#speech sound disorders

[recoverycore]

Hello! You seem like a sincere and deep-minded individual. What do you think caused your mental health challenges?

Hi there! Thank you, that's really kind; I'm not as sure myself, but I do wish those observations are true! I thought of some contributing factors:

I.

I think part of it has to do with my genetic personality; I always score as highly neurotic on Big Five personality tests. I've had near-clinical dermatillomania (a disorder in which one picks at their own skin; for me, it's the skin near my cuticles) since I was 8 years old. During my first visit to a psychologist at age 19, I was diagnosed alongside with my eating disorder, with Generalized Anxiety Disorder with OCD tendencies.

My Dad has full-blown OCD - I must have inherited this aspect of my neurology from him.

II.

The setting in which I developed an eating disorder was, alas, high school. I was enrolled in an academic program that was far too rigorous for my non-efficacious self. This highlighted the enormity of my weakness in executive functioning, especially the seemingly impossible skill of task initiation.

I just... did not have the organizational ability to stay on track, nor did I even have the intrinsic motivation through the belief that my future mattered --- that it hinged on the success of today. When I thought of the future, I envisioned it as a tunnel that lead to nothing but darkness. My life, past age 18? A void. Impossible.

I wanted to care, but I couldn't.

There were so many nights I went to bed, aged 15-17, feeling like I'd utterly failed at being a human.

Throughout the entirely of my life, I've had very little interaction with adults in the workforce in general, which I think is what partially resulted in me not being able to pick a career path, as well as my inability to foresee how my life could be like beyond high school. I was among the pool who desperately, vainly didn't know what they wanted to do in the future. That made, the future, then, seem less worth the while to me.

It didn't help that this school was on the other side of my city, took a huge chunk of transportation time each day, and left little room to thrive in anything outside of school hours.

I experienced suicide ideation nearly every day, made vague plans at one point to drown myself in a nearby river.

I had devastatingly low self-esteem. I believe I sought my ED (at age 17; April of 2014, almost 10 years ago) to feel like I was doing something right, since I wasn't academically, as well as to distract myself from my lack of friendships + interpersonal struggles.

III.

When my ED developed in high school, I didn't have much of a social support system. I struggled immensely with making friends - let alone opening up to the friends I did make about personal struggles.

I felt so utterly alone, drifting among a world of strangers.

I think a large part of this had to do to my untreated Speech Sound Disorder. I could not enunciate certain letters as accurately as my peers - "r" "g", "k"; I also had a lisp. My phonological errors were only treated when I was age 23, after a year's worth of sessions with a Speech Language Pathologist.

Back then, the Internet (and I didn't have close online friends there, either; nor share any of my thoughts with the world much - I only reblogged like a ghost watching through a window, at the shadowy worlds of others) was my main solace. I didn't open up to anyone about my feelings of being an academic failure, about my anxiety when confronted with tasks of everyday life, about my belief that the future = doom.

[speechandotplano]

Building Blocks for Children with Speech Sound Disorders

Developmental problems in children often cause speech, articulation, and communication issues. The ability to communicate effectively through speech comes from a confluence of finely coordinated motor skills, a good understanding of the language and its nuances, and the mental capacity to convert thoughts into speech using the right words quickly.

You might be parenting a child with speech sound disorders. In that case, it is vital to approach this problem systematically, using a simple-to-complex approach and setting up the right building blocks of practice that can lead to articulate, intelligible speech and effective communication. Here are some basic pointers to help you construct the right practical building blocks for a child with speech sound disorders.

 Practicing Words—A Few at a Time

Before your child learns to articulate and combine multiple words effectively, you need to establish a comfort level with single words. It is crucial to select a few essential words and help your child understand and practice those until that comfort level gets established clearly. This way, you avoid overwhelming your child with information while creating a solid base of essential words that can help them create complex speech in due time.

The Right Words for Motivation

The practice of articulating words can become dull and chore-like unless you keep your child motivated by picking areas of interest and excitement and choosing words from those realms. Look at your child’s favorite activities, foods, and toys, and select practice words closely related to these areas of interest. The names of people in the family can also be useful in this regard.

Words for Utility

Effective communication often hinges on practicality. Real-life situations can place specific speech-related demands on your child. Knowing the right words regarding the immediate environment can be a great help in these situations. Words like “want”, “help”, “move”, “bye”, “up”, and “down” can also act as pivot words that can later connect with other words to form useful phrases. These words can be integral to the building blocks of practice for children with speech sound disorders.

Answering “wh” Questions

Many real-life communication scenarios hinge on the ability to understand, ask, and answer “wh” questions—who, what, where, when, and why. The most crucial prerequisite to engaging in these scenarios involves understanding the notions behind these questions. Focusing on these words in the practice building blocks for your child can help them internalize these notions and deal with such scenarios effectively.

Please feel free to contact us at Speech and Occupational Therapy of North Texas for a consultation regarding any kind of expert help with children with speech sound disorders.

[takeyourcyanide]

I really did not do stilted speech justice earlier, so I’m going to delve a little deeper into it. I end up going off on a tangent regarding TD sort of so the rambling is under the cut

I mentioned my speech often being oddly formal to others. There’s more to it than that. This is due to my own inability to find any other way to express myself, and forgetting even the most basic of words when my brain is clouded and blocked. But I tend to speak unusually (sometimes without realizing it) and cryptically to soothe the static, too. I have to purposely (sometimes unconsciously, it’s second nature at this point) word things in a vague, ambiguous, strange, overly formal way so that people have a harder time deciphering the intent behind what I’m saying, particularly if I’m speaking about something very personal to me. But I also do this when speaking to strangers and just people in general, in order to almost “keep them at bay” if that makes sense. It’s not only naturally how I speak often times, but it’s also dictated by how I feel that the other is going to harm me in some way, or is someone I need to be suspicious of and on guard around. And when on guard, which I always am, my speech, too, remains on guard. Anyone could ask me any question, and as opposed to simply responding, I always ask “why do you ask” instead. Both out of curiosity and paranoia. I understand it sounds awfully stereotypical, like your average “who’s asking” sort of character, but I am that character LMAO. I repeat the same words and phrases within the same paragraph a lot, both on accident and due to that same difficulty in conveying my point, as well as wanting to ensure that I was understood properly. The supposed “tangents” that I can go on at times are relevant to me in some way, though they may not be to others. It’s like I am reminded by certain words or topics of another semi-related one, have to talk about that real quick, forget my original point entirely and have to pause and try to remember it for a good minute or so, and try to finish conveying that point. I’m constantly pausing when speaking, especially in conversations I’ve had less experience in, since it is genuinely just like a foreign language in many ways. I mix words up, sometimes mispronounce them, forget how to spell very basic words I’ve known how to spell my entire life despite the fact that I am usually fairly good at spelling. My speech becomes scrambled and sometimes even quicker and almost uh how do I describe it “excitable and manic” sounding as though I’m spiraling. But that’s because I’m scrambling to speak English properly, knowing there’s a possibility the other party may give up and listening entirely, or think I don’t know what I’m talking about at all. I remember things rather incoherently as well, and have to make sense of them when attempting to convey those aforementioned memories. Sometimes it’s as though I can’t move my mouth and tongue in a way that can produce sound. Sometimes my grammar just goes to absolute shit and I start speaking like a toddler, because I can barely handle even speaking like that. I’ll lose my ability to process thought and language briefly, sometimes unable to even properly gather what others are saying, similarly to if they were speaking a language I had been learning. And I have to break it down quickly in my head. When it comes to alogia, this has been a part of my life for the entirety of it. Often induced by paranoia, but also that inability to speak, but also a lack of desire to speak, but also feeling as though I’m almost “not allowed” to speak, but feeling almost like an empty vessel doll thing and not moving much, etc etc. also I don’t know why. It’s just my natural state. That might not be apparent based off how I’m currently rambling, but if you were to speak to me off of here, there’s a good chance I would not say much depending upon the day week month year idek. Not even depending at times. Just in general. Sometimes it’s as though I lose my vocabulary. It’s odd and frustrating. It affects my ability to write, though I still try to push through it for a variety of reasons. I often wonder if my writing even makes sense because of this, but it seems to make enough sense I suppose for other people.

