Cracker Barrel: $32.52 for Sensory Chaos and Cold Fries

Today was one of those days. Therapy with Jennifer went well—she always gets it. Afterward, I made a quick stop at O’Reilly’s, and then, for some reason I still don’t understand, I decided Cracker Barrel sounded like a good idea.

Spoiler: It wasn’t.

Cracker Barrel is a sensory minefield. The moment I walked in, I was hit with that thick, cloying perfume smell—like walking into a cloud of synthetic flowers and regret. The music? Loud enough to make my teeth vibrate. And the overlapping voices? It felt like I had fifty conversations shoved in my ears at once. Even with my Loop earplugs in, it was pure sensory assault. My nervous system was already screaming before I even sat down.

So why did I go? Maybe I was chasing some kind of comfort. Maybe I thought steak would fix it.

I ordered a 10 oz sirloin steak, mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, and an extra side of fries. Fries that arrived cold, limp, and flavorless—like they’d been waiting for someone else and settled for me. A small glass of sweet tea and a $4 tip brought the total to $32.52. Thirty-two bucks and change for a meal that came with a side of internal panic. A meal I barely tasted because I was too busy trying to keep my body from going full meltdown.

One small win: the walls were covered in all this weird, old-timey stuff—rusty signs, bent tools, mystery gadgets—and my brain loved that. A nice visual stim moment in a place that otherwise felt like a battlefield.

The waitress was sweet, patient, and didn’t rush me. But I did get startled when she opened the kitchen door behind me. That was my bad for sitting with my back to it. I jumped. She laughed, and so did I, kind of awkwardly—but at least she didn’t make me feel weird about it.

Now here’s the part that really stuck: the kid at the table diagonal from us kept staring. Not a quick glance. Full-on, locked-on gaze like I was some kind of zoo exhibit. I don’t know if he was curious or confused, but either way, it felt like a spotlight burning through me. It’s a special kind of pain to just be sitting, existing, trying to manage your own brain and body, and have someone look at you like you’re wrong for it.

I had my Nee Doh with me. I kept squeezing it, grounding myself. Reminding myself I wasn’t doing anything wrong.

Because I wasn’t.

But still, the stares hurt. The noise hurt. The cold fries hurt. Everything hurt a little more than it should’ve today.

I’m learning to be okay with stimming in public. With needing tools. With needing breaks. But damn, I wish the world would meet me halfway. Turn down the volume. Stop staring. Just let people like me be.

Because I’m not broken. I’m just wired differently.

And next time? I’m getting takeout.