When I worked in a university bookstore, at the end of every semester, kids would flood into the store for blue books [used for taking exams]. We were a two-level store, and the supplies were kept on the other level. But for convenience, I made sure to move our display of blue books right inside the entrance by the registers.

Something like nine out of ten students would walk right past the display to try to find them where they were supposed to be. I kept some there so it wouldn’t be a wasted trip for them, but they all came to the checkout complaining that they’d had to walk all that way to get them. We’d politely point out that they were at the registers.

So, I started in with signage. I put some at the stairs, on the landing of the stairs, at the front door, and finally even on the floor. Still, two or three students out of ten managed to ignore every one of them and make the trip to the regular spot.

I’ve been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, depression, PTSD, and dissociative disorder, along with several chronic illnesses. A result of this is, if you don’t know my medical history, it’s easy to see specific symptoms across the variety of disorders and assume they’re all indicative of a different, singular disorder. Because I don’t like to trauma dump or share my personal struggles, people are working on only the information they see, while my therapists and doctors are working from the entire picture taken from years and years of clinical observations, tests, and hospitalizations. 

While working at a bookstore to pay my way through college, I worked with [Coworker], who was on the autism spectrum. [Coworker] was nice, but after a few weeks of working with me, they became convinced that I was also on the spectrum and constantly tried to justify their diagnosis based on things I did at work.

For example, I generally brought the same thing for lunch because it didn’t trigger my chronic illnesses and I knew I could get through the day without being sick. But [Coworker] was convinced it was due to the food texture and flavor issues that are common with people on the spectrum. 

I also twirl or stroke my hair when I’m highly anxious. It doesn’t really calm me down, but I feel a need to be doing something with my hands, and it helps. To [Coworker], this was stimming; stims are repetitive, self-soothing motions or actions people on the spectrum sometimes perform. 

I tended to always wear the same hoodie because it fit in a way that didn’t cause me pain or discomfort due to my chronic illnesses. To [Coworker], that was evidence of sensory issues, caused by autism. 

I often had a headphone in one ear while stocking (with the supervisor’s permission) because music helps with my anxiety. [Coworker] decided it was for noise canceling to keep me from being overstimulated.

Now, if [Coworker] had kept these thoughts and opinions to themself, I wouldn’t have cared at all. After all, it’s none of my business what goes on in their head. But they were constantly pointing out “autistic things” I did and trying to engage me in conversation about it.

Coworker: “[My Name], did you know most people don’t know they’re autistic until an autistic person points it out?”

Coworker: “[My Name], I get that you believe your doctors, but autistic people know more about autism than the doctors do, so you should really think about what you’re saying.”

Coworker: “[My Name], you’re totally autistic, like, 100%.”

Coworker: “[My Name], now that you know why you do all these things, you don’t have to be ashamed of them anymore. You can be yourself.”

What really started to bother me was that they acted like, now that I “knew” my “real diagnosis”, I could be happy about my condition. Let me tell you, that is not something you want to tell someone who’s been struggling for years with debilitating mental health issues.

Finally, one day, I snapped. I admit, I went overboard. I was having a bad day. The blood technician I’d gone to for testing that morning had dug the needle around in my arm searching for the vein, the barista put Splenda in my coffee, which I cannot drink due to my chronic illnesses, I got splashed by a car going through a puddle while walking into the store, and I had hurt my wrist somehow trying to put books on a high shelf.

And then [Coworker] started telling me that I should try taking an autism test from some website just so I could “finally have proof”.

Me: “[Coworker], just stop. I’m not autistic. You’re not my doctor, and you don’t know me outside of work. Stop f****** diagnosing me and stop f****** talking to me about autism. I don’t want to hear it. Just leave me the f*** alone.”

[Coworker] started crying, and I instantly felt terrible. When they went to find the supervisor, I was prepared for punishment. But surprisingly, the supervisor was sympathetic once they’d heard what was happening. They told me to just avoid [Coworker] and not talk to them, and they said they’d try to look at scheduling changes that worked around my classes.

But [Coworker] wanted me gone because I was ableist. They didn’t want me working there at all because it was now traumatic for them to see me. They didn’t want me coming on or off shift when they were there. They didn’t want to see me there if they decided to shop after work. They didn’t want me to be there.

At the time, the bookstore paid really good wages, and I was trying to get through college on just scholarships and working so I wouldn’t have to take out loans, so I really tried to stick it out and just ignore [Coworker]. I was going to move anyway to do my Master’s degree, and graduation was six months away. 

Unfortunately, [Coworker] started telling all of my other coworkers a doctored story about what had happened, painting me as ableist. The anxiety got to me, and I ended up leaving and taking a job at an art supply store that paid $3 less per hour because it was all I could find that fit my schedule. 