[kyofsonder]

We don't often make up-front posts about our system or the people in it, but we have a sudden desire to say this into the Tumblr void and no good arguments against doing so.

Having your speaking and/or thinking accent suddenly shift at a random moment for no apparent reason is a hell of a specific experience, isn't it? Suddenly, your mouth just wants to take a different shape and your words comes out in a different way and it's not even necessarily an accent you're regularly exposed to or have a reason to mirror or want to practice. It's just there, all of the sudden, and you ride it out until you either feel it fade or have to mask it around others. It's. A hell of a thing, is all we can think to say.

We're always co-con to some degree, too, so we'll feel the ebb and flow of it as the accent-holder is closer to and further from our shared consciousness. It'll warp our accent into something between our usual/default one and whatever the accent-holder has.

Maybe we've posted about this before and forgotten, but it's weird and fascinating to us every time. Speaking patterns changing is already both those things, but whole accent shifts are... another level.

Being plural is wild, truly. We'll probably never stop being surprised, even by aspects/experiences of it we've known a thousand times over.

[piplupod]

cant tell if im sick or if im just extremely stressed and upset. ack.

[ratsonas]

funny how many of my "little quirks" that i was extremely aware about in middle and high school turned out to be autism lmao

[beckettj]

I Need Your Help

Getting real on here for a min. I really appreciate anyone taking a few minutes to read this.

1.9 million children in the UK are currently struggling with talking and understanding words. (Speech and Language UK).

As of December 2023, 72000 children and young people are on the waiting list for speech and language services in the UK.

The demand for speech and language services are high whilst funding remains low leading to a substantial wait time to access these key services.

Imagine being told, as a parent, guardian, older sibling, aunt/uncle, grandparent, etc – “Your child needs speech and language therapy but you’re going to have to wait a year for it.”

And more than 4000 children have been waiting for over a year.

Speech and Language difficulties can impact on reading and writing abilities which has a knock-on effect onto all areas of education.

According to a report by Speech and Language UK, children who struggle to talk and understand words are:

• Six times more likely to be behind in English at age eleven

• Eleven times more likely to be behind in Maths at age 11

• Twice as likely to have a mental health problem

• Twice as likely to be unemployed as an adult

As a person who benefitted from accessing speech and language services with two brothers and a dad who also benefitted greatly, this is a matter I’m very passionate about. We were lucky that we were able to access the therapy, services and support we needed. It shouldn’t be a matter of luck.

Speech and language desperately needs more funding.

And it’s not just children. Adults can have speech and language conditions too and require the same access to speech and language services! Speech and language conditions are not limited to ones you are born with. Anyone, at any age, can acquire a communication condition. (Take Chris Kamara for example).

So any UK peeps reading this – please sign the petition below pushing for the government to increase their investment in speech and language services.

https://petition.parliament.uk/petitions/657935?fbclid=IwAR16E2RhkIBSQmpAAraOZWL6E2mTOuVbENCv2rgoYr8kFcnJdNf3HmS4ALM

[spookyhologramyouth]

How many people had speech therapy in elementary school and just randomly remember it some days? Like from 1st gradeish to 3rd I was seeing a woman every other Wednesday to make me stop talking like a New Yorker in the land of Oregon and I remember thinking at my small age and now that was stupid. Why could I talk like a New Yorker? Was that a different language? Not to mention it was a whole disorder that I only found out via snooping. And my brother had one apparently but since he was a boy he didn't see anyone for some stupid reason.

[tanadrin]

One frustrating aspect of the argument over whether Biden should step aside is that people are confusing dysfluency associated with fatigue (common in people with speech disorders) with sundowning, which is associated with agitation, nervous energy, and confusion. What happened at the debate was not sundowning; if Biden were sundowning, he not only should not be running, he should be removed from office immediately.

I think the vague and incorrect popular understanding of dementia leads people not just to make wrong inferences on limited information, but to kind of hang their ass out making specific, provable claims not in evidence. If Biden was suffering from dementia, he couldn't be hiding it in interviews and when meeting with donors and the public (as he has been doing), and memorizing pre-scripted sound bites certainly wouldn't help him cover for it. When Reagan was suffering from the early stages of cognitive decline, his aides were keeping him away from everybody. Biden is not as active on campaign as some other candidates have been, but he's not sequestered away in the White House, refusing all contact with the press.

"Biden is too old and tired to beat concerns about his age" is a reasonable argument. "Biden has dementia and/or is sundowning" is a) not warranted by evidence, and b) would imply he needs to go right now, not January of next year.

[merakiui]

crow & goat in courtship.

yandere!rollo flamme x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, dub-con, coercion, religious symbolism/imagery, mentions of pregnancy, implied breeding kink, obsession, alcohol/intoxication, slight codependency, non-consensual touching/groping, au in which you attend classes at nbc instead of nrc under rollo's supervision note - the crow is always on call.

i. “but each person is tempted when they are dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed. then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death” (james 1:14-15).

Rollo answers on the third ring.

He always does—claims it’s polite to answer after three chimes just as it’s right to knock thrice before entering a residence. He’s stubborn in his ways, a crow bound by routine, only ever doing things in threes. Habitual to a fault, strictly so. You are similar in that regard; you find solace in the familiarity of predictable patterns. The relief that stems from knowing what will come next—in being prepared for all manner of events even if you haven’t yet reached the first.

But then you also like fun, and the best sort of fun is often had with a disregard for habit. Disorder and spontaneity. Throwing all caution to the wind. Trusting in the arms of the crow who will catch you, the carefree goat, when you fall.

“Good evening,” he mutters into the phone, his voice sounding so close despite the distance between you and him. “It’s rather late. Is there a specific reason you’re calling?”

“Rollo! Hey! Hiii,” you drawl, grinning like a fool. You stagger through the door into the chilly, starless night, your heels slipping on cracked, frozen pavement. “Whoa!” You stumble against the railing with a carefree giggle. “Almost lost my footing!”

There’s a stalling silence on his end. And then, with a deep inhale, he asks evenly, “Have you gone out?”

“Mm. Yeah. Went out to celebrate with some friends.”

“Some friends?”

“Like one or two…or a whole house full of ’em.”

“(Name).”

“What?” When he doesn’t reply, you laugh. Not because it’s humorous or embarrassing, but to merely fill the silent gap. “What? Roro, you’re sho stern. Don’t lecture me!”

“So you’ve been drinking.”

“What?! No!” With an offended scoff, you shake your head even though he’s not here to witness it. “You know NBC’s no-booze rule. I’m not gonna get caught—won’t get caught.”

“You slurred your speech and called me ‘Roro’—both in the same sentence, mind you.”

“So what? Rollo, Roro. Tomato, potato.”

“It’s to-may-to, to-mah-to. And—” he exhales an exhausted breath— “Never mind. That’s besides the point. Why, pray tell, have you called me at midnight?”

“Why’re you up at midnight?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Not fair! I asked first!”

“Not quite.” There’s a smile in his voice when he speaks next. “If I were to visit your room right now—knock on the door and wait there—would you let me in?”

“Yeaaah,” you start to say, only to catch yourself halfway in the trap. “No!”

“No?”

“No…thank you. No visitors tonight. S’late and I gotta study for tomorrow’s exam.”

“And a party will somehow aid in that endeavor? (Name), you do realize you’ve spun one too many lies and now you’re woefully entangled.”

“Less poetry and more picking me up.”

“Ah, so that���s what this is about.”  

“Rollo, please be nice,” you whine, your lips twisting into a pout. “S’cold and I didn’t bring a jacket and I’m kinda-maybe-sorta a little…”

“A little…?” he encourages, and you can just envision that self-satisfied smirk of his.

“A little-drunk-but-also-not-really-drunk-but-also-totally-drunk,” you hastily admit in a string of syllables. Snowfall swirls around you, and you grasp the bannister to prevent yourself from falling over. “Oh, it’s snowing.”

