the defining traits of my autistic experience, and suppressing my autistic traits suppresses everything I love about being myself.

That includes the puzzle piece.

I can see my traits in my paternal lineage. I don’t know whether my family is autistic, or if they would ever identify as such. It doesn’t matter to me, because when I’m around them, solving a puzzle, that’s when our bonds are at their strongest. It’s about problem solving, but most importantly the pure enjoyment of immersing ourselves into a meticulous task, the meditative quality of a good hyperfocus. When we solve a puzzle together, we are materializing the traits that make us who we are: people who care deeply about something and then give that something everything we have. We are not “putting together the pieces of a broken mind” — we are using our uniquely developed minds to put together the pieces of the things we love. We are creating.

It’s discovery. It’s pattern-seeking. It’s making something happen purely because it gives us joy. The finished puzzle never stays that way for long. It doesn’t have any practical use. In it goes, back in the box, hours of work breaking apart, because the joy wasn’t the end result, it was the process. And the process is what I love, and the process is who I am. Whatever I am doing, work, school, or personal projects, I find my pleasure and fulfillment in the process; hammering out the details is a pastime, not a chore. It’s the drive, the repetition, the coming back to something left unfinished, the letting the mind decide what it wants and then letting it be.

I know every autistic person is different. Many people will not share my experience, and that’s okay. But rather than focusing on what I am not, I want to focus on what I am, and I think many people can relate to the idea that passing for neurotypical means severing the parts of us we love. For me, that means pretending that I don’t love sinking myself into a task that requires sorting through mountains of identical-looking pieces. I have to avoid looking like I pay too much attention to any one given thing, because that’s obsessive, inflexible and bad, and to shut up about my special interest because everyone’s sick of hearing me go on about a subject nobody understands. This is what the misuse of the puzzle piece symbol feels like to me; shut up about the positives of autism, we want to medicalize your neurotype and strip away what makes your life enjoyable.

Look, it’s not easy, I get it. I don’t enjoy meltdowns or sudden nonverbality or being unable to rip myself from a task to the point of starvation or misreading a social situation so badly I humiliate myself. But among autistic people I’m normal, we understand each other as fluidly as allistic people understand each other, and I am sure an allistic person living in an autistic-only world would feel just as disoriented. It’s contextual, and the context of our stories and our symbols depends on who is scrutinizing us and why. If Autism Speaks represents a shadow over my community, and the puzzle piece represents our dehumanization, I can’t do anything to change that. But I can keep puzzles to myself.

Because the joy of my life is all about sitting around a table at my cousin’s beach house, and the moment someone presses that final piece of the puzzle into place.

Photo: The partially completed puzzle we solved over the holiday break.

#actually autistic #actuallyautistic #autism #Autism Speaks #other media #puzzles #Reflection

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livingfictionsystem · 3 years ago

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Cult Bait

My family and I have always been… distant. Dad always under-reacted to everything. I’m reasonably sure you could tell this man the house was on fire and he’d casually pass you a glass of water to fight it with. Mum was the precise opposite. She seemed to have the sneaking suspicion that the news did not report events that have happened, but would happen, specifically to her, in the near future. If you ever wanted someone to ad-lib an anxiety attack you haven’t even had yet, talk to her.

As a result, I’ve spent the last ten years generally only speaking to either of them when I have comedic stories to make Dad laugh, or have two hours to kill to talk to Mum.

I do love my parents. They’ve tried their best. Gods know I was a curveball and a half but that doesn’t mean I don’t have some grudges carried over from my childhood.

Bad grades? Definitely my fault. I was lazy. Or I wanted to be ‘cool.’ I didn’t think being grounded from Darkwing Duck after every grade card was very ‘cool’ but that was Mum’s novel theory.

Bullied? Well, what did I do to deserve it? My paternal grandmother, may she hear every bitter word I ever speak of her, once asked me at a family function how many friends I had. When the number I provided was decidedly pathetic, she had a pointed follow-up. How many enemies did I have?

That number, much more impressive in its unintended vastness, prompted the question: “Well, why do you think that is?”

We’ve had a unspoken compromise, over the years. I didn’t want to talk about my complicated feelings, my insecurities, my hopes and dreams—and my blood relatives didn’t ask.

I’d had friends before. They were based on people who could tolerate me and make me laugh.

I can’t say my standards have changed all that much.

There always seemed to be a language barrier, however. Not that any of us spoke anything but English, but no one seemed to speak our language. It was difficult to really feel connected to someone.

Until we met Shadow.

Retrospect, he had to have been autistic as well, which was how he spoke our language. He was obsessed with Sonic X (yes, hence the name) and CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. There was a pretty solid likelihood that he was also trying to start a religion of three.

He lived in the same neighborhood as us, near a construction lot in Mill Valley, Marysville, Ohio. We met him on one of our frequent jaunts around town. He was three years this body’s senior, twelve when were only nine. His friend was a year and a half older, by the name of Illusion. He lived on the same street, over on Deer Crossing Lane.

It’s been years since I’ve thought about these two. They were, for years, one of the fragile centers of our life. Now I’m just hoping they were, at one point, real. But we’ll get to that.

