#self injury tw
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I think something that would have helped me as a kid were open discussions around self-harm, and the fact that it doesn't fit the very niche or starry-eyed, whimsical version people have in their minds. I wish there were more people who didn't brush off people who self-harmed in "weird" ways.
I remember opening up to some friends of mine once, many years ago, about this very issue (since they'd brought it up), and I remember being laughed at because I had described something that wasn't "typical," something which was deemed "too shocking, absurd, hilarious," and I look back on that memory and it's like... we need to put in a lot more work into how people view self-harm and how people engage with us. Because I'd never self-harmed in the ways that people think of, even as a really small child.
I understand the sheer darkness of this topic, but you've gotta realize at some point that you can't help us by ignoring us. You can't save us by ridiculing us or making us feel like freaks, like monsters unworthy of being seen. The ways I self-harmed were perhaps more dangerous than other methods, and yet it wasn't taken seriously at all. So I never talked about it until now, because I know there are kids today who are where I was. If you're that kid, I am so sorry. I hope you are taken seriously, I hope you are shown compassion, understanding, true and unbridled love, and adoration. I am so sorry. I am sending you my heart and soul.
#mental health#mental health advocacy#self harm tw#sh tw#self injury tw#i was so fucking gutted when my friends laughed at me opening up about that though#i was genuinely so fucking heartbroken because i *knew* how dangerous those behaviours were and it was... funny to them#it shows me just how twisted people have got their minds at about this subject#i still love these friends by the way. they were kids. i was a kid. at least then.#ask to tag (genuine)#it's so fucking hard to open up about this stuff. very very hard but i swear to gd if it means one person is seen i will be content#i will lay my heart out if it means somebody else's can beat on. i want to help others feel understood
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Whumptober #28
This is an AU based on the 2009 film Push. So, The Man From UNCLE but with super powers!
xxx we might not make it to the morning
“Ah, there you are. I was wondering if you’d come.” One corner of her mouth is upturned, and there’s nothing in Victoria’s tone, in the way she speaks, that’s out of the ordinary. And yet…There’s something there, something that tickles the back of Napoleon’s mind and then disappears the moment he reaches for it, like grasping at smoke.
It unsettles him, even as he puts on a false smile of his own, calm and full of charm. “How could I not? When a stunning woman such as yourself extends an invitation, one would be a fool not to accept it. I brought champagne.” He lifts the bottle slightly, and she steps out of the doorway so Napoleon can enter the suite, closing the door behind him. Napoleon sets the champagne down and turns to Victoria with one eyebrow quirked. “So what is it you wanted to discuss? An art deal, perhaps?”
Victoria grins broadly, showing pearly white teeth that remind Napoleon of a wolf’s, and she lets out a laugh. “Come now, Napoleon. Neither of us is that naive, so let’s not pretend.”
Napoleon’s stomach ties itself in knots at the use of his real name, but he’s careful not to let his shock show. His cover is blown, but he has to keep his head. “Damn,” he says. “I thought I was doing so well.”
“Oh, don’t sell yourself short, Agent Solo. You were doing very well!”
“What, so you found a Watcher, then? A Sniff?”
The woman watches him out from under heavy, dark lashes. There’s something predatory in her gaze, and Napoleon feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up. His strategy shifts immediately from gathering what intelligence he can to finding a way out of here, now.
But then…she speaks. And realization barely has time to hit him before her words crash over him and into him, entangling her lies with his reality.
“You really shouldn’t trust that big Russian ape, you know.”
Napoleon frowns. She’s only barely started to Push, and the contradicting thoughts in his mind confuse him. Surely she can’t mean…“Illya?”
“Kuryakin, yes. He’s still working with them. It’s dreadful, really, the way he’s using you and dear little Gaby. Playing you for fools.”
Confusion slowly turns to anger, and Napoleon feels his hands curl into fists. “I’ll kill him.”
He doesn’t notice Victoria’s amused smile, or the blackness of her eyes. “Now, there’s an idea. He’ll see you coming, though. The man is tracking you, after all.”
Napoleon’s thoughts are heavy and plodding, like there’s weights around their ankles, and it takes him a long moment before he says, “That’s impossible. I check my clothes, and my shoes.”
Victoria sighs, walking past Napoleon and to the nightstand next to the bed. He turns to watch her. “No, no darling. You misunderstand me. He didn’t place the tracker on you, did he? He planted it in you, in your belly.”