“I can see perfectly clear from my window. Beautiful, is it not?”

“So stop being an obtuse dick and come get me before I freeze!”

“Should that come to pass, you may just rival the Righteous Judge at the entrance. I’ll be sure to polish you every month.”

“I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna poison your coffee and watch you drink it, and then we’ll see who’s stiffer than a statue. It’ll be you—in death, y’know!”

“Will you now?”

“If you don’t pick me up, yeah!”

There’s the distinct sound of shuffling. You hear crisp pages turning and then a book closing before the rustling of fabrics invades your keen ears. You picture your responsible friend pacing around his room as he dresses himself for the weather.

“Very well,” he says after a moment, ever the composed gentleman. “Send me the address.”

“You’re the best. Love you lots. Thank you! Thank you!” You press your lips together to mimic obnoxious kissing sounds, which elicits a huff of amusement from him. “It’s not a far walk. Promise.”

“Stay on the phone with me. I’ll be there shortly. And don’t go anywhere.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“You do realize sneaking out is against the rules, yes?”

“Aaand here comes the lecture. Gimme a break. Can’t a girl celebrate her birthday in peace?”

You drag your hand over your mouth and wipe sticky wine residue away. In the process, you smear black lipstick. Dark like night, like a crow’s inky feathers, it leaves your once-flawless appearance in disarray.

“There are much better ways to celebrate. Did I not say I’d take you into town this weekend and we could celebrate then?”

“That’s so far from now.”

“It’s three days away, (Name).”

“Still too far.”

“Don’t expect me to provide cover if you get caught.”

“And you can just leave campus whenever you please?”

“This is different.”

“Yeah?” You giggle into the speaker, warm and fuzzy and endlessly entertained. It’s enough of a distraction to keep winter from seeping into your marrow. “How so?”

“This is official Student Council business.”

“Really?” you ask with an impressed whistle. 

“Indeed. On account of my being President, it’s only natural I punish students who conduct themselves poorly. Shall we review your list of infractions and decide on a suitable penalty together?”

“I’d rather we not.”

“Oh, but I insist. Perhaps our discussion and the cold will sober you and teach you a valuable lesson about integrity.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you lower onto the step to await his arrival. The icy stone digs harshly into your rear, which is hardly covered by your too-short dress. It’s definitely not fingertip length or weather-appropriate. You shiver and stuff your hand into the pocket of your cropped sweater. You should take shelter inside, where it’s plenty cozy and inviting, but your inflated pride disagrees. Retreating to the warmth after you’ve already bid farewell would be foolish. At least, that’s what the alcohol in your system is telling you.

So the goat endures the cold, for it knows that that is all that awaits it as the crow closes in.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m an academic criminal. Get on with it, President Flamme.”

“Let’s see. You’ve disobeyed campus curfew, snuck out on a school night, attended a party when your grades could use improvement, neglected your studies, drank carelessly, called the one person who can and will punish you for this and the aforementioned…”

The sound of crunching snow pierces the air then, and you look up in time to see Rollo approaching. He’s dressed in a long woolen overcoat with a scarf twined around his throat and a hat pulled down over his ears. He smirks at you from where he stands on the pavement, cutting the call and sliding his phone into his pocket. Tilting his head at you, he pulls another coat from under his arm and offers it to you.

“And you’re dressed for your death.”

“Okay, that one’s personal.”

Rolling your eyes, you rise on unsteady legs. He meets you at the stairs, climbing two of them to help you into the coat. It’s an embrace more welcoming than that of a lover’s, so soft and comfortable that it immediately rejuvenates your weary skeleton. It smells like Rollo, too—like coffee and weathered pages in an old book. You hum your approval, snuggling into the fluffy fabric. He’s plopping his hat on your head next, tugging it so far down that you almost slip on the slick stoop. Like he always has, ever since he first met you, he catches you. 

“Hello to you, too.”

You blink back at him. “Yeah, thanks. I owe you.”

“Let me see your hands.”

He takes them in his, runs his thumbs over the tops, and then procures mittens from his pockets. You watch him slide both over your hands, rubbing them together briefly to generate heat at a faster rate. Your body sways, gaze unfocused. He’s just about to unwind his scarf from his shoulders when you reach out to stop him.

“I’m good. This is enough.”

“You’ll catch your death—”

“And you won’t in just a coat and scarf? At least let me give you your hat back.”

He shakes his head, holding his hand up in objection. “You’ve been out in this weather longer. It’s only fair. But, really, did you have to wait out here? Couldn’t you have gone inside?”

“My pride’s on the line.”

Rollo’s unamused stare cuts through you. “You won’t have much pride left if you’re encased in ice.”

“Then we’d best get moving. Campus awaits!”

You wrap your arm around him, clinging out of instinct. Rollo peers at the proximity, his lips upturned in a covert half-smile, and his arm snakes slowly around your waist in return. You don’t notice this, for you’re too busy dragging your feet through the snow while he acts as a helpful crutch, stable in a way you just aren’t. Not right now, at least.

But then the goat is never stable enough to survive the inevitable—the swift, sacrificial blade that befalls and beheads, leaving gory spatters to run red and visceral in the wake of the end.

You’ve never known, and you never will. How could you when he’s been nothing but cordial? A clean slate. Admirable guidance. A helpful friend. Your only friend.

The crow descends in three knocks. He lets himself in regardless of whether you wish to have him as a guest. He is unwanted and feared, the very foundation of death and destruction, and he has set his beady eyes on you—the goat.

It’s common knowledge that you cannot pray away the crow. He persists, as always, quiet even when his wings beat against his sleek, feathered body like the loudest war drums. And the caw—the dreadful caw! It’s a most disturbing cry, one that pierces through the dark like jarring slivers of light in shadow. Or a butcher’s blade through flesh, sawing through sinew to get to brilliant bone beneath. The hoarse call of Death’s crows—they circle in a murder, swooping down to meet you as harbingers of malevolence.

Rollo has always strived to lead a virtuous existence defined by a rigidly righteous moral compass. In the gloomy pits of misery and hatred, where he festers in a bundle of tar-colored feathers, he does not hope for sunshine. He no longer knows the uplifting ebullience of life’s greatest miracles. Because there is no miracle in death or tragedy. Because there is no happiness to be found in a doomed hand, every card showcasing Death and its many forms. Not for him. Never for him.

But then, amidst the despair and despondency, each all-consuming, a goat fell into his lap.

A divine offering to the crow, who is so far from divinity himself, can only mean one thing. It is neither conciliatory nor a reward.

It is a sacrifice.

But then the City of Flowers adores its goats—reveres them for all that they are. Goats are cherished, not sacrificed. But to drag a nameless, magicless goat from the grounds of its far-off, inconceivable pasture—is that not the cruelest form of sacrifice? To drop this goat into the equitable embrace of the crow—is that not the sweetest gift? Generous yet unfair. Plucked right from the folds of another heaven.

The mortal coil can be callous, which is precisely why the crow is permitted to exist in impartiality. Death does not care for who you were in life and who you will be in the next, and the crow only ever oversees finales. Never beginnings. Much like a deity does not care for what good you can do if you do not first adore them in copious adequacy.

The crow carries with him a most fearsome knell—the chime of judgment, to be delivered right on time like an execution staged for noon.

All throughout life, you can plan for the crow and all that he shall deliver, and still you will never be fully prepared to greet him. He brings misfortune bundled in baskets woven from the bones of sacrifices past. In holy scripture, it is the goat who is punished most often—who is slaughtered at the altar, who is arranged as peace to quell the torrential fury of the deity, who is made to suffer at the hands of those hoping to avoid damnation or godly wrath, who is meant to shoulder the blame when no one else wants to. Favors have been bought with the blood of the goat, its head nestled amidst verdant grasses, pure forevermore even when it is dyed carmine. It appeases and pleases.

So it’s just—religiously so—that the crow takes the goat for himself, strips it bare, and proves to the prying eyes in heaven that the greatest sin is more than lustful temptation.

For the crow—for Rollo—the heaviest sin, a vile, cursed burden from his very first breath—it is existence itself.

