I Feel Personally Attacked by Grocery Stores

Autism Spectrum Disorder can make everyday tasks into a nightmare

How the heck does anyone get through this without a panic attack? | Photo by Bernard Hermant on Unsplash

I got my diagnosis on my fifteenth birthday.

I spent that birthday in a hospital. I had an appointment with an MRI machine. I was enclosed in a tiny space in a thin paper gown, listening to the steady thud-clunk-thud around my head, even and rhythmic.

I remember being grateful that I don’t have a problem with enclosed spaces — to me, it was almost relaxing. To someone else, I imagine it would have been incredibly uncomfortable.

It was the culmination of several years of fighting to find out what was wrong with me.

I had run into a proverbial wall as a young teenager, and I could no longer handle public school. The lights, the constant presence of other people, the stress of social interaction that I was never able to figure out.

Everybody else seemed to thrive on it. I couldn’t wait to escape.

The depression was constant. The anxiety was visceral — to the point that my mother once commented that she could see my body lock up as I walked up to the front door of the school. She could see it all the way from the parking lot.

I wound up dropping out. I couldn’t get past it, and the stress was making me physically sick.

It was driving me up the wall, and my parents were at their wit’s end. I was always adamant that there was something weird about me, but nobody had ever been able to figure out what.

After the brain scan, we retreated to the specialist’s office.

The neurologist who was checking my MRI results saw nothing untoward in my brain. But he did see me, finally, for the first time. He gave me answers.

I finally learned why I felt so out of place. | Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash

When I was a little girl, my mother was often frustrated because I didn’t really want to leave the house.

I didn’t understand why my brain was different from others, I just knew that it was. I understood that I did not experience the world the same way as my childhood peers.

I didn’t have many friends back then. The people I hung out with were small in number; almost all of them were outcasts in some way, just like me. We were the oddball pack of ‘different’ kids. Socially awkward, shy, disabled. The kids that others would overlook.

I wasn’t really shy, but I was awkward. I was often bullied or excluded because I simply didn’t fit in.

I would hide in the library, tucked underneath the V-shaped shelves with a book in hand for the whole lunch hour. I didn’t really want to pal around and play, especially after a sports injury left me unable to keep up with the other runners.

I was perfectly fine reading alone. In fact, I almost preferred it. The library was empty and quiet. It was dim and cozy and easy to get lost in.

Losing myself in an alternate reality become my way to escape and cope; a tactic I still use to this day. My reading level shot past my peers rapidly when I was little. We once had a group book project in class with an odd number of kids — instead of joining a group, I asked to do mine solo.

I chose the Fellowship of the Ring for my report. My teacher said there was no way I’d be able to read it and do the report in time, but I insisted. I finished the book in one week and happily turned in a long report the morning it was due.

I enjoyed it. The Lord of the Rings is still a go-to comfort read for me when I’m worn out.

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My happy place. | Photo by Norbert Tóth on Unsplash

Eating at restaurants made me a little nervous, especially busy ones with a lot of noise. Getting me to talk to the waiter was an issue; I would often recite my order to the wall or get a grown-up to tell them instead.

I hated shopping malls. I often complained that I found department stores difficult to handle. Anywhere with a lot of people, the white noise of many voices and the constant motion of a crowd. I used to tell my mother that when we were in places like that, I couldn’t breathe.

I’ve heard that some people go shopping as a way to unwind. A fun, relaxing outing for a gaggle of friends on a weekend afternoon.

Even as an adult, I find it stressful. Being autistic, a lot of things in my life are more complicated.

I have a better capacity to push through, especially now that I know what’s going on and exactly why my brain and body are rebelling against the stimulation. But on bad days, I still can’t avoid overload.

And that’s just the environment. There are other problems with shopping that come down to the products themselves.

Can you shop online for clothing? I can’t. I need to touch the fabric, check the seams, see if the tags will rub against my skin. Coarse fabrics feel like sandpaper on my skin, especially if it’s tight — when every movement rubs it against me, it feels like fire.

Before my diagnosis my mother could never understand why I didn’t want to try on clothing. It meant going into the little room, with chattering people and music outside, changing into clothing that didn’t fit right, that felt weird and uncomfortable on my skin.

I hated it. It feels genuinely painful to me, literally and physically painful.

Buying clothing online is a pain in the backside. I need to feel the fabric before I spend the money. | Photo by charlesdeluvio on Unsplash

Don’t get me started on grocery stores.

Endless aisles of boxes and cans, brands and colors and signs and people packed into small spaces. It’s a nonsensical whirl of distraction, overwhelming to the point where finding what I need is a difficult proposition.

Bright fluorescent lights give me a headache, there are loud announcements in the distance, the bleep-beep-beep of the checkout-line and the rattle of carts on hard floors. A cacophony of confusion.

Shopping for the things that I need isn’t easy. The world is designed for neurotypical people, and people with neurological differences wind up having to struggle through things that really shouldn’t be hard.

But there are signs that things are changing. There’s a little bit of hope on the horizon for people like me.

Thanks to rising public awareness and acceptance of ASD and other neurodiverse disorders, some of the shopping centers in my city have started to adjust.

Reduced music volume and wider aisles might seem like a small change, but they help in ways you can’t imagine.

One of the local grocery chains has even implemented something called Sensory Hour. One day a week in the early morning, the lights in the grocery stores are dimmed and the music is shut off. People are encouraged to whisper.

They do this specifically to provide people like me a time to shop without putting ourselves through pain.

And that’s just one example. I’m seeing more wide-spread acceptance every single year, with more and more recognition. Better accommodations for disabled workers, more understanding of how sensory overload works and respect for people’s unique needs.

Little by little, society is changing to reflect a greater knowledge of how diverse the human brain can really be.

It’s a very complex organ. It can develop in a thousand different directions. | Photo by Robina Weermeijer on Unsplash

Right before I graduated from college, my school held a small exhibition on campus to celebrate neurodiverse artists in our community.

Out of respect for the artists, the show was held in a room without the fluorescent lights that can trigger headaches in so many of us. People removed their shoes and walked quietly in their socks so as not to make any loud noises.

They spoke in soft whispers and kept a respectful distance from each other.

When I walked into that room, I felt a steel band unwind from around my chest. I hadn’t even known it was there. It was the first time that day that I felt like I could breathe.

I spend so much of my day tense, jaw clenched and anxious. I am bombarded with noise everywhere I go, and my brain is constantly fighting to keep up. I end my days drained of energy, exhausted just trying to live in a world that’s borderline hostile to people like me.

The small effort shown by that art show, and these grocery stores, means the world to me. It’s a tiny acknowledgment that people like me exist, and an attempt to make my life easier, even for a few minutes.

It creates a refuge where I can finally relax, and breathe, and feel seen.

It may not seem like much, but it is. I’d love to see the rest of the world catch up.

Solidarity wins.

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