Napoleon’s heart rate picks up, hands breaking into a sweat. His head hurts. This doesn’t seem right, but she’s said so and--
“The bastard,” he says.
“Indeed.” She opens the nightstand drawer and pulls something out, lifting it to show him. A small paring knife. She places the point against the tip of her finger and looks at it thoughtfully. “If you want to kill him, which you do, you’ll need to get that pesky tracker out first and destroy it.”
A tracker, a Russian tracker inside him all this time, Kuryakin and the fucking KGB aware of his every move, his every secret…All of it lies. His trust given to the enemy, to a man who’s needled his way into his life and used him.
He needs to get the tracker out and smash it to pieces. And then he needs to find Illya and smash him to pieces, too.
Victoria closes the space between herself and Napoleon and reaches up with one hand, gently running the back of her long fingers down his face, lingering at his jaw.
“I’d love to stay and watch, I really would, but unfortunately I’ve more important matters to see to. Much less entertaining, though. Pity.” She sighs wistfully and holds out the knife. “You’ll need this. A bit short, but it’s sharp enough.”
Napoleon takes the blade from Victoria and she plants a kiss on his lips, lingering a long moment before she pulls away with a smile.
“Goodbye now, Napoleon. We shan’t be seeing each other again, I don’t think. And do be quiet, we don’t want anyone coming in here and trying to stop you.”
Napoleon nods idly, staring down at the small weapon he’s been handed as Victoria leaves the suite.
The agent turns the knife in his hand so it’s pointed toward his belly. His body’s instinct to survive is shouting at him, trying to seize control of his limbs. But there’s a tracker inside him, put there by a man who has lied to him, violated him, betrayed him. And he needs to get it out. He has to. Mind overrides body and he drives the knife forward, plunging it into the right side of his torso, halfway between ribs and hip. The pain pulls the breath out of him and the blood is instant, welling up around the blade and soaking his crisp, white shirt. He’s on the floor before he knows he’s falling, sitting on the carpet against the settee, his legs outstretched before him. His heart pounds in his chest, in his ears, as he starts to pull the knife to the left (the woman wasn’t lying, the knife is sharp) and his hands begin to tremble as more blood spills from him. His body shakes as he continues, quaking with the effort of containing the screams that want to erupt from him--screams of agony, of hurt, of rage. He doesn’t let them out though, he can’t. Only the occasional whimper or groan slips through his lips, though the sounds are quickly stifled. Mostly he gasps, rapid, sharp breaths through flared nostrils, his mouth drawn into a thin grimace.
He wants to stop.
But then Victoria’s voice again, and her words push every other conscious thought aside so that he’s focused only on his task. To get the tracker out.
He’s shaking so badly he can hardly hold the knife, so he wraps his left hand around his right and then he keeps moving. He doesn’t think about the fact that his lap is becoming increasingly wet and warm as blood spills from the lengthening split in his belly. Doesn’t think about the fact that, despite the sweat on his forehead, he’s growing colder.
He has to get the tracker out.
And then he’s going to kill Illya Kuryakin.
xxx
They don’t wait for the girl at the front desk to give them a key. They don’t have the time, and Illya can blast the door open anyway, and does so with more strength than Gaby has seen in a while, nearly knocking it from its hinges. He bursts into the room and then freezes so abruptly that Gaby runs into the back of him.
“Illya!” she gripes, and steps out from around him and then she freezes, too. “Mein Gott.”
Napoleon is on the floor, slumped against a settee, his face shiny with sweat and a sickly shade of gray and there’s blood, there’s so much blood all over his front and his hands and the white carpet beneath him and she’s seen a lot since working with Waverly but this…Bile rises in her throat and she has to turn away, doubling over and clutching her stomach and waiting for the moment to pass. This seems to rouse Illya from his daze and her charges forward.
“Cowboy!” he cries, and Gaby looks up in time to see the Russian fall to his knees beside the agent. He’s muttering in Russian, words too low and fast for Gaby to understand but she thinks he may be praying as he puts two fingers to Napoleon’s neck, searching for a pulse.
“Is he--”
“He is alive,” Illya says. “Go find clean towels, we must try and control the bleeding.”
Gaby nods, hurrying off to the bathroom, and she’s grateful to have a moment to herself, to collect herself as she collects the towels. She’s strong and Napoleon Solo is strong and it’s going to be okay.
That’s when the shouting starts.
