After a full night’s sleep, my day began with a back spasm so sharp that it literally took my breath away for moment. This is the second back spasm in three days.

The plan for the day was a quick breakfast and then out to make a grocery errand, then out for a blood draw and an Amazon return drop-off. I’d forgotten it was Labor Day, so I only had to focus on the grocery errand—back spasm or no back spasm.

Backpack and tote bag at the ready, shopping list called up on the phone, I made quick if entirely exhausting work of getting through the store and through self-checkout and headed toward home. All told, the planning yielded nearly $140 in groceries for just $90.

Then I once again almost got hit by a driver running a red light while I had the right of way.

Once home, I discovered that I’d forgotten one thing, and it was a thing I needed in order to make my usual lunch. After putting everything away, I headed back out to the store. Halfway there, I realized I’d forgotten my hat. That wouldn’t have been a problem if the overcast skies had not started to let some sun punch through.

Back at the store, I find that literally the only thing out of stock on the shelves I’m looking at is the one thing I’d forgotten and that I need in order to make my usual lunch.

I spend the next five minutes staring blankly at the shelves, hands on the handles of the produce cooler door.

Then I spend the next five minutes standing off to the side, narrowly avoiding first a sobbing fit and then an autistic shutdown.

Once I’d gotten a slight grip on stability, I went to pick up a couple of other things I didn’t actually need right away but I needed the trip not to be entirely wasted.

Back home again, parked in front of the television for baseball, my body and the day itself feel as if they’ve been covered in a lead blanket.

I’ve blogged before about how even one of the good days can land badly on an autistic brain. This hasn’t been a bad day, but it hasn’t been a good one either, despite accomplishing the one thing I most needed to accomplish.

It’s just a day. It’s just another day.

Another day of being autistic.


  1. Later, I convinced myself to expend the energy and the money to walk to the store and get a take-and-bake pizza only to find that, yes, the only one I wanted was out of stock. Avoided another ten-minute freeze only by loudly saying “fuck” a lot. Then I came home, pizzaless, and stepped right in the tan, wet, unfirm dog shit that’s been on our pathway all day.