(After working at my location for over three years, I have been diagnosed with an anxiety condition. I try not to have any problems at work, but this particular night, management has not been able to control employees and due to how busy it is, I am unable to catch up on the things I need to do. I am finally triggered into a full panic attack after a customer makes fun of the way I talk. I text my best friend and my mom, who says she’ll come to get me.)

Mom: *stands at the counter*

Manager: “Oh, Mrs. [Last Name], what can I get for you?”

Mom: *points to the back, where I am*

Me: *comes up from the back, shaking, visibly pale, and having been crying*

Manager: “Oh, my! [My Name], go home. Go home. Don’t worry about anything over here. GO HOME.” *turns on headset* “[Coworker #1], go cover the hole!”

(I go home and calm down. The next day, the general manager is the manager on duty. I go to talk to her about what happened the previous day to see if everything is all right. When I get there, the general manager is yelling at [Coworker #2].)

General Manager: “You should know better than to just up and leave early! You left us short-handed!”

Coworker #2: *sees me* “But she—” *points at me* “Left early yesterday!”

General Manager: *shakes her head* “[Coworker #2], [My Name] has a reputation for doing her work, unlike you. You need to grow up and stop blaming her for what you did. You left without a manager telling you that you could go.”

Coworker #2: *leaves*

Me: “Um, sorry about last night.”

General Manager: “Don’t worry about it. [Coworker #3] was coming in about an hour after you left, so he came in an hour early to cover you. We were fine until [Coworker #2] heard and decided to leave.”

(The entire shift, [Coworker #2] glared at me while other coworkers told me how they handled with their own anxiety attacks.)

(This happens inside an upscale supermarket attached to an assisted care facility. I am waiting for the elevator on my way to the coffee shop on the second floor.)

Old Woman: “You don’t live here, do you?”

Me: “No, ma’am.”

Old Woman: “The stairs are right over there.”

Me: “So I noticed.”

Old Woman: “So, why aren’t you taking them?”

Me: “Because I don’t feel like it.”

Old Woman: “These elevators are for the people who really need them!”

Me: “I’m awaiting hip-replacement surgery. Is that needy enough for you? By the way, are these your elevators?”

Old Woman: “Well, no…”

Me: “GOOD!” 

(I get on the elevator, push the button, and say, as the doors are closing…)

Me: “This one is mine! Yours will be along in a second. Bye!”

(Earlier last year, I was struck by a car while in a crosswalk. I came out of it none the worse for wear, though I managed to break my leg, leaving me in a cast for close to three months while various parts of the bone and tendons finally healed. I managed to get around pretty well on crutches, but sometimes this would get tiring when I’d go shopping. This little incident happens at one of the local grocery stores. Heading in with my friend to pick up some needed things around the house, I take one of those mobility scooters and place my crutches where I can get to them. With that done, I head into the store to do the shopping. I’ve put five or six things in the basket when I am approached by a young clerk and a woman.)

Clerk: “You’re going to have to get out of the chair.”

Me: “Uh… Why?”

Clerk: “That’s for people who are disabled; this lady needs it.”

Me: “Then she can get one out front. I can’t exactly walk.”

Clerk: “I don’t care.”

(He starts moving my stuff into a buggy and reaches for my crutches.)

Me: *almost in tears* “I can’t walk, mate. I’m in a cast.”

Clerk: “You need to get out.”

(The woman has this smug look on her face the whole time, even as I manhandle my cast over and struggle up onto the crutches. I am in tears by this point. Leaving the cart where it is, I hobble up front, passing my friend on the way. He sees me upset and “walking,” so he wants to know what’s going on. I tell him we need to see the manager right then and there, but won’t explain. The manager comes out of his office, sees me upset, and quickly helps me into a chair, wanting to know what’s wrong and if he needs to call EMT services or something for me. I explain to him why I’m upset, what happened, and how I can’t shop there any longer. To put it simply, he is LIVID. He quickly calls the clerk up front and says:)

Manager: “I want your side of this. Now, let me get this straight. Did you eject this customer, who obviously has a broken leg, from a mobility cart so someone else could ride it?”

Clerk: “It’s a fa—“

Manager: “I want a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer.”

Clerk: “But… fine. Yeah. So what? He can walk.”

Manager: “Walk? Oh, you mean hobble around in pain? Yeah, I suppose he can do that. You’re going to be walking, too. You’re fired. Now gather your crap, and I don’t want to ever see you in my store again. Got it?”

(The clerk muttered something and sulked out. The manager asked where I’d left my buggy, and if I could identify the woman that took the cart. I did the best I could on both counts. He told me to just rest in the chair with my foot up while he would make things right. His store wasn’t about to be remembered for such behavior. About fifteen minutes later, he returned, everything in the cart bagged, and told us to take it as compensation for the trouble. He even helped me out to the car. As we left, I noticed the woman sulking outside, complaining that she was disabled, and how dare they bar her from using the mobility carts. I still shop there regularly, and the manager makes it a point to always ask how I’m doing and if there’s anything I need. I’ve also seen the lady there twice, and both times she is staring rather forlornly at the carts. A sign above them reads, “The management reserves the right to remove you from these carts if it is determined you are NOT eligible for them.”)

I’m in the store shopping when I stop to tie my shoe. When I look up to stand back up, there is a child staring at me, standing within spitting distance. She looks sickly, so I’m about to ask her if she needs help, when she very suddenly and violently sneezes directly into my open eyes and all over the rest of my face. I look like Bill Murray in Ghostbusters when he got slimed, but only on my face. The kid runs off, and I’m left gagging.

I then later got pink eye in both eyes and a bad case of strep throat. Thanks, kid. And thanks, mom, for bringing your sick kid into the store.

(I’m 15 and doing compulsory work experience at a supermarket near my house. The school organised the placement for me, as I was off school due to appendicitis. I’ve been diagnosed with ADHD since I was twelve; I take a dose of medication in the morning, and a tiny dose around lunchtime. The manager — who has made it very clear that she doesn’t like me — sees me taking the half-tablet during my lunch break. She storms over and grabs the pill bottle from me and starts reading the label…)

Manager: *after reading the “controlled drug” warning on the bottle* “I’m calling the police, and your school.”

Me: *dumbfounded* “What?”

Manager: “You’re taking illegal drugs. Where’d you even get this from?”

Me: “It’s not illegal with a prescription, and my neurologist prescribed it to me for ADHD.”

Manager: “You don’t have ADHD. You’re just saying that.”

Me: *getting over this crap* “You know what? I don’t care. I have my school ID with my picture and my name on it, and that’s proof enough that the bottle’s mine, and that I’m taking it by prescription.”

(My thinking is that I don’t care if she calls the school as they have my meds on record, and if she calls the police I can give them the number to my neurologist’s rooms.)

Manager: *smugly* “Well, then, I will. Even if these are your pills, you should know not to carry this many around with you at once.” *there’s only half a tablet left in the bottle*

(She called my school first and they explained everything to her, so the police weren’t called, thankfully. But my school sent me an email saying not to go back in to the work experience. How could someone be stupid enough to not even read that my NAME was on the bottle? I guess she just really didn’t like me for some reason.)