She hears Illya first. “Solo, what are you--You are badly injured you must--”
And then Napoleon, and the tone in his voice sends ice in her veins.
“Get the fuck off me, I’ll kill you!” There’s a tiredness in his voice, a slurred quality to his words that she knows comes with being badly hurt, but even so the words are laced with fury and hatred and she hurries back to the two agents.
Napoleon has a knife in his red-with-blood hand, holding it up in front of him, and Gaby can see it shaking. Illya is a step back, hands up in a gesture of retreat, face twisted in hurt and confusion.
“Napoleon!”
Gaby’s cry gets his attention and he looks over at her, then down at his belly. “I have to get it out. Gaby, I--I have to get it out!”
And then he’s aiming the knife at himself, moving quickly but Illya is quicker and grabs both his wrists. The knife clatters to the ground and Napoleon’s face darkens with rage.
“Cowboy, it’s me!” Illya cries. “You’re badly wounded, we have to get you to help, do you understand?”
“You’re a liar,” Napoleon snarls, jerking slightly as he tries to free himself from the Russian’s grip. The action is quickly followed by a sound of pain and his eyes squeeze shut.
“Illya, let him go,” Gaby says, barely keeping her voice from shaking. “He’ll hurt himself more trying to fight you.”
“He will hurt himself anyway if I let him go.” There’s desperation in Illya’s voice, written on his face and in his body, in the uncertainty that is as plain in his grip as the strength. “It--it is bad, Gaby. The towels--he needs the towels.”
Gaby nods, kneeling beside the two men and it’s only then, with the blood on the carpet soaking through the knees of her trousers, that she fully takes in Napoleon’s injury. It’s nothing short of ghastly--a long, ragged cut running from one side of his belly to the other. It's hard to tell but she notes that there doesn't seem to be anything other than blood spilling from the gash. It offers some comfort, but not much.
She’s seen what a powerful Pusher can do, and Victoria is obviously not short on power. It’s plain that Napoleon doesn’t have much strength left in him, but whatever she’s planted in his mind is compelling him to use every ounce of it acting on whatever she’s told him to do, even if it kills him.
She positions herself next to Illya, who’s still holding Napoleon’s wrists, and presses a towel to the long gash, and another, and it’s obvious that he’s in agony but he doesn’t scream, just writhes weakly and lets out small, hair raising whimpers.
“We can’t move him like this,” Gaby says. “Maybe if he were calm, but he is bleeding too much and there’s no way he’ll let you get him out of here. He needs a Stitch. You know one here in Rome, don’t you? Go make the call.”
Illya’s jaw works, eyes growing watery, and he shakes his head once. “I will give you the number. I won’t leave him.”
“You have to!” she snaps, then sighs. “Illya, you have to.”
He reluctantly releases his hold on Napoleon, who immediately reaches for the towels Gaby’s holding against his wound. He’s weak, though, and Gaby easily stops him, taking his bloody hands in hers.
“Go!” she barks, and Illya hurries away.
“He--he--” Napoleon gasps, looking at Gaby with eyes wide and wild.
“What is it, Solo?” she says gently, hoping that she can coax something out that will help her deal with whatever lies Victoria has forced on him.
“He lied to us. The--the--the bastard! Put a tracker in me…I have to get it out.”
So that’s what Victoria told him. She has to think quickly.
“You did!” she says, and his brow furrows in confusion.
“What?” His hands relax in hers, just slightly.
“You already got it out,” she says, slowly releasing one of his hands and waiting for a moment to make sure he doesn’t try and hurt himself again. Then she reaches into her pocket and draws out one of the beads from her broken bracelet and holds it up. “See? It was on the floor, you must have missed it. You already got it out.”
He still looks slightly bewildered, but he nods slowly. “I got it out,” he murmurs, and lets out a long sigh, and as he does his eyes drift shut and his head dips down toward his chest.
“Solo!” Gaby puts her hand on his face, tilting his head upward. Her already hammering heart beats so fast that it aches, with fear, with desperation. A Stitch can’t help a dead man. “Solo, come on. You have to stay awake until help comes. Napoleon!”
She almost weeps with relief when she hears Illya’s voice in the hall, and he appears a moment later, a short, harsh-looking older woman in tow.
“Christ, that’s a lot of blood,” she says in a thick Dublin as she sets eyes on Napoleon. “Is he still breathing?”
Gaby nods. “He’s alive.”
“Alright, help me get him onto his back.”