And only the blood of a pure goat can wash away such filth—can cleanse what has been rotting within. The goat can make a garden out of the crow—bring life and love to its barren insides regardless of however fleeting its presence may be. It is within this garden—within the softest, fertile soil—where the crow shall sow the most special seeds.

You cross the bridge with Rollo, your laughter filling the cloudy sky as you recall all manner of amusing stories from the past few hours. Drinking games paired with drunken gossip. Delicious wines and snacks. A party with an energy so lively it could rival the city’s annual festivals. Even though he doesn’t seem outwardly pleased to hear any of it, he listens well and occasionally stops to steady you before you can topple over the railing into the water below. Your heels clack against smooth, frosted stone, and the wind whips at your face, each snowflake biting and vicious. Noble Bell’s vast campus waits just beyond the wrought iron gate, standing proud and backdropped by the night.

“You think anyone’s up?” you ask, curling your fingers into his arm as he guides you through.

Rollo eases the gate shut. “They might if they hear you. It would be best to keep quiet.”

You pantomime zipping your lips and discarding a nonexistent key. He quirks a small smile at that and then hurries you along. Nights are always peaceful at Noble Bell. The halls are desolate and quiet, devoid of all signs of student life. Your and Rollo’s shoes click in unison as you walk through the hall and past the courtyard. You gaze at the arched openings, counting each one as they become fainter with the growing distance.

Your breath materializes in front of you when you sigh. “I’m so sleepy. I wanna go to bed for a thousand years.”

“You’ll miss your exam if you do that,” he chides, tutting. “And every other exam that will follow.”

“That’s the point!” Your voice bounces off the walls, returning to you in a reverberating echo. Cringing under Rollo’s disapproving glower, you speak softer. “Oops. Sorry.”

“Just how much have you had to drink? You can hardly walk straight without leaning on me for support.” He narrows his eyes, his lecherous gaze crawling down to your bare legs. “Not that I mind…”

His words don’t reach you, for they’re swallowed in a howling gale as it sweeps across the courtyard. You spy the dormitories then, each one looking more like gingerbread covered in confectioners’ sugar instead of buildings dusted with snow. Your eyelids droop while you cross the distance to reach your designated building, your every movement feeling slower than molten molasses, and by the time you’re actually inside the dorm—Rollo’s shushed you more than once—you’re yearning for the warmth of your bed.

So it’s bewildering when, rather than your own room, you stop at Rollo’s instead.

He opens the door and steps inside with you in tow. You keep your mouth shut, too tipsy to think coherently. After he clicks the lamp on, which leaves the room awash in soft shades of amber, he shrugs his coat off, draping it over a nearby chair. You drag yourself over to his bed and flop down, squeezing your eyes shut to block out both the light and your spinning surroundings. Rollo doesn’t say anything, but you hear him shuffling about his room, crossing to close and lock the door before walking back towards you. The mattress dips under his weight, and you feel nimble fingers working to undo the buttons on your coat.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” you ask, cracking your eyes open just as he’s pulling the coat from your person.

Rollo folds it neatly and sets it aside. “You’re practically melting into my bed already. It would be quite the undertaking to make the walk back to your room at this hour.”

“So considerate,” you tease, grinning up at him. Sleep stretches your expression into something dazed, and you yawn loudly. “Then I’m gonna sleep here. Wake me up before class.”

You almost drift off, but those frigid fingers are moving to tug you out of your sweater next. They crawl across your bare shoulders like a spider on a web.

“You really are something,” he marvels, glancing at your body sprawled beneath him. “To brave the cold in such thin material…”

“Stupid choice. I know.”

“It appears we’re in agreement.”

“Shut up,” you snap back with a weak laugh. “You’re no better, showing up so cozy and then giving everything to me.”

Rollo memorizes the way the form-fitting dress hugs your figure. He inhales a shaky breath and brings his hands back to his sides. Your chest is right here. So close. So frustratingly close.

He can’t indulge. He really shouldn’t. It’s unbecoming to show such unfair favorability when he’s meant to remain impartial. Death should not lust for the beauty of life because it only knows endings—or the beginnings of ghostly eternity. The crow should not allow himself to be swept up in tumultuous temptation.

And the goat is the only friend he’s known—the only one who understands the crow, if only by a few meager slivers. But someday the goat will know.

Rollo swallows his inhibitions, beating his urges away with a stick. He’s not one for rash decisions; he’s meticulous and thoughtful. He would never take such a risk—would never nosedive into a crude confession. He’s plotted it in his diary, but it’s never come to fruition. He restrains himself because he must. Because it’s the polite and proper thing to do when caught up in courtship. Because if he opens his torso and allows you to poke around inside, you’ll find that he is not the friend you’ve known for all these months.

He is a fiend, devilishly so, wearing the hide of a goat to put the real one at ease.

Warring with rationality, he slides away from you and intends to recover at his desk. He’ll scrawl all of the things he wishes to do to you in there and that will be enough. That will help clear his head of the intoxicating fog that settles whenever he’s with you in private. But then he’s reaching to untie the canopy draped over his bed, each corner undone within seconds. The sheer curtains fall in thin layers, confining the both of you to this island in the middle of a barren sea. It’s darker in here, dimly lit by the faint glow of the lamp outside.

You blink up at him, owlish.

“You…” He stops himself, shakes his head, and turns away. Hastily, he fishes his handkerchief from his pocket. With this enclosed propinquity, he can smell your perfume. It’s spiced and flowery—alluring and adorable all at once—and it assaults both his nose and mind. “You should sleep. It’s late.”

This is for the best. The crow is only meant to look after the goat, remain unaffected even in the face of lustful, fateful sacrifice.

But you’re here. You’re splayed like a spill, perfectly imperfect, and your shoulders are a canvas coveting kisses. He clutches his handkerchief in a white-knuckled fist.

“Mm, okay. Night…”

“Yes… Yes, good night,” he mumbles, lowering his handkerchief. He swallows thickly.

This is for the best.

But even though he thinks this, his arm is stretching out. Closer. Closer. So close, until his hand is hovering just above your chest. He’s so close.

When will he ever have another chance as fortuitous as this?

His hand closes around your breast and he squeezes it experimentally. It’s soft when his fingers dig in gently, depressing with the pressure of his digits. Rollo’s green hues flick to your face. Your eyes are shut, and soft snores slip from your parted lips. He glimpses your chest again and, with the utmost care, slides your dress down to free your breasts. They’re mostly bare, save for the heart-shaped pasties covering your nipples. Rollo heaves a disbelieving sigh.

“Promiscuous,” he mutters, plucking the edge of the first adhesive and peeling it away to reveal the perky nipple beneath. You look so soft, so clean, so pure… What was he even worried about? No one’s had you before. He’s sure of it.

He’s about to remove the other heart when your voice freezes him.

“What…are you doing?”

He holds your gaze. It’s tense for a moment, unspoken accusations brewing between the both of you.

“A massage,” he blurts, but there isn’t a hint of haste in his tone. He suspected this outcome when he chose to traverse the line of right and wrong—and ultimately sided with the former. Because to him it’s right, even if it’s wrong. He knows what will soon follow: disgust and detestation.

Instead, you giggle. It’s sleepy and silly-sounding, but it’s also light and lively.

You catch his hand in yours and drag it back to your chest. “If you wanted to touch, just ask,” you murmur, your words slurring. “Nothin’ wrong with it.”

You’re not just perfect and pure. You’re everything.

Yes, it’s the alcohol blurring your brain and the intimacy of being trapped in a quiet, comfortable space such as this one that allows you to desire him. Would it be the same if you were sober? He can’t quite say, but he doesn’t wish to know. This is enough. This is paradise.

He kneads slow, steady motions into your breast, and you watch from where you’re lying on the bed. His other hand slithers between your legs to search for your clothed clit. Your breath hitches just as his fingers brush it, and he presses in, rubbing with his index. Your arm falls over your face, and your chest rises with every breath.

“How does it feel?” he asks, rolling your nipple between chilly digits.

