I wasn’t the best version of myself yesterday, and I’m having trouble letting myself off the hook for it.

In the span of about 45 minutes, I lost my temper and spoke harshly to two separate service workers, and I’m deeply ashamed of my behaviour. I pride myself on treating people the way I want to be treated, with kindness, grace, empathy. I’ve spent most of my life trying very hard to be a good person.

Yet in those moments, it was like I was outside myself looking in.

I could feel my cheeks flushing, everything getting hot, my heart rate ramping up. My breathing changed. My thoughts…well, “racing” doesn’t even begin to cover it. I couldn’t hold onto them long enough to put two together coherently. Speaking in full sentences suddenly became difficult.

And here’s the kicker: I lost it over such small, innocent things. Things that most people, and honestly even me on a good day, wouldn’t stress over at all.

But in those moments, all my brain could perceive was:

“Danger! Danger, Will Robinson!”

I was ashamed immediately afterward. I apologized. More than once. Because neither person deserved that.

But I still can’t let it go.

And what I’m beginning to realize is this wasn’t really about McDonald’s or Walmart. This is part of a pattern that stretches throughout my entire life, one that has profoundly affected my mental health, my relationships, and the way I move through the world.

Let me explain.

Already Running on Empty

Yesterday had already been a lot before the cheeseburger meal incident even happened.

I was stressed about money because my car has been making a weird noise and I’m trying to figure out how to cover everything until child support and my next paycheck arrives. Kiddo has been dealing with some ongoing health issues that have been scary, complicated, and exhausting to navigate, and the doctor’s appointment we had just come from required me to do most of the heavy lifting and advocating yet again.

If you’re a parent of a medically complex or neurodivergent kid, you know the drill. You walk in hoping someone will connect the dots, listen carefully, maybe even take some initiative…and instead you leave feeling like you just performed a one-woman TED Talk while simultaneously trying to remember symptoms, timelines, medications, and not sound “too emotional” while doing it.

At the same time, Dad has been very ill for a long time now, and when he has a few bad days in a row, it can feel catastrophic. Mom is exhausted and emotional. I still had work waiting for me at home. The grass needed cutting. My brain already felt like a browser with 47 tabs open and one of them blasting music I couldn’t find.

I’m also starting to realize just how much chronic stress and possible autistic burnout lower my ability to cope with even minor disruptions.

The Cheeseburger Meal

So we stopped at McDonald’s.

Now, for context, kiddo is autistic and likes sameness. Predictability matters. We’ve been ordering the exact same meal for probably a decade. Literally.

Extra Value Double Cheeseburger Meal.
No onions.
No pickles.
Coke.
Substitute poutine.

Same order. Same McDonald’s half the time. Often the same employee.

So when the employee suddenly asked, “Did you mean the McDouble?” my brain completely short-circuited.

I said no, the Extra Value Meal, and she said she just wanted to make sure I got the right thing. Which was kind and reasonable. But suddenly I felt confused and flustered and overwhelmed all at once.

Because a few years ago, at another McDonald’s, I had gotten into a weird argument where an employee insisted they didn’t have Extra Value Meals anymore even though I had literally ordered one there the week before. Another voice came over the speaker. They argued with me. I ended up ordering something different, then parked and went inside only to discover the Extra Value Meal still sitting there on the self-order screen like a tiny greasy monument to my growing insanity.

So yesterday, that memory came flooding back instantly.

And suddenly this wasn’t just:
“Which burger did you want?”

It was:
“You’re confused.”
“You’re wrong.”
“The script changed.”
“You’re not being understood.”

I know how ridiculous that sounds written out. Trust me. But my nervous system did not interpret it as a minor inconvenience. It interpreted it as a threat.

So I clarified I wanted the Extra Value Meal, and when I was answered with, “They’re all Extra Value Meals” I snapped back, “I’ve been ordering this same thing every day for five years, I know you have it.” 

Side note: it was probably closer to ten years, but remember…confusion? Racing thoughts? Check and check.

I’m learning that this kind of distress around sudden change and disrupted expectations is actually pretty common in routine disruptions in autism.

By the time I got to the window, I had calmed down enough to apologize. I explained that kiddo is autistic and needs consistency, and the employee was actually lovely about it.

But I drove away thinking:
What the hell was that?

Primed

Then came Walmart.

Now let me tell you something about Walmart self-checkout.

I hate it.

Every time I go, my anxiety increases exponentially.

The bustle of people. The carts. The noise. The constant blips from every self-scanner going off at once. I can never tell which sounds belong to my machine and which belong to someone else’s. My brain doesn’t filter them out.

And the heat.

Oh my god, the heat.

I struggle badly with overheating, especially when I’m stressed. It’s not uncommon for me to take off my coat and sweater while scanning groceries because I suddenly feel like I’m boiling alive under fluorescent lighting.

And naturally, I have a system.

Of course I do.