Illya and Gaby move quickly and carefully, shifting Napoleon so that he’s lying flat on his back on the blood-soaked floor. The woman places her hand on Napoleon’s belly, one on either side of the wound. She glances up at Illya.
“Your friend is about to make a lot of noise. Might bring some unwanted attention.”
“I will deal with it, Brigid,” Illya practically growls. “Just help him!”
Brigid nods and slowly starts to move her hands. Gaby watches in fascinated horror as the torn flesh deep within the wound begins to knit. As it does, Napoleon stirs, just a little at first, a pained whimper escaping his lips. Whimper becomes groan, and he writhes under Brigid’s hands, and then his back arches and he screams and the sound makes Gaby’s stomach churn. Brigid doesn’t seem phased, barely even seems to notice, just continues her bloody work. Gaby has to blink back tears and she looks up to see Illya doing the same, the big Russian’s jaw tense as he stares up at the ceiling while Napoleon cries out.
And then it’s over and Napoleon’s body goes limp, sweat beading his forehead as his head lolls to one side, his breath coming in high, breathy gasps.
“Boy’s just been through hell,” Brigid says, standing. “But he’ll be back on his feet in a few hours.”
“Thank you,” Illya says. “Thank you.”
Brigid just nods. “You owe me one, Kuryakin.” And she leaves the apartment without another word. Illya watches her go, then turns to Gaby.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. Are you?”
Illya sniffs once, looking away, then looks back at her. “The way he spoke to me…He was so angry.”
There’s a noise in the hall and Gaby swears under her breath.
“Illya, we need to get him out of here.”
“He does not trust me.” Illya’s voice is small. Broken.
“We’ll figure it out,” Gaby says softly.
Illya nods, his expression darkening. “And then we find Victoria.”
“And then we find Victoria,” Gaby agrees.
It doesn’t matter how powerful Victoria Vinciguera is. She’s going to pay for this.
xxx
#whumptober2023#no.28#bloody knife#the man from uncle#fic#blood tw#violence tw#self harm tw#self injury tw#brainwashed#magical healing#painful healing#napoleon solo#illya kuryakin#tmfu#tmfu fic#tmfu au#super hero au#push au#whumptober#my writing#my fic#whump#whump fic
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febuwhump day 12: "can you hear me?"
episode: Biogenesis | tw: self injury | teen and above
I’ve known she was coming. I could hear her, against the background of voices and noise and information, a familiar undercurrent to the crashing, rolling surface. Scully.
Now she’s close, getting closer. I want to get up, want to meet her at the door and hold her against me, but I’m scared. The doctors think I’m dangerous. They think I’ll hurt them, think I’ll hurt Scully, and even though I don’t want to, I’d never dream of hurting her, I don’t know if I can trust my body right now. It moves without me wanting it to, and doesn’t move when I do. I can’t trust myself, not like this.
“Mulder.” She sits down across from me, almost close enough to touch. “Mulder, it’s me. Can you hear me?”
I can hear her. In more ways than one.
God, he’s so weak, and he looks so scared, so afraid – afraid of me? Does he trust me? Why didn’t he call me, why didn’t he tell me what was happening, why did he call her – no, not the time, not now, he’s in pain and he needs you and you’re his partner – and he screamed for you, he screamed your name, he knew you were here, he knew… god, Mulder, what’s happening in your head?
The pain is back. It’s too much, far too much, to hear every thought and feel every sensation and see every image from someone else’s head as well as my own. My close to block it out. I see, through Scully’s eyes, my hand close into a fist and start to thump against the side of my head.
“Mulder!”
She wants to jump in and grab me, make me stop, but she’s too scared of what I might do to myself if she touches me without warning. I feel the conflict within her, know what she’s going to say before she says it.
“Mulder, please, I know you’re in there. I need you to stop hurting yourself.” Baby, she adds in her head. It very nearly reaches her lips.
I want to listen to her, I want to stop, but I can’t feel my body. I can’t control it. And that makes me angry. I see myself moving, moving towards Scully, and hear her: oh, Mulder, no, please, they’ll take me away from you, but she doesn’t move, and then I’m closer to her, fists clenched and jaw tight, and she looks into my eyes –
Where are you, Mulder? How do I get through to you? I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I left you with her, I’m going to keep you safe –
And she’s imagining, now, which is blurrier than reality, but still enough for me to see – she’s imagining us somewhere warm and safe, me in her arms, pressing her forehead to mine and wrapping her whole body around me, kissing me – kissing me? – softly, so, so softly, and everywhere I look in her head it’s safety and warmth and love, all aimed at me.
