So, a thing happened to me yesterday.

In the grand scheme of things, it might not seem like a big deal, but the proverbial straw broke my back. As I sit, shaking, in the throes of my 5th panic attack since it happened – and desperately hoping that writing this blog is distraction enough to help me gain control – I’m still attempting to process it all.

Photo courtesy of Hawaii News Now

But first, a little background for those who don’t know me well

I’m the full-time single momma to a whip-smart, precocious, multi-talented child who also happens to be on the spectrum, has ADHD and struggles with anxiety. This weekend has been a great weekend for her and, therefore, for me. 

We went to see Avatar on Friday night with a friend from her old dance studio. To see them connect, share stories, support each other, and have a real-life give-and-take exchange (rare and difficult for some kiddos on the spectrum) warmed my heart and gave me hope.

You see, while she has a few friends at school, I don’t consider them the best types of friends. Although considered her bestie, one, in particular, is not the most supportive, often putting my daughter or her interests down and ignoring her to be on her own device when she comes over for a sleepover.

The reason I explain this is that context matters

Context is key to understanding someone’s mental state in time. We all know this; how many “Bell Let’s Talk” days have we been subjected to? (Don’t get me into the hypocrisy behind this particular company talking about mental health issues; I’ve chosen to separate the source from the message and appreciate the attempt to raise awareness).

The point is, it’s been an awful few months for us. My poor kiddo was sick repeatedly in the fall, and just when we thought she was out of the woods, BOOM, she got ill again within the first week back to school after the winter break.

That enough can be exhausting for single parents doing their best to work, care for their sick children, and attempt to care for themselves (I was sick too).

Add to this school avoidance, executive function issues out the wahoo, a ramping up of all sorts of sensitivities due to adolescence and hormones kicking in, multiple physical symptoms of anxiety that put my daughter in pain nearly 90% of the time, and of course, ever constant bullying and social isolation from so-called friends.

I did the best I could to support her

All through these issues, as I’ve done her entire life, I’ve done my best to “see” my daughter. My goal is to accept her differences, applaud her strengths, acknowledge her anxieties and give her strategies to help her cope with them. It’s not easy, and more often than not, I become her emotional trash can, where she spews out her anger, frustration or inability to control her environment at me.

When you deal with an hour of school avoidance behaviour, including begging, crying, screaming, slamming doors, self-harm, tummy aches, headaches, dizziness, aggression, insults, and yes, sometimes physical attacks on me (she doesn’t mean it, at the moment she doesn’t know how to find a suitable outlet for her frustration) ….it becomes traumatic, both for her and for me.

And before anyone offers help. Yes, I am connected to resources and have read many books on strategies to deal with these behaviours. But knowledge is one thing; living with it is something entirely different.

Photo courtesy of Supportiv

I now understand that many mothers of autistic children suffer from PTSD 

I couldn’t figure out why I had been so sad and disaffected lately. Yes, it’s been difficult, but many good things have happened lately, too. I’ve been practicing my gratitude; I got a new, better-paying job and have multiple coping strategies at my fingertips.

But I’m fatigued all the time. I feel like I’m slipping into a depressive fog again where all I want to do is stay in bed where it’s warm, and I don’t have to deal with anything. I’m trying to find time to get out, even to just go for a walk, but between trying to balance my job with my child’s needs, sometimes it can be challenging to find the time for showering.

Then I started learning about something called hypervigilance. Basically, it’s the state of being ultra-alert, constantly assessing the environment for threats, even when there are none.

This should start to sound familiar to any mom out there who’s had a child get sick. It’s the feeling of sleeping with one eye and one ear open in case you have to run to the hospital.

For the moms of neurodivergent children, hypervigilance goes into overdrive. Anything and everything can be a trigger for a meltdown. What if her anxiety is so bad that she can’t last all day at school? Will I have to go pick her up? How do I make sure I’m available to do that? 

She’s at a sleepover, but I know she won’t eat the food. She’s losing weight drastically, so I have to pack her a cooler of foods she’ll eat and follow up to ensure that’s been made accessible to her throughout the night.

She’s away for a class trip, the first one she went on without you (because you’re desperately trying to foster independence), but you get a call from the parent chaperone. You must listen to her hyperventilating and freaking out on the phone as they struggle to calm her down.

The list is long y’all, and if it’s hard for me, imagine how difficult these things are for my daughter. This permanent state of constantly assessing possible danger can lead to trauma responses similar to those in combat. 

Of course, parental judgment comes into play too

Now factor in that we live with my parents (thank god, because I don’t know how we’d make it otherwise), and while they don’t help much with her actual childcare as they are older and she can be a lot to deal with, the financial support has meant the world to us.

This is why it’s so difficult when they, particularly my father, disagree with how I parent her or even acknowledge that her differences require different parenting techniques than neurotypical children.

There is judgment in some way or form every single day. (although I have to admit, my mom has come a long way in educating herself and acceptance!) Add to that the fact that I, myself, have never felt that I fit in with my family, and the psychological stress of attempting to be a positive emotional support for my daughter when she needs it often leaves me in a state of burnout. 

I’m afraid to speak out about what happened to me yesterday since I know my parents will not back me up.

You see, the overarching narrative about me in my family is that I am “too”

Too much. Too sensitive. Too outspoken. Too blunt. Too soft. Too psychological. Too analytical. Too much of an activist. Too liberal. Too….too…too…

After a while, you believe that there is something wrong with you. And that adds to the endless pile of crap I have to wade through daily.

Finally, on to the main event

Now that you have the set-up of the scene and are aware that because of my circumstances, I was feeling exhausted and emotionally numb before even entering my local store, it might help to understand better.

