Me: “Ma’am, do you have the keys for the vehicle?”

Customer: “Well, my ex threw them in the ocean. So, no, I don’t have the keys.”

Me: “Oh, dear.”

(I regularly wrangle carts for my job at a local discount grocery store. The storefront is on the left side of a T-shaped intersection in the parking lot, with long lines of parking spaces parallel to the storefronts of the surrounding strip mall. In the middle of a rainy spring day, I am wrestling with a stack of six uncooperative carts when this dude in a red 90s Thunderbird comes flying down the corridor from the main surface street. He turns left at the T, but stops halfway through the intersection. Several slower-moving cars end up stacked behind him, and several more on the other side of the intersection. And there I am, pinned to the corner, trying not to block the other lane with the carts. The man in the Thunderbird just sits there, calmly smoking a cigarette.)

Lady: *in the car next to me* “Could you see what the hold up is?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am.”

(I walk to the front of my carts, a few yards from the Thunderbird. The window is rolled down.)

Me: “Excuse me, sir. Why are you stopped here? You’re blocking the intersection.”

Thunderbird Guy: “I’m waiting to get that there spot.”

(He gestures to a spot opposite the front of the store, where a little old lady has just arrived at her car and has not even begun to unload her full cart, and anyone watching would have surmised it would take her a few minutes to do so.)

Me: “Sir, there’s a lot of people stuck behind you. Could you please choose another spot, so the intersection can clear?”

(There are literally dozens of other parking spaces further down the lot.)

Thunderbird Guy: “Ugh. Can’t you people just go around me?”

Me: “No, sir, that would block the other lane, and that would be unsafe.”

(People have been known to drive recklessly in that parking lot, and I don’t want to chance an accident.)

Thunderbird Guy: “Unsafe? HA!”

(The Thunderbird guy sniggered and ignored me for the next five to ten minutes until the old lady finally pulled out of her spot. He finally went into my store to shop. About 30 minutes later, I came in from my cart shift to see the man checking out. Although I didn’t hear what happened, one of our cashiers told him something and he stormed out, leaving a full cart of groceries behind. I later found out he’d tried to purchase $220 worth of groceries with an expired and empty EBT card. Although it hadn’t crossed my mind at the time, there was decal on the red Thunderbird’s rear window of a skeletal hand with outstretched middle finger. That probably should have given me a clue.)

(I am 12, and I have scoliosis. This causes the spine to bend in unnatural ways and can even lead to full paralysis. I am lucky; my doctors catch it at an early curve, and I am moved to a specialized hospital where I undergo corrective surgery. Much of the family comes to visit, some of whom I’m not a fan of, specifically my older brother. During my time in the ICU just after surgery, I am hooked up to a press-button mechanism which delivers pain-killing meds to my system with an audible beep. While in the ICU I am constantly exhausted, surrounded by family and being annoyed by nurses and doctors. One day, I’ve had enough. I’ve been suffering traumatic nightmares and hallucinations, which leaves me spiteful, this morning especially. I have also forgotten that the machine which gives me medicine has a tendency to beep. My family walks in, led by the head nurse.)

Nurse: *gently* “[My Name], wake up; your family’s here!”

Me: *groans and glares at family*

My Brother: *teasingly* “So, [My Name], how are you feeling today?”

Me: *glares some more, presses button*

Machine: *BEEP*

Me: *startled and confused* “Huh?”

My Family: *laughs*

Dad: “Well, I guess that answers that question!”

(I couldn’t help but laugh, myself.)

(I work at a casino, and currently I’m working at the cashier cage. Each cage has only one of my position at any time, so break times aren’t usually important, since nobody ever needs to cover me. Because of this, I usually take my lunch pretty late in my shift. One day I get called into the office by my manager, who tells me that I need to take my lunch exactly four hours into my shift, since my late lunches are disrupting everyone else. I agree and go back to work. However, the very next day, I call to go to my lunch right on time, getting the same manager.)

Me: “Hey, I’m going to take my lunch.”