In the real image of me, my body relaxes, and I sway towards her – she reaches for me – that’s it, Mulder, it’s me, it’s okay – and then the door opens.
No, not yet, I need more time, don’t –
There’s more voices, now, more thoughts, more images, and it hurts so bad, and as if through a twisted kaleidoscope of different colours and angles I hear all of them hear me moaning and see them watch me lash out at all of them. And they’re taking Scully away, Scully’s leaving, and I force her name out again, push my own thoughts past the roar of them in my head.
She hears me, but can’t turn around, isn’t allowed to come back to me. She wants to, though – I can still hear her, fading into the undercurrent again but not disappearing, even as she’s taken away.
Fuck’s sake, why won’t they just – he wasn’t going to hurt me, he’d never hurt me, he just wanted – I don’t want to leave him, don’t make me leave him, I need him to know, I need to tell him – you could’ve told him, but you’re too scared to – I shouldn’t have gone, he thinks… god knows what he thinks. Oh, god, Mulder. Mulder please don’t leave me. Please hold on.
@today-in-fic
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Tw for past non-suicidal self injury
Since there’s more distance now and I’m in a good place I can examine my childhood and teen years more objectively and actually mourn the bad parts instead of trying to push them away. And like, I just wish I could be a support person for my past self because I can see how I was failed by many adults around me and that it matters, even if other people had other needs. The primary tool I had for regulating my emotions was self injury which already breaks my heart, but at its worst I would injure my face, and like no adult ever really talked to me about it or intervened? My mom once was like “what is that?” and I was like “nothing” and it was basically dropped, and idk the whole interaction seemed like it came from an angry/upset place that I was doing something wrong, and not a compassionate place. And I eventually got out of my longest run with it because my boyfriend thought it was gross. I basically stopped because I was shamed out of it, and I found more socially acceptable ways to be destructive. And idk I wish I had stopped because people cared about my well being and not because I was shamed.
Also it’s just like, my brain was already not doing well obviously, but what does a person learn and pick up when they are using their limited tools to essentially screaming that something is wrong and they need help and finds indifference or disgust. I want to be a good adult for them.
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heart s. johnson | bird on a wire
#heartjohnsonart#heart s johnson#line art#self harm tw#self injury tw#vent art#vent#black and white#bird#birds#wires#telephone lines#power lines#artists on tumblr#graphic art
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I so rarely leave the house for more than an hour or two that I forget how hard longer trips are.
K is off this week and it's S's weekend and K needed work clothes so S and I went to the mall with her to help her find clothes. And it was just A Lot for me. By the time we were halfway through the mall I was shaking and feeling ill and overloaded. Then as we were starting the 40 min drive home, my contamination fears got triggered and with how overloaded we already were I spent the car ride trying to hold in a meltdown and self-injurious compulsions.
We got home, put our stuff down, and then Bean matter-of-factly told S "I'm gonna go have a meltdown" and went upstairs and threw themselves on the bed and thrashed around and cried for a bit before S came upstairs and laid on top of us until we calmed down.
But oof. Now I'm just very drained.
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if he leaves me i will absolutely start cutting myself again<3
#ive been clean for a year&3 months#but oh my GOD im struggling hahah#yes this is a pathetic way to look at it#but i dont mean it in a manipulative way#he will never know#im just looking for an excuse to hurt myself again#self harm tw#self injury tw#barcode tumblr#personal#cptsd#tw vent#self h@rm
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:’)) how would jake and the others deal with a Chris in Antonis position? Quieter and with self harm stimming and stuff… also would Chris just also burn himself then or what would that entail??
SELF-HARM TW
Yeah, Chris would seek out painful behaviors to self-soothe. He would burn himself if he could and if they removed that, resort to other ways of regulating himself emotionally that are painful and damaging. He already struggles with head banging when completely overwhelmed, so I think that would become a problem. Or scratching, or using a knife or scissors, even cutting.
He would eventually stop but be heavily scarred.