One of my first times hanging out with Shadow, we were in his basement, playing Sonic Adventure 2: Battle on his Gamecube. We’d played the Sonic and Knuckles games on CD-ROM and watched the show as a kid, but this was something… different. This was something with much more of a plot than robot animals and chili dogs. This involved government conspiracy, something created by humans that grew to resent them, Sonic running from the US military. We were more than interested.

“This is Shadow the Hedgehog. I’ll not deceive you by letting you assume that the name is coincidental—I only hope I grow to be worthy of it.” Oh, yes, that’s how he talked. He had what almost seemed to be an accent, but he just over-pronounced every word, hitting each consonant like it stole something. It always seemed like he had rehearsed each line before saying them. Maybe he did. He was a scrawny kid, mostly hidden beneath a Hawthorne Heights hoodie and one of those really baggy Tripp Pants that were in style around those times. They all looked ragged, as if they were either purchased years before or found at Goodwill. Either could’ve been true. His eyes were large. For some reason, he had unreasonably large irises, dark green, that seemed to drown out the scant whites in his eyes. His hair was black, coarse, with the slightest bit of curl to it. He had a sharp, impish face for a twelve-year old. He was gesturing to the 3D rendered, in all of its 2002 glory, Shadow the Hedgehog.

Shadow the Hedgehog was the most goth thing our young, suburban brain had ever seen. Spikey, red and black, accented with gold—this anthropomorphic hedgehog was the peak of aesthetic.

No, I’m not a furry.

But I’ve always been a few crises away from being one.

Neb—probably quite a bit less. The girl had a tie-dye howling wolf tee, for gods�� sake.

My new friend, Shadow, was perfectly capable of telling me Goth Sonic’s backstory. “He was created by Dr. Robotnik’s grandfather, Dr. Gerald Robotnik.”

“Created? Like Mewtwo?” Can you guess our first ever special interest? Come on, take a shot in the dark.

Shadow was familiar, thankfully. Pokémon wasn’t so common as it is today. “Yes, indeed! A lot like that, actually. But Shadow didn’t hate his creator. At least, not initially. Dr. Gerald had a huge space colony called the ARK. He created Shadow to be the ultimate life form, something the military requested to synthesize immortality.” I’m more or less speculating on the exact wording, but I swear to gods he did talk like this. “Dr. Gerald had no interest in military doings, but his granddaughter, Maria, had Neuro-Immuno-Deficient Disorder, and so he undertook the project mainly for her sake.”

We probably spent the next week on the plotline of SAB2. The newest video game console we knew was a Gameboy, so a Gamecube was obviously a technological breakthrough to us. He would let us in to his basement that was just across from the garage. There never seemed to be anyone else there when we were over. And he always came out to greet us, as if making certain that we wouldn’t make the mistake of knocking on the door.

We saw signs of other people. Caught glimpses of family photos in the living room. I remember the father having black hair—the rest of the family was primarily ginger. But Shadow seemed to shy away from any subject of families. We would complain about our family, about how our brother that was five years our younger was the obvious favorite. He had nothing to offer on that subject.

He also seemed happy to see us. Everyone else just shoved us off like a pest, but it was like we were students of a subject that he sorely wished to teach. Perhaps we were.

It was when we were playing the two-player function of the game that he said something funny. “You see him? That’s Chaos. Proof that these writers know a bit more than they’re letting on.”

The character was this bipedal, stout, with lobster-claw-like hands and frog-like feet. Its head was the shape of a bird’s foot. Most interestingly, its body seemed entirely comprised of flowing, rippling water. Its eyes seemed like light-green gems.

“See, that’s one of the Chaos gods. Hydro, the God of Water. That’s who this one is based off of. But there are eight of them. Water, Fire, Earth, Air, Lightning, Mind, Night, Spectrum.” He counted them off his fingers. “Those are the eight Chaos gods of the eight elements.”

We’d honestly been interested in religion ever since I could remember. Not monotheism, but we gravitated naturally to more polytheistic beliefs. I still do. The cause of this? Considering we were nine? Probably Disney’s version of Hercules, if we’re being honest. To some of you, this isn’t the first novel of mine you’ve read and this is sounding eerily familiar. Some of you are more than just curious about how delusional I am.

You’ll notice that I’ve referred to myself as plural throughout this. That’s because, throughout many memories of my childhood, I didn’t feel like I was the only one there. I feel like the girl who would later be called Nebula shared my childhood with me. That’s probably the best way I can describe it. At that time, we were we. Around this time, we were starting to become she. I was only partially awake, as if I was nodding off before my seven-year slumber.

Shadow eventually asked Neb to be his Apprentice. She was to choose her name—it was to be a name easily translatable, like a noun, as homage to how the Chaos gods changed their name with the language of every country. Like Hydro, Water, Wasser, etc.

Does this sound like a cult? Probably.

But who am I kidding? This entire system is cult bait.

I’ve pre-written this chapter on a Word document, by the way. But I meant to post it today. Why?

Today is August 10th, 2020. Sixteen years, to the day, since Shadow died.

#disassociative identity disorder #sonic the hedgehog #cult #memoirs #final fantasy house

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