I graduated, moved to the city where my graduate school was, and moved on with my life. But I still get anxious when entering any store in that bookstore chain. Logically, I know [Coworker] isn’t there, but my anxiety likes to tell my brain otherwise. 

I’m sharing this story to let people know that sometimes multiple conditions can mimic other condition(s); please be understanding of people who are seeking a diagnosis or who are dealing with mental health issues. Professionals have training for a reason, and please let everyone go the path to diagnosis that’s safest and healthiest for them. It’s okay to give opinions or input if asked, but please be thoughtful about the effect your opinions can have.

“Harry Potter And The Order Of The Phoenix” has just come out. It’s the largest of the books, running over 750 pages. A frazzled-looking woman approaches me.

Customer: “This is ridiculous! This book is supposed to be for children!”

Me: “It is, ma’am.”

Customer: “But look at it! It’s huge!“

Me: “It’s a long book, but it doesn’t contain anything unsuitable for children if they’ve already enjoyed the series so far.”

Customer: “But… my kids already read too much! They’re always stuck at home, reading, reading, reading! I told them they could only read one book this summer, and you’ve gone and f****** given me a book that will take them all f****** summer to read!”

Me: “Oh… Well, most parents would be happy to have kids so into reading.”

Customer: “But they’re boys! I didn’t raise them to be little nerdy wizards! This is all your fault!”

She still — begrudgingly — purchased two copies of the book, grumbling for the whole transaction about how kids should be out playing.

Customer: “I can’t afford this book right now, but I have half the money. Could I take half the book now and pay for the other half later?”

Me: “Uh… no. That’s not possible.”

The customer then holds up the book, neatly split in half down the binding.

Customer: “Well, it seemed pretty possible to me.”

I call my manager, who bans them from the store. Later, he is moaning:

Manager: “But… how did he even rip it in half?! Did he Hulk out? And hasn’t he heard of a library?!”

I work in a small independent LGBTQIA bookstore. (It’s San Francisco!) We have a section of the store dedicated to mental health and advice on how to come out and come to terms with your feelings. We often have younger customers (teens to early twenties) come up to this section, looking nervous and not really knowing what to do.

I’m a gay American-Chinese man in my late twenties, and I see another young Chinese guy, possibly a teen, lingering in this section for a while. I come over and pretend to restack some books.

Me: “I know, it can be an overwhelming section. So many books, am I right?”

Customer: “Heh, yeah.”

Me: “Anything I can do to help you narrow it down?”

Customer: “Well… I’m… gay.”

It takes him a long time to say the sentence, and I totally relate. When I first came to terms with my sexual orientation, it was a struggle for me to say the words, “I’m gay,” out loud at first, too. There is an extended pause, and this young man then looks at me pleadingly.

Me: “That’s awesome! We can automatically rule out this entire section! You’ve come out to yourself. I’m guessing you’re now thinking you’d like to come out to someone else?”

Customer: “My mom.”

Me: “Ah, yeah. That’s a tough one, not gonna lie. Moms can be… a lot.

He actually laughs.

Customer: “Yeah.”

Me: “Chinese?”

Customer: “She’s like… super Chinese.”

Me: “How’s her English?”

Customer: “Practically zero.”

Me: “Okay… Well, I can tell you what books helped me as I was about to go on the same journey as you.”

Customer: “How did your mom react?”

Me: “I could tell you, but this journey is more for you and building up both a way for you to communicate, but also for you to be ready for whatever happens next. Her feelings are important — no doubt — but your feelings and well-being are the bigger picture here.”

Customer: “I… never thought about that. I always thought about how my mom feels.”

I show him some books that I’ve found helpful, advice on coming out, and some novels written by queer Asian-Americans who also had a tough time being accepted by their traditional families.

Customer: “I… can only really afford one of these. Which one should I buy first?”

I don’t even have to think. I give him a staff discount on the one book and tell him I will “loan” him the rest. I am willing to cover the cost of them even if he doesn’t come back.

A month later, he is back. And he isn’t alone; he comes into the store with his mother!

Customer: *In their Chinese dialect* “Mom, this is my friend I told you about.”

He tells me that last week he finished all the books and decided to come out to his mom that very same day. There were tears, there were questions, and there were moments of awkwardness, but most of all… there was relief. I talk to him now in English.

Me: “I am so glad you came back to tell me! I was wondering how it was going.”

Customer: “Yeeeeeah, I came back to tell you, but also…”

His mom then holds out some cash and starts thrusting it at me almost violently.

Customer: “…she was more upset that I only paid for one of the books. She said I can be gay, but I should never be in debt!”

My personal coming-out story was very sad and tragic. This one was the opposite and absolutely restored my faith in humanity and in my culture. 

That was over five years ago now. His mom often comes by to say hello when she is in the city and leaves me lots of food. Apparently, I am too skinny, but my heart is always full.

This story is part of the Best-Feel-Good-Stories Of-2023 roundup!

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