“Not enough,” you bemoan, curling your fingers into a fist. “S’not enough…”

“How fascinating. I suppose cheap wine truly does turn you into a pute.”

“No… Was definitely expensive. The fancy kind.”

“Was it now?” He circles your clit, predatory and shark-like, his eyes alight with glee. “You say that, but look at the state it’s left you in. Utterly disheveled.”

“That’s because of—” you gasp, your voice rising in pitch— “because of you…”

His heart hammers in his chest, a resounding, pounding melody.

The City of Flowers treasures its goats, and the crow loves his fiercely even though he shouldn’t.

“Did you enjoy drinking yourself foolish and indulging in debauchery?” His fingers dance along your inner thigh, hooking around the hem of your underwear. “Was it a fun celebration?”

You lower your arm to glare halfheartedly at him. “Someone sounds jealous.”

“More so disappointed, mon chou chou,” he coos, sugary, sickeningly sweet. “Someone could have taken advantage of you. Someone could have tainted you with magic.” His lip curls up into a nasty sneer. It lingers for a moment before fading into something calm. He gazes at you, oddly tender. “That didn’t happen, though, yes?”

You shake your head and flinch when he drags your panties down. Dewy strings of your slick come away with it, and you shudder at your newfound nudity. He hums approvingly and drags his finger through the wet patch staining your panties. Driven by libertine compulsion, he stretches viscous strands of your essence between two fingers.

Your eyes find his deceitful greens once more. Silence sparks between the both of you, quickly broken by your exhalation. Rollo kneels before you, taking in the sight of you as your face wavers through the stages of consideration. Upon arriving at your conclusion, you sit up slightly and shuck your dress over your head. And then you’re lying back, shaking your panties from off your ankle, and wrapping your legs around his waist to draw him in closer. 

You grin, coquettish. “Why not search for yourself if you’re so worried, Mr. Student Council President?”

There’s no turning back. Not that he ever would. Not when the goat’s given him the signal. The blade doesn’t fall, but he does.

And this is better than dreams and erotica. This is real.

He surges forward to fit his lips against yours. Sloppy and inexperienced, he molds himself to your body. You tug him against you, your hands working to undress him. Clothes and shoes are cast aside between open-mouthed kisses, torn off half-buttoned and ripped away from soles. You breathe him in, gasping into his mouth. Translucent strings of saliva connect your mouths when you part, soon broken when you lean in for a chaste peck.

“You’re okay,” he says, the words practically bleeding onto your own tongue with how close he is. “Still as pure as the day I first met you.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“The best thing.”

His third and fourth fingers prod at the depths of your pussy, pressing inwards. Shallow at first. He watches your face unblinkingly, burning every pleasured contortion into his brain, and slides his thumb along your clit. Your breathing staggers, coming in quick huffs, and you grab at the bedsheets to steady yourself. Rollo works you open on those fingers, curling and scissoring in equal measure. The slick squelches join in the salacious symphony you’re currently producing. Every sigh and groan come together in perfect harmony. You’re a heavenly harp, and he’s plucking your strings like an expert musician.

“Tonight is unforgivable,” he adds, and you blink through blissful tears to view him. “Folly is the worst distraction.”

“Then be stupid with me,” you joke, running your hands over his shoulders. He’s so cold. “Warm yourself with me.”

And he will because he’s always wanted to. He’s desired it. Craved it. Coveted it. Thought of nothing else for days and days, each delusion so cyclical it often felt tangible.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, sliding his other hand up your hip and towards your rib. He traces the path of where it lies beneath layers of flesh before pressing down to feel it. “So beautiful…”

Your hand glides into his, fingers twining like silken thread around a spool. A lopsided smile lifts your lips, and you preen under him. “Yeah? Am I really?”

“I wouldn’t lie about the obvious…” Your walls hug his fingers tighter then, and a shiver electrifies your nerves. He hums again, quite pleased. “Oh, did you like that?”

“I did. Very much.”

Lashes fluttering against your cheekbones, your head thrown back in ecstasy ever-mounting, you render him ensorcelled. Like a prized Renaissance nude, a goat laid to sacrifice in the crow’s nest, you are beatific. Divinely so.

“Allow me to reiterate then.” He hastens his pace, pumping his fingers relentlessly. You tamp down a shameless moan. “You’re exquisitely beddable. A work of art. Enchanting. Une belle femme.”

You’re nearing the edge—very gradually, but not quite—and so it’s devastating when he slips his fingers out, each one thoroughly coated in you. They shimmer in the dim light, reminding you of where they had previously been.

“Put it back in,” you beg with wide, glossy eyes. “C’mon… Please don’t stop now. Was so close. So close and—”

Your complaints are curbed when you follow his hand as it moves to wrap around his half-hard cock. He strokes himself thrice, using your slick as lube, until his cock is curving up against his stomach. You stare at him; he stares right back.

And then you realize he intends to go all the way.

“Wait, Rol…lo… S’not my safe day,” you say, shifting away. Whether impatiently or anxiously, he can’t tell, but he can certainly guess. Your world spins once, a dizzying blur, before it promptly clears. In the very center of your vision, as he’s always been, Rollo remains. “S’not safe…”

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with levity. “I know.”

He’s kept track, dutiful like always.

You attempt to crawl out from under him, but he stops you. Your stomach churns.

“I’ll pull out in time,” he promises, rubbing soothing circles into your plush hips.

Even with the alcohol still buzzing through your system, you aren’t convinced. “N-No, really, we should stop here…”

“You’ll feel so good. Come now, aren’t we nearly there already?”

Rollo lifts your legs onto his shoulders. You squirm with more determination this time, but his fingers dig into your thighs. With a startled squeak, you sink into the mattress, cowed into submission.

“We… We can’t.”

“Why not?” The smooth, soft head of his cock prods curiously at your pussy.

You chew your lip, admitting in a meek tone, “I… I could get p-pregnant…”

“Pregnant,” he parrots, tasting the word as if it’s a delicacy he has yet to sample. His cock twitches. “Pregnant…”

“So… So that’s why…”

“Do you not want children?”

“I… Well… Now is kinda…”

He presses onwards, sinking in slowly. Your breath hitches; your heart stumbles. The intrusion is not entirely unwanted, for your slick, snug walls cling to his shape, and you almost give in to bodily inclination. But it doesn’t feel right. You’re scared. No matter how naturally your body reacts, you don’t want this.

“Rollo, wait—”

“It would be a wonderful thing—to see you rounded with my children.” Rollo props himself on either side of you, his body pinned to yours in sinful, sweaty connection. He exhales a deep breath, restraining himself as he pushes deeper. Patience is a virtue, after all. Your expression tightens with discomfort, and so he peppers your face with placatory kisses. “To see you grow in and—mmh—out of the most flattering maternity wear. To behold every change that blesses this beautiful body of yours… To see you swell with my love, filthy as it may be. Ah, but pregnancy is just as messy… Nevertheless, it shall be a special bond for us—a sacred vow, if you will. We are connected here—” he punctuates this point by slotting the rest of his length inside, and your legs involuntarily close around him to keep him there— “and soon here when life develops within.”

One hand splays across your stomach to pat it with fondness. You choke on your helpless whimper when he rocks his hips once, experimenting with the movement. It’s awkward, but it reminds you that he’s inside. So close to your womb that in just a few more thrusts he might—

“No… No, please… Rollo, you have to—oh—have to pull out. Please pull out. Don’t wanna get pregnant…”

“Oh, but you would be so beautiful.” He breathes you in, savoring sex and floral fragrance. “If I’m allowed one miracle—just one for all the anguish I’ve endured—let it be this.”

You know not of what anguish he speaks, for he’s never verbalized it, but even so it can’t possibly be so agonizing that it would warrant such invasion.

The vise-like hold your velvety walls have on his cock is deliciously addictive. He groans while he ruts into you, his eyelids fluttering. He could be animalistic and cruel in his movements—ravish you as if the world is faced with annihilation and this is his final hour—but instead he settles for exploratory leisure. His hand fits into yours and he squeezes it gently. A feeble protest builds in your throat and so he swallows it with a hungry kiss, his mouth molding against yours.