Manager: “Oh, can you wait 20 minutes? We’re busy over here, and can’t send someone else over there.”

Me: “What? Nobody needs to cover me, and you just yelled at me for taking my lunch late.”

Manager: “Well, I still need you to wait. Call back in 20 minutes!” *hangs up*

(I wound up waiting almost two hours to take my lunch, which was the time I was taking them before. After that, I just kept taking my lunches at the same time, and my manager never said another word.)

(When I was younger, my mother had a whole slew of mental issues that she wasn’t seeking help for, such as OCD and anger issues. It was really difficult growing up, having to walk over eggshells practically everyday. As a result, I grew up very reserved and anxious about everything. A HUGE deal we had was over public transportation. If, for whatever reason, we had to take public transportation, as soon as we came home, we were to take all our clothes off and immediately throw it in the washer. However, during high school, I had to depend on public transportation more frequently. My mother didn’t trust me to do my laundry when it came to the “bus clothes” and didn’t even allow me to put it into the hamper with the other “normal dirty clothes,” so I had no choice but leave it on my floor, in the corner of my room, for her to pick up when she could. However, during this particular incident, she is going through a depressive period where she doesn’t do her regular chores, so my clothing starts to pile up. It’s Monday.)

Mom: “What’s wrong with you?”

Me: “What?”

Mom: “Look at all the clothing on the floor!”

Me: “But that’s the ‘bus clothes.'”

Mom: “I KNOW THAT! Why did you make it so messy?”

(When I get home, I immediately just throw my clothing off and jump into the shower, as we’ve always done.)

Me: “I’m sorry. I can fold them if—”

Mom: “No, NO! Don’t! They’re dirty! Don’t even touch it; I’ll deal with it later.”

(She doesn’t get to it and another day goes by.)

Mom: “[My Name], what did I tell you about your clothes?”

Me: “Well, I tried to fold the ones I took off today and—”

Mom: “NO FOLDING!”

Me: “I just did it for today’s clothes!”

Mom: “No, just… just take them off as fast as you can, but neater, but don’t handle them so much to fold them!”

Me: “I can wash them if it’s too much. I can wash my normal clothes and put on gloves for these and—”

Mom: “NO! You don’t know how! You won’t clean them right!” *starts crying*

(Some variation of this conversation happens for the rest of the school week, where I attempt or offer to do something better but only seem to upset her more. On Friday, however, I’m exhausted from school and something finally snaps in me.)

Mom: “I just wished there was a better way—”

Me: “What. Do. You. Want. Me. To. Do?”

Mom: “…”

Me: “What do you actually want me to do?”

Mom: “…”

Me: “Do you want me to put the pile in a box?”

Mom: “No!”

Me: “I can wash—”

Mom: “NO.”

Me: “Then what, Mom? What do you want me to do?”

Mom: “…”

(It was at that moment it started to sink in that I’d essentially talked back to my mother, and I braced for the eruption of shouting, slammed doors, flipped tables, and broken dishes that usually happened when something triggered an angry episode, but to my surprise she just turned around and walked away. No shouting, no panic attack, nothing. I saw her curled up in the couch later on, not in a depressive daze like usual, but in contemplative thought. For a while, I thought I had cracked the code; when there was something she was bothered with about me, I would “talk back” by directly asking what she wanted me to do, and she would just go quiet, and change the subject or drop the topic completely. It didn’t work all the time, but it was the closest I felt to being “rebellious” towards her. Thankfully, when I went to college, she sought more professional help for all her problems, and through candid conversations between us as adults, I came to realize that those times I would “talk back” were times I was trying to engage in, or practice, direct communication. However, since she had never learned to put her emotions into words, it usually threw her off and made her uncomfortable. She’s doing much better now, and although I acknowledge that I grew up in a toxic environment with her, I’ve pretty much forgiven her, and am still in contact with her to this day. I’ve been fortunate that my school has an awesome counseling center that I shoved myself into from day one of freshman year, and I’ve decided to pursue a degree in psychology to help other people like my mother and myself out.)