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Hi. You said some stims can be a bit more harmful, and I was wondering if incould ask for more information on that...? If you're comfortable of course
yeah sure thing! sorry for the late reply, i didnt see your ask until just now :(
self injurious stims are a bit more complicated to explain than stimming as a general concept, but, a few examples would be things like pulling your hair, excessive scratching, biting yourself, or banging your head against the wall.
self injurious stimming isnt necessarily a symptom of neurodivergency, but rather something that having one can lead to depending on the circumstances and the individual. it's particularly seen amongst children, but many older people also do it, as injurious stims are often an accident that later turns into a learned behavior.
sometimes these specific kinds of stims are in response to pain. like, your leg could hurt and you pull on your hair in an attempt to regulate the pain. other times it is an extreme form of self stimulation. it can also be used as an attempt to communicate your needs to others around you.
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I stim by picking the skin on my face, chest and shoulders. This creates infections, cuts and scars so I’m really trying to stop doing it but I’m struggling to find an alternative that gives me the same level of satisfaction. Any suggestions?
I've heard that putting a layer of glue on your skin and picking the glue off can work -- make sure the glue is non-toxic, though.
Anyone else have tips?
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I no longer engage in premeditated, intentional self harm, but I still scratch and/or bite myself during meltdowns and psychotic episodes several times a week. Had a complete meltdown this afternoon and bit myself hard enough that 7 hours later there’s still a very obvious bite mark right on my wrist. Hopefully it fades overnight. Otherwise I guess that’s what long sleeves are for. Bc I cannot have that visible for class tomorrow.
#text post#my post#I’m a bit embarrassed#I do not like to leave visible marks and this one is super obvious#sigh#self harm cw#self harm tw#self injury cw#self injury tw#tw self harm
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A piece about how when you’re angry it feels great to be shitty but all you’re doing is ruining the rest of your day by giving yourself consequences to deal with and also if you indulge too much it’s all people know you for
#my art#self injury tw#commissions open#artists on tumblr#procreate#hamcrafted#artists on etsy#artists on twitter#wolf#anger#autistic#adhd
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self harm while probably not the most life ruining or the mot stigmatized addiction out there is certainly one i feel people know how to speak about or react to the least. most people, even when aware of what addiction means and that self injury is an addiction, still dont treat it as such basically ever
thats why all the kicked puppy looks when you mention it are so infuriating. all the 🥺🥺”i wish you would stop” suck so much bc yeah me too dude!! 🥺 🥺 “stop for me...” 🥺 🥺 i would stop for love or money but its not that fucking simple is it
i feel like self injury is never ever taken seriously and treated as the addiction it is outside of the people who actually experience it.
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Hi peaches 💙🦊 I'm sorry these are a lot feel free to skip any you're not comfy answering. But for the autism asks: 10. 24. 25. 26. 27. 47.
Thank you duckling <33
10. What are your most common stims?
We stims so much lol. We are almost never fully still.
I'm gonna leave out more self-injurious stims (though many of these can lead to injury with how shit our joints are but most motions have the possibility of injuring me🙃)
Foot shaking (currently doing this)
Leg bouncing
Squeezing and releasing our butt muscles when sitting to bounce up and down
Stressed hand flapping (many variations)
Rocking
Mouth stims (clicking, clucking, humming, etc)
Slapping different parts of my body to make different sounds to form rhythms (often while clicking or singing)
Pressure stims (having husband lay on us, weighted lap pad/blanket, contorting my body while sitting)
24. Do you have meltdowns?
Yeah :/ lately most of our meltdowns have been related to emotional overload tho we also have a fair number of meltdowns from sensory overload. We unfortunately have a tendency towards biting or hitting ourselves during meltdowns which can be tough to deal with. But we've gotten better over the years at recognizing overload before we reach the meltdown point (this is more helpful with sensory overload than emotional overload bc I find it much easier to mitigate sensory overload)
25. What about shutdowns?
Yeah though not as much as we used to. We definitely tend more towards meltdown than shutdown these days (I think at least. I don't remember enough to be making such sweeping statements ><)
26. Do you avoid eye contact?
So much so that I rarely even look at people's faces when interacting. The only person I make eye contact with is Husband but even then it's deliberate and not common. We can sometimes fake eye contact when masking but our ability to mask has really diminished over the years (and when faking we just look at people's faces not their eyes)
27. Do you have any vocal stims or echolalia?
Definitely! The Beans in particular have a lot of vocal stims. If left alone for any length of time they will start singing repetitive songs or clicking the tongue to make songs. And we have a variety of phrases we tend to repeat, some as more of a stim and others as communication. Husband and I often end up echolalia loops with each other until we just start laughing
47. Do you happy flap?
Some parts do! Some of the Beans flap when excited. Though bouncing is a more common happy stim for us
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