Your nails dig into his shoulders when he draws back and slides in again, filling you deeper than before. You breathe between kisses, panting and licking into his mouth in even intervals. He does much the same, anchored to you in a way that is both temporary and yet so permanent.

The world narrows down to this single sliver of space, enclosed in a canopy. And in it, laid bare and fertile, the goat is sacrificed to the crow. Death cannot reach either one here. There is only the promise of new life, thrust upon the goat all at once.

You don’t have the willpower to object, for you’ve already found yourself entrapped, so instead you cry. Tears track down your cheeks; your mascara runs with it. Ruined. So, too, is your pitch-black lipstick, smeared along the edges of your lips and printed onto Rollo’s porcelain skin.

Rollo’s hips stutter to a halt and he holds you against him when he spills thick and hot inside. Nothing is wasted; it’s all emptied deep within. If you’re lucky, it won’t take. But if some mischievous fertility goddess has cursed you, you’ll wake nauseous in the coming weeks.

If you have anything worth praying for, it’s the former.

The both of you are panting in the aftermath, but only one is coming down from his glorious high. You remain unsatisfied, your peak not yet breached. Rollo rolls his hips once more for good measure before easing out. You crumple into the wrinkled sheets, frigid and still as a statue. Carved empty and hollow, yet stuffed with sin.

The crow has come. Though this time the gift of tragedy is something between boon and curse.

— — —

The curtains are drawn to let in sunlight. It filters in through frosted glass, each pane stamped with snow, and it blinds you the moment you try to open your eyes. You twist and turn in bed, feeling heavy with hangover. A splitting ache cracks your head in half, and you groan loudly.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you hiss, digging the heels of your palms into your eyes. “This sucks…”

You force yourself to wake after two more minutes of rolling around. Groaning once more, you sit up in bed. The canopy has been tied back in place, and when you glance sidelong at Rollo’s desk you notice something. A glass of water and a plate are waiting for you, seeming more enticing by the second. You throw the covers off, realize you’re nude seconds later, and promptly snatch them back. They’re wrapped around you like a comforting cloak. You stagger out of bed to check the contents. Two croissants, a single orange, a dollop of strawberry marmalade, and two tablets are arranged on the plate.

Hangover medicine, you realize, lifting one up to scrutinize it.

You peer around the room. It’s empty. And then you see the clock. It’s a little past noon.

“Oh,” you mumble, lowering into the chair. You clutch the blanket closer. “Rollo must be in class.”

Amidst the piercing migraine, which you quickly resolve by throwing your head back to swallow both tablets in a single gulp of water, two things occur to you. You’re in Rollo’s room. Naked. In Rollo’s room. Surely you must have spent the night after you returned from the party. Why are you naked?

But more importantly…

“Shit! My exam!” The excitement doesn’t help your current state, and you slouch in your seat, even more exhausted than before. “I completely missed it… Rollo’s gonna kill me.”

You scrub the sleep from your eyes and reach for a croissant, content with giving up. You don’t want to endure the walk of shame from Rollo’s room to yours. If anyone were to catch you, they’d certainly be left wondering.

As you nibble on the croissant, admiring the way Rollo’s arranged the contents of his room, you spot the edge of something beneath the plate. Perplexed, you push it aside to reveal a note. Penned in Rollo’s effortlessly pretty script, it reads:

I’ll forgive your transgression just this once if you’ll forgive mine. For now, get some rest. I’ve left breakfast here. Stay for however long you’d like.

You scowl at his attempt of ‘breakfast,’ and your stomach rumbles in dissatisfaction.

“Right?” you say to your stomach, clicking your tongue. “If anything, this is hardly a snack.”

But you’re grateful for his efforts. He cares. He always has. From the very first day you found yourself in this world, he cared.

While you peel the orange, pondering foggy recollections of last night, you begin to realize just how sticky you feel. As if someone’s slobbered all over you and left it to dry. The feeling persists between your thighs.

You pause momentarily, overcome with an uncanny sense of panic as you piece the puzzle together. The still-forming picture does not look good.

“Shit…” you whisper, haunted with a fragmented timeline. “What the hell did we do last night?”

You know. The deep, dark part of your brain knows, but you don’t want to confront it. Because Rollo wouldn’t, right? He couldn’t. He’s always done what’s best for you, so he wouldn’t.

Right?

[birdofmay]

What's the difference between nonverbal and nonspeaking?

I have posts about nonverbal autism, but none about the single topic "What's the difference between nonverbal and nonspeaking?" So this will be a handy linked blog entry for my pinned post.

All summed up: There is no real difference, it's a matter of preference. Please ask us what term we prefer and respect that choice. It's a sensitive topic because there has been a lot of discourse around it ☝🏼

Alright. First things first: Nonverbal is a medical term not exclusively for autism. In the medical field, "nonverbal" simply means that your speech is extremely impaired or fully absent. Yes, there are many meanings of "nonverbal", but this is what doctors mean. Did you know that there's nonverbal cerebral palsy too? (External link)

But let's focus on autism. Autistics who can't speak are said to have "nonverbal autism".

Discourse #1 - the mind is intact

There are many reasons why some autistics never learn to speak. One reason can be non-acquired apraxia (i.e. not due to a stroke, TBI, Alzheimer's, etc.), which leads to limited motor control. If it affects the mouth and throat only, individuals "know what they want to say", but their mouth doesn't cooperate. They either struggle to get words out clearly/don't get anything out at all, or their mouth seems to have "a mind of its own" - they say things they didn't want to say. If apraxia affects the whole body, this goes for actions too. Either they can't make their body do what they want to do (e.g. they want to point at a ball but their arm won't move) or their body does things they didn't want to do (e.g. they want to point at the ball but instead their finger points at the floor).

As you can imagine, this situation is really unfortunate when a therapist wants to test your intelligence. You can't get words out, so they ask you to show them what a triangle is. You know what a triangle is, but your body does its own thing. You point at the circle instead of the triangle, and your therapist concludes that you don't understand simple instructions. They assume intellectual disability. You're misunderstood all your life and everyone thinks that you can't learn to communicate, that you don't understand language. You're frustrated.

Luckily, at some point some people realised that these autistics CAN learn to communicate and in fact are very capable and understand language just fine. That was when apraxic autistics talked about this misunderstanding online. They talked about how they were mistreated and underestimated, that people should always "presume competence". They coined a new term for themselves: "Nonspeaking". In their opinion, "nonverbal" doesn't describe their experience and makes it sound like they can't learn to read or write. "My mind is intact, I can make intelligent choices about my life!" (External link)

Sounds good? Well, it may be surprising to know that most of us on Tumblr who can't speak either don't mind being called "nonverbal" or actively prefer nonverbal over nonspeaking. How can that be?

Discourse #2 - the mind isn't always intact

There are other reasons why some autistics never learn how to speak. Most of the time, in contrast to "nonspeaking self-advocates", we do struggle to understand language and our mind is not "intact". We have language disorders, brain damage, slow processing speed, often ID. The latter is why most of us aren't on any social media. My ability to communicate isn't average for us, it's an exception!

When the "say nonspeaking" wave reached Tumblr, I think at first most of us who are on social media liked that idea. We spread awareness about how terminology is a preference thing, that "nonspeaking" is about overcoming years of mistreatment and about empowerment. That some of us think that "nonverbal" sounds like we can't communicate and can't understand language, when that's not true. But, as I said, most autistics who never learned how to speak aren't online and therefore can't participate in this discourse. "Nonspeaking self-advocates", on the other hand, are on social media and love to participate. But they are a minority among those who can't speak.

The result? At some point it got a little ableist. The mindset "We are intelligent and understand language" turned into "You guys with ID and language disorders make us look bad" and THAT turned into speaking over and ignoring us. Or harassing even. "You have to call yourself nonspeaking, otherwise you're a bad person!" and so on. We responded "No, you say you're intelligent and your mind is intact. Good for you, but ours isn't. You erase our existence and we don't relate to your experience. We don't identify with your word." It was worse on other platforms, at some point the term "nonspeaking supremacist" was coined similar to "aspie supremacist".