I needed to buy a few grocery items, including lactose-free chocolate milk, and this store is one of the few places that carry this particular brand. (my kiddo will drink nothing else, of course)

I’ve grown up in the same village, and this store is a mainstay for the locals. My mother alone spends literally thousands yearly (she loves grocery shopping, it’s her happy place), and I even used to work there many years ago.

Of course, I can’t afford to shop there much for my larger shopping hauls, as it’s just too expensive, but it’s been drummed into my head by my parents that you need to support local businesses, and I feel I have to shop there because of this mantra.

Plus, everyone is super lovely, and the produce is excellent, so there’s that

So I quickly walked around the store, smiling at patrons, receiving smiles back, and lining up to pay at the checkout. I am always kind, saying my please, excuse me’s and thank-you’s to people when they move for me, letting people with less cut in front of me, and in general, trying to take up as little space as possible.

I could feel my anxiety build as I got up to the belt and started unloading my groceries. Like every other store, it is now our job to bag our own groceries, which I don’t mind; in fact, I enjoy piecing together groceries in their proper place; it’s like a game.

The problem is the time factor. I always feel rushed. No matter how fast I bag my groceries, the check-out person always waits for me to pay.

So then I’m thinking, do I pay first, then finish bagging? At Walmart, there are two areas to bag groceries per station, so even if I’m not done, there is still room for the next person to start.

But at our local store, there is zero room for anyone to start processing their order until you have entirely bagged and removed your groceries from the counter. So what often happens is you are left to furiously finish as the cashier tells you your total and stares at you expectantly – just waiting.

It is during this phase that my anxiety really ramps up. I can feel myself starting to sweat, knowing everyone is waiting for me. I try to go faster, but no matter how fast I go, I can’t bag in time for people NOT. TO. WAIT.

By now, my heart is pumping so furiously I feel like people should be able to see it pulsing from my chest, I am hyperventilating, and those steel bands clap around my chest – getting tighter and tighter. I feel like a cornered animal. I know this is me perceiving threats when there are none, aside from perhaps broken societal expectations, and I can usually deal with it.

Except for today.

Suddenly, the gentleman who is next in line walks up to where the debit machine is (where I have to go back to pay still) and flourishes his shopping bag open with a flick of his hand as if to say, “come on, let’s get this show on the road.”

Seriously, it’s like he was challenging me to a duel a la Princess Bride. 

I haven’t even paid yet, I’m still doing my best to go fast, and of course, the young man at cash is just standing there, doing nothing to help, and eying me expectantly.

I’m so astonished at this level of passive-aggressiveness that I half-jokingly say, “geez, rush me, why don’t you.”

The customer thinks I’m joking, so he laughs. And I quickly finish and walk back to the POS to pay with my debit card. 

He doesn’t move. He stands there, just off my left elbow, where he can see my debit information and within my personal space. I’m now full-on triggered.

I turn to him, put up both hands spread in front of me and say, in a loud and commanding voice, (I don’t think I shouted, but I was emphatic):

“Please, could you give me some personal space? I wasn’t kidding; I’m feeling very stressed and anxious right now.”

Photo courtesy of Discovery Mood & Anxiety Program

Stillness. It’s as if I’ve murdered someone. I am looked at like I’m the one with the issue.

He laughs, maintains his smile, and walks back to the end of the counter where his wife is waiting.

I finish my transaction, and as I grab my cart full of groceries and prepare to exit the store, I hear him say, “nope, I’d better wait so I don’t get in trouble.”

Then the cashier laughs with him and  responds, “I think you’re safe now.” They both laugh again. 

As I leave the store, over and over, I hear them mocking me as I try to control my tears.

I’m still struggling to process it all

When I got home, I knew I had to be alone to digest what had just happened and not worry about my kiddo seeing me like I was. I walked outside, careful to be out of view from any windows, and had a 45-minute panic attack, sobbing, hyperventilating, rocking, and all the other hallmarks of these oh-so-familiar events.

When I had pulled myself together and entered the adrenaline hang-over stage of the attack, I went back to the car and unpacked my groceries.

I couldn’t understand what I had done wrong. 

I would never intrude on another person’s space like that or make them feel hurried or rushed. To me, that’s the ultimate unkindness. 

 I also felt I was within my right to ask for personal space to keep my banking information safe and to help me feel less threatened.

Could I have done it in a more pleasant tone of voice? Maybe. But I was in the grip of anxiety, which I did my best to explain.

And yet I was mocked for it. And the cashier joined in. Not one person in that store showed me kindness or empathy.

Would this have been different if I had not been a woman? I can’t help thinking that this was gaslighting behaviour at its best, telling me I was crazy because I voiced my distress and my limitations.

The parallels between so many other people dealing with mental illness are hard to ignore, as are the parallels between women standing up for themselves throughout history and being victimized because of it.

Either way, I’m now coming down from my fifth panic attack since it occurred. I’ve gone back and forth between calling the manager to complain or even posting on Facebook. But the problem is, it’s a small community, and I can tell you that if my parents found out, they would not support me in speaking up for myself. 

And, of course, I would, MOST CERTAINLY, be labelled as difficult.

And that’s a shitty feeling. But what I can do, and do well, is write about my experience. I’ll do it anonymously if possible (cowardly, I know!), but I want to let anyone else know when and if they go through these experiences:

I SEE YOU. You aren’t alone. And no one has the right to make you feel crazy or less than for setting your limits. For being outspoken for yourself or others. For having an opinion that doesn’t fit within the status quo.

Well, what d’ya know…it worked! My heart rate is back to normal; my breathing has returned to shallow and (somewhat) even breaths.

Turns out blogging might be an excellent panic-attack strategy after all.

Have you ever experienced anything like this? Let me know in the comments, and share your story to help others!