Mourning Rituals I get up every morning to my mom bringing me my breakfast—an Egg McMuffin from McDonald's—at 7:30 a.m. I have to eat the same thing every morning or my entire day feels ruined. My morning meds start at 8:30 a.m., spaced out 30 minutes apart. I take four medications each morning, and after that, I go to the bathroom at exactly 10:45. Then I get dressed and ready for work. If I have enough time, I might even start writing a blog post like this one. Routines are important for autistic people—they ground us. But not all autistic people need routines in the same way. We’re all different. Most late-diagnosed autistic people also have ADHD. I’ve never been tested for it, but I’m pretty certain that I don’t have it. I have several friends who do, and I don’t share any of the ADHD traits they describe, but I have nearly all of the traits of autism. But back to routines—I thrive on them. They help me stay focused and organized. If my routines get interrupted, I...

When My Body Hit Panic Mode at Work Yesterday at work, I was just standing at my counter, waiting for the next customer to walk through the door, when out of nowhere, my heart rate spiked. I don’t know what triggered it—nothing obvious set me off—but my body went straight into fight or flight. Box breathing didn’t help much. Stimming didn’t either. I felt trapped inside my own body, my pulse racing up to 130 bpm, according to my smartwatch. I was dizzy, faint, and still—I had to push through. A customer walked in right in the middle of it, and like I always do, I threw on my mask. I covered my autistic traits. I forced myself past a breaking point I should have never crossed. Worst decision I’ve made in a long time. I helped the customer anyway, even though I was falling apart inside. The second I was done, I went straight to my manager and told him I needed to sit down. Thankfully, he said okay. I asked John if he could come back early from lunch, and he did—which I’m g...

Today, I fucking lost it. A guy came into the store asking about a 400 small block Chevy. I looked up a '70 Impala with one. I asked a simple, necessary question: was it a 2-barrel or 4-barrel carb? Because it matters. It changes the head gaskets. It’s not just some minor detail—it changes the part entirely. He didn’t like me asking. He started puffing up, saying he’s been building engines for 30 years, and that all 400s are the same. But they’re not. They are not the same. I tried to show him on the screen, tried to walk him through the difference, but then he started yelling. And that’s when everything shut down. My body. My brain. Too loud. Too close. Too fast. I blacked out. I don’t remember what happened next. Mikey told me I screamed at the guy. Told him to fucking leave. Told him to get out of the store. I don’t remember that part. I don’t even remember being able to speak. But I guess I did, because apparently I stormed off, punched a radiator, and shoved a tool cart into t...

So Ryan—my boss here at O’Reilly Auto Parts—asked me to take on the new Welcome Center planogram for the front of the store. Cool, no problem. I pulled all the old merchandise off, got the new stock up on the shelves, and even swapped out all the price labels like a pro. Then came the sales labels. Cue ominous music. Here’s the thing: on the second shelf, there’s only space for four long sales labels total. But surprise! There are more than four different products on that shelf. So now the sales labels are covering up the price labels, which makes zero sense and is completely messing with my OCD and anxiety. It’s like: how do you expect me to finish this when my brain is screaming at me that the layout is wrong, the labels don’t match the products, and everything is visually lying to the customers? Miranda—being the wonderful human she is—noticed I was spiraling and told me to go sit down in the office and close the door. I appreciated that, I really did. But the spiral was already spi...