Discourse #3 - free interpretation of a term that's NOT loosely defined??!

And last year, a really strange thing happened: Speaking autistics somehow mixed up the "To me personally, nonverbal sounds like I can't learn to communicate and don't understand language at all" and incorrectly informed others "So there's a difference between nonverbal and nonspeaking. Nonspeaking means that you can't speak and nonverbal means that you also can't communicate in other ways".

They took it as a fact and informed us that we "by definition" actually are nonspeaking because we can communicate via text. 🤦🏻‍♀️

I repeat: Most of us who can't speak aren't on social media. So this misinformation again spread everywhere because we weren't enough, we weren't loud enough. We can't ever be loud enough because, exactly: Most of us aren't on social media.

Now we weren't harassed by fellow nonverbal/nonspeaking autistics, nope, NOW suddenly speaking autistics from ALL over the world tried to inform us that we shouldn't call ourselves nonverbal - NOT aware that by now "nonspeaking" got a slightly ableist connotation in the process 😵

Here's an example of how wild things were last year...

And that's not enough: Suddenly everyone assumed that autistics who can't speak due to apraxia MUST call themselves nonspeaking because that's where the movement started. No, even apraxic autistics sometimes prefer "nonverbal", and they have every right to do so!

As things are now...

So, that's why most of us on Tumblr prefer nonverbal. Oh, and by the way:

Whenever someone isn't aware of this and makes a "To me, nonverbal means..." post, all I think is "Oh, not again, please not again", and I see this war flashback meme in my mind's eye 😅

Every "To me, nonverbal means..." post that ends with "And that's why I prefer nonspeaking" has the potential to get loud and start this harassment and misinformation all over.

Every new post that tries to define nonverbal and nonspeaking could start this all over again.

Because nonspeaking supremacists are very very loud. And speaking autistics are usually very very uninformed about us. And most nonverbal/nonspeaking autistics aren't on any social media.

[pastagoat63]

In a post-game AU where the girls get to live in the real world, I feel like Monika would have some odd habits carry over from the game.

-She never had a house or a bed, so she can fall asleep pretty much anywhere, no matter how uncomfortable.

-Because they were unnecessary in the game, she constantly forgets to do things like eat, drink, or sleep. She'll stumble into the kitchen half-starved at 5 in the morning because she forgot she's a human person.

-She never had blushing or crying sprites in the game. Because of this, she never learned how to control these things. She blushes and cries really easily without realizing. The other girls like to take advantage of the blushing part because all they have to do is hold her hand for a couple seconds and she turns into a tomato.

-Not really a habit, but I think she might have something like an audio processing disorder after reading everyone's speech for so long. She has to watch TV with subtitles on or she has no idea what's going on. She also startles herself when she speaks because she's not used to sound coming out. Or, when she's really tired, she'll just flap her lips at people because she forgets she has to actually make sounds for them to hear her. The upside is that she has a really fast reading speed.

-She hates elevators. In Act 3, whenever the game closed and Monika was sent into the void, the game unloaded a couple milliseconds before she did, which gave her this slight falling feeling before she suddenly stopped existing. The little jerk at the beginning and ends of elevator rides feels similar and it freaks her out.

-Because she only ever had one outfit, she forgets about changing a lot. So she ends up sleeping in her day clothes or forgetting to change out of pajamas before leaving the house. Once or twice she ended up showering clothed because she forgot clothes aren't a part of your body.

[beatingtheouijaboardallegations]

i love you nonspeakers. i love you nonverbal people.

i love you nonverbal people who prefer to be called nonverbal. i love you nonspeaking people who prefer to be called nonspeaking. i love you nonspeaking nonverbal people who tired of debate about terminology or can’t keep up with it and just want be heard and communication rights respected.

i love you people who not speak ever since birth ( hi! ). i love you people who use to speak but experience regression / catatonia / burnout or with degenerative physical disabilities. i love you nonspeaking nonverbal people with acquired disabilities.

i love you multimodal communicators. i love you people with complex communication needs. i love you apraxic people who are unreliably speaking. i love you minimally verbal people. i love you semiverbal people. i love you speaking people with selective mutism with intermittent speech ( who listen to us and not speak over )

I love you nonspeaking nonverbal autistic people. i love you nonspeaking / nonverbal people with other intellectual & developmental disabilities. i love you nonspeaking / nonverbal people with apraxia / dyspraxia ( full body or apraxia of speech ) . I love you nonspeaking nonverbal people with brain injury with stroke with aphasia with genetic disorders. i love you nonspeaking / nonverbal people with mental health disabilities that affect language ( eg schizophrenia ) .

I love you AAC users. I love you users of text based AAC. I love you users of picture based AAC. I love you users of low tech AAC. I love you people who can’t afford the big expensive robust systems and rely on free apps or low tech for that reason. I love you people who need small grid size. I love you people who need visual accommodations to AAC like high contrast. I love you people who need alternate access like switch , eye gaze , head track , joystick , partner assisted scanning to make AAC accessible. I love you nonspeaking / nonverbal people who use sign languages. I love you picture card users. I love you letter board users. I love you people who need human support to use AAC , people who use methods like FC and RPM and S2C and all the “ discredited ” method that are constant at risk of being take away from you.

I love you nonspeaking nonverbal people who haven’t found a way to communicate with words that works for them yet. i love you people who communicate mostly or entirely with behavior with gesture with pointing with vocal sounds not words. i love you people who only way communicate is what the system calls “challenging behavior.” I love you people who communicate through violent meltdown, who SIB and hurt others , run away unsafely , destroy property etc and who are punish institutionalize incarcerate or other abused oppressed instead of helped find other way to communicate. i love you nonverbal nonspeaking people who won’t ever see this post, who under institution control or informal more subtle control and don’t have access to social media , or who disability make social media hard , or who just don't like / have interest in being on here (was me for a while !)

I love you nonverbal and nonspeaking people who have found a home in the nonverbal / high support need community on here and who feel like experience is represent. i love you nonverbal and nonspeaking people who have found a home in offline AAC / nonspeaking world like CommunicationFirst and the spellling to communicate conferences. I love you nonverbal and nonspeaking people who not find their " home " in the disability / nonverbal nonspeaking community yet , who not see own experience represent anywhere.

i love you nonspeakers of color. i love you nonspeaking nonverbal queer and trans people. i love you physically disabled nonspeaking / nonverbal people. i love you mentally ill / Mad nonspeaking nonverbal people. i love you poor nonspeaking nonverbal people. i love you nonspeaking / nonverbal people not from global north.

i love you nonverbal people. i love you nonspeaking people. we are great and we deserve to be heard.

[cripplecharacters]

A Quick Guide to Writing Dialogue for a Character with a Speech Disorder: Articulation

[large text: A Quick Guide to Writing Dialogue for a Character with a Speech Disorder: Articulation]

As both a speech-language pathology student and someone with what's known as a lateral lisp (more on that in a minute), I rarely see characters like me and my students portrayed, or portrayed well, so here's a quick look at writing a character with an articulation disorder. A warning that this is going to be a long post.

Learning

[large text: Learning]

The next section is a large look at the information and background of what this disorder/disability is and explains it.

What is an Articulation Disorder?

[large text: What is an Articulation Disorder?]

An articulation disorder is a disorder where a sound or sounds are affected and changed in some way (distorted, deleted, substituted, etc).

This is not to be confused with a related disorder known as a Phonological disorder. Phonological disorders are when sound related rules are affected.

A sound, in articulation disorders, can be substituted, deleted, inserted, or distorted. Substituted means instead of sound "a" they say sound "b" (wose instead of rose). Deleted means they get rid of sound "a" and skip to the next part of the word (ose instead of rose). Inserted means a sound is added (ruh-ose instead of rose), and distorted means the sound is off but not completely one of the other categories.