I position the cart just so. Purse on the floor instead of in the cart because someone might take it. Coat off. Sweater off. Scan carefully. Check the screen after every item because with my luck, one won’t scan and I’ll somehow get accused of shoplifting, another weirdly intense fear of mine.

I make little piles after scanning so I know what goes into which bag. Then I bag. Then I reload the cart. Then I double-check the screen. Then I pay.

When I finally walk through those sliding doors into the parking lot and feel the breeze hit my skin, I have NEVER. BEEN. SO. GRATEFUL. to breathe outside air.

Even if it’s a Walmart parking lot.

I’m starting to realize how much of this was probably sensory overload mixed with hypervigilance and an already overloaded nervous system.

So before the interaction even happened, I was already primed. My nervous system was already overloaded, and I still hadn’t recovered from our McDonald’s kerfluffle.

Under Surveillance

Then the scanner glitched.

The first item scanned twice. No problem, I thought. Honest mistake. The employee came over, removed it, and then had to review the video footage to confirm what had happened.

Which, rationally, I understand.

But emotionally? My nervous system immediately clocked it as:
You’re under surveillance.

Then later, while scanning cat food, another item accidentally scanned twice. Again.

Only this time, the machine froze and flagged an error. Before I even had time to explain, another employee was there reviewing footage again while I stood there trying to explain that I was literally holding four cans while the screen showed five.

And I could feel the threat response escalating in real time.

Not because anyone was actually accusing me outright, but because my brain had already shifted into hypervigilance mode.

The first video review primed me.
The second one confirmed the fear.

By the time the employee kept insisting the scan was correct while I stood there counting cans in my hand like a sweaty, overstimulated Sesame Street character, something in me snapped.

Not in a dramatic screaming way.

But sharply.
Harshly.

“What are you not getting? I have four in my hand.”

Even writing that makes me cringe.

Then, because the universe apparently enjoys irony, the machine flagged me again while I was bagging my groceries. Another employee came over and explained the system had become confused by the placement of my reusable bag.

At this point I was internally one blinking fluorescent light away from a full system shutdown.

Later, as I was leaving, I found the first employee again and apologized.

Because she didn’t deserve that either.

The Shame Spiral

But then came the shame spiral.

And honestly? The shame spiral is the part I know best.

Because this is what I do.

I replay interactions endlessly in my head. I remember coaching moments from years ago where maybe I was too hard on a student. Not abusive. Not cruel. But maybe too intense. Too impatient. Too much.

And I can’t let myself off the hook for it.

Ever.

My brain immediately jumps to:

What’s wrong with me?
Why can’t I control myself?
Why didn’t I just say this differently?
Why am I like this?

And underneath all of it is this terrifying belief I’ve apparently carried my entire life:

If I’m not perfect, I’m bad.

Not imperfect.
Not stressed.
Not dysregulated.

Bad.

Monster-level bad.

I’m beginning to realize how much rumination and black-and-white thinking have shaped my inner world.

My Map Is Gone

At the same time, I’m also beginning to realize that some of the things I thought were personal failings may actually be connected to being neurodivergent.

Like how deeply routine disruptions affect me.

For example, my mother sometimes tidies or reorganizes my things without asking. She means well. Truly. But it drives me absolutely insane.

Why?

Because I have a system.

I know where things are. It may not look organized to anyone else, but it works for me. So when I go to grab medication or keys or paperwork and it’s suddenly been moved, it doesn’t just mildly annoy me.

It disrupts the entire flow of my day.

It feels like my map is gone.

And if I’m already overwhelmed, that unexpected obstacle can feel enormous.

The same goes for interruptions.

If I’m hyperfocused on something and someone suddenly pulls me away from it, my reaction is almost physical. It feels jarring. Like my brain is being yanked out of one mode and shoved violently into another before I’m prepared.

Apparently distress around interrupted hyperfocus is also pretty common in neurodivergent adults, which honestly made me feel both validated and mildly attacked.

I used to think this just meant I was difficult. Anal. OCD. Controlling.

Now I’m wondering if it’s something else.

Maybe I’ve spent my entire life trying to manage an overloaded nervous system without understanding that’s what I was doing.

Understanding vs Excusing

And maybe that understanding matters.

Not because it excuses hurting people.

It doesn’t.

I am still responsible for how I speak to people. Full stop.

But maybe understanding the wiring underneath it all helps explain why some things feel so disproportionately overwhelming to me. Maybe it explains why I have to work harder than the average person to regulate myself when I’m overloaded.

And maybe, just maybe, understanding that isn’t “playing the victim.”

Maybe it’s finally learning to stop treating myself like a monster every time I struggle.

I don’t have neat answers yet.

I don’t know how to completely let myself off the hook while still holding myself accountable.

I don’t know how much of this is autism. Or ADHD. Or stress. Or perimenopause. Or burnout. Or just being human.

Probably all of the above.

What I do know is this:

I don’t think I was ever really angry about the cheeseburger meal.