Specifics of Articulation Disorders

[Large text: Specifics of Articulation Disorders]

There are two common sounds related to simple articulation disorders - "r" and the lisps. A thing to understand about "r" is that there are two types of "r" that can have errors - "r" with a vowel and without a vowel. Another important thing to understand is that each sound comes at a certain age and "r" is the last sound to come for most children, meaning that a 4-year-old who can't say "r" is not disordered and has a possibility of learning to say it later without intervention (although intervention and assessment are always preferred sooner rather than later). Again, though, articulation disorders can be any sound or group of sounds.

What are the lisps?

[large text: What are the lisps?]

There are 4 kinds of lisps - we'll start with interdental (the stereotypical "th" for s and z - "have you theen my thlipperth?" usually assigned to a nerd or intellectual character) and the lateral lisp (air leaks out the sides and "s" can become "sh" - "can you pash me the notesh for clash?") There are two other types as well but we can come back to them later.

I'm largely skipping through phonological disorders, as they can be more difficult and there are too many of them to discuss in a short post without that being the entire post!

Personal Experience

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This next section is more fun - looking at my own experiences and opinions as someone with an articulation disorder.

What to add

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There are aspects to a speech sound disorder/articulation disorder that I think is very important to keep in mind that seldom are. The biggest one is that a person with an articulation disorder that impacts them enough is going to have ways to get around their disorder outside of receiving speech therapy. This can include avoiding words that prove difficult and words with certain sounds (I know that "ss" in the middle and end of words is a problem so I may avoid it around people that I think would tease me for it). They may be silent during conversations or class for fear of embarrassment. They may use their body more, like pointing or gesturing to things.

Another important thing I would love to see is reactions to articulation disorders that are positive or even neutral - letting people repeat words until they get the sound right if they're able to or just letting it pass otherwise.

Stereotypes

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There are only 2 types of articulation disorders:

Many people when they think of articulation disorders think of either an "r" substitution (rhotacism) or an interdental lisp. There are so many types of articulation errors a character can have, and for several reasons, from comorbid and related illnesses (such as neurological disorders and dysarthria) to no known reason (known as idiopathic) to structural reasons (my hypermobility makes my tongue too long, which causes air to come out the sides of my mouth).

Articulation disorders make a character less serious:

Often characters who are given an articulation disorder are the comic relief (Tiny Nose in the Owl House is an example of exaggerated rhotacism) and aren't allowed to be serious or leads because our voices and way of speaking are too "ridiculous". This leads me to my next point...

Articulation disorders make a character "stupid":

There's a myth that speech and intelligence are related, which harms not only people with speech disorders but mainly people with intellectual disability. There is no relation between speech sound disorders and low intelligence, but there is nothing wrong with low intelligence and there are absolutely people with speech sound disorders with low IQs* (which do not label all intelligence and have its faults) as well as people with high and average IQs.

Should you "write out" a speech sound disorder?

[Large text: should you "write out" a speech sound disorder?]

This is a complicated question with no specific answer. Many people would agree that it is jarring and unadvised to write out an accent or dialect, but a speech sound disorder is not a dialect. It may also be difficult for the reader to visualize and keep in mind the differences if it is not put down. However, very unintelligible dialogue will need to be adapted for or translated in some way in most scenarios and some readers may be annoyed by the stylization of writing out the errors. I would overall lean towards including it, for reasons mentioned and so the disability isn't one that's discussed but never shown or adapted for.

Why not call my character's speech sound disorder "severe" or "mild"?

[Large text: Why not call my character's disability "severe" or "mild"?]

This is a personal take from my time at a clinic but one that I personally think is really impactful. Especially for younger people reading or younger characters, hearing that their disorder is "severe" may be both alienating and insulting. It also often implies there's no getting better or growth, which is not true. There are better ways it can be phrased - the disorder is significantly impacting them, or their intelligibility is significantly impacted, for example. As for "minor" or "mild" I try to avoid it because any disability can still impact the person - my lisp is relatively "mild" now after a while of using compensatory strategies and learning how to navigate but it still is impactful to me.

When writing characters who are less severely impacted by their disorders it may be more internal than anything else - others may not notice how much the character is compensating. This is going to impact their internal view and narration, however.

And that's another thing I want to stress - these disorders can run all kinds of ranges, from very impactful to barely noticeable. There is no one way to have a speech sound disorder - or a speech disability.

[vryfmi]

silent boy theory

bringing this theory back because ive been rotating it nonstop

[mild book spoilers!]

skull is characterised by his voice and snarky comments that Lucy has to put up with during their conversations, as well as the whispering tone which is heavily emphasised throughout the series. so when Dulac references to Bickerstaff's servant boy (aka skull) as "that silent Boy" in her confessions it really clashes with skull's personality as we know it.

TL;DR: my theory is that skull was mute or on a verge of losing his voice due to sickness, caused by working conditions and Bickerstaff's abandonment. thus, his ghost can't recall his healthy voice and can only whisper.

[id from alt text: a photo of the passage from the book with line "that silent Boy" being emphasised by image's dimensions./end id]

firstly, it's the whispering skull. not quietly talking skull, not its-voice-sounds-far-away skull. whispering.

‘Because you sure as hell look it.’ It was the lowest, throatiest of whispers; alien, but familiar. I’d heard it once before. (TWS) The hoarse whisper came from somewhere close behind my ear. ‘I say stab them first, ask questions later! That’s your only sensible option.’ (THB)

argument could be made, that silver-glass muffles the voice and it becomes quieter. but here's a thing - whisper is a voice alteration, not a sound quality. when whispering, vocal cords don't vibrate, and produced speech has a different phonation. so whisper and quiet speech are technically two different things.

secondly, skull's work field and conditions. as a young servant, skull was able to see visitors and ward them off Bickerstaff and his master's friends, while they were robbing graves for potential sources. ghosts radiate cold, temperature can drop down to 5 degrees centigrade, that much we know from books, that's why agents are wearing jackets and gloves during ghost hunting cases. and skull's ghost was described as wearing only a shirt and ill fitting trousers, while also being barefooted.

It was the first time I’d ever really looked at him, at the spirit that he truly was. He wore a white shirt and gray trousers that were slightly too short for his bony legs. His feet were bare. He’d still been young when he died. (TEG)

with Bickerstaff's obsession and apparent blindness to anything else that wasn't his device, it's safe to say that he would neglect skull's needs and didn't bother to get his servant any proper clothes, not to mention shoes, which at the time were expensive, since children constantly need shoes as they grow up, and it wasn't uncommon for children from lower class to not have shoes at all and walk barefooted.

that said, my theory is that skull came down with sickness while grave robbing, and Bickerstaff ignored it (mainly because he was a psych doctor, not a medical one), skull's condition worsened and turned into laryngitis. without treatment, his vocal cords got damaged, resulting in loss of voice.

[now, im in no way educated to diagnose a fictional character and there can be mistakes in my logic (like how skull could have lost his voice prior to Bickerstaff), but i went down a rabbit hole and need to share this.]

there's a condition that fits the description of person losing their voice or only be able to talk in whisper, it's called aphonia. there are multiple common causations for this condition, namely psychological, but organic aphonia is caused by damage on vocal cords or throat, that could have happened due to disease or physical trauma. (source)

it's also worth pointing out that any voice disorders in children and teenagers affects the way they socialise and behave. gestures and facial expressions become alternative to communication when voice is too weak for speech or it is painful to talk.

Someone had knocked the cloth off the ghost-jar, and the face had re-materialized. It pulled extravagant expressions of horror and disgust whenever I passed by. (TWS)

‘You know the rules: minimal manifestations, no rude faces, and absolutely no talking.’ The ghost looked wounded. ‘I wasn’t talking, was I? Do you call this talking? Or this?’ It pulled a rapid series of grotesque expressions, each one worse than the last. (THB)

and finally, Lucy. she almost undeniably plays a role of interpretor that passes down what skull says, since others have no way of communicating with him or, more specifically, no way of hearing him. it all does seem to fit perfectly together (at least to me) so i can't stop wondering of how intentional any of that was on Stroud's behalf. then yet again, Stroud did say that that he had a draft for skull's backstory but scraped it in favour of keeping his character as mysterious as possible. some elements could've stayed in the final version of the books, who knows.