(My mother has OCD and is a narcissist. Growing up in a house run by that joyous combination motivated me out the door and into my own apartment very quickly. However, I’m still very close with my dad, so I do invite him over when the mood strikes. And though I only invited him, I obviously meant to invite my mother, as well, so she happily waltzes in before him without bothering to check first. And given that I’m her son, obviously my apartment is hers to do with as she pleases. So, by the time she’s gone, everything has been moved around. I don’t notice this right away because my head doesn’t recover from the earfuls of, “How dare you try to keep this a secret from me!” that preceded all of this. Eventually, my girlfriend and I get serious enough to live together, and not too long after, my dad swings by to celebrate my birthday, complete with my mother to show him the way. Despite my numerous explanations meant to avert this, among my birthday gifts is a shouting match between that two women on the concept of “boundaries” and “respect” that I thought would have answered why my dad and I try to hide these meetings from her. But then my mother insists that I’m an idiot since my apartment is never organized. The morning after, I get the bonus of explaining how my mother’s mind works to my girlfriend as we try to figure out what my mother did. It starts in the kitchen.)

Girlfriend: *groans* “Your mom was in the fridge.”

Me: “Look for the ketchup and mustard. She might have thrown them out.”

Girlfriend: “Why?”

Me: “She doesn’t like them, so obviously they belong in the garbage.”

(Thankfully, she didn’t throw them out this time.)

Girlfriend: “Does she not like turkey breast, either?”

Me: “Right side of the deli bin.”

Girlfriend: “But that’s where she put the cheeses. Shouldn’t it be on the left with the meats?”

Me: “She doesn’t read the labels; she just looks at the contents through the bags. Turkey breast is white, so it’s a cheese.”

(She finds the turkey breast was right where I said it was.)

Girlfriend: “Why are the Golden Grahams mixed in with all the different Cheerios?”

Me: “The box is yellow; therefore, it’s regular Cheerios. The actual Cheerios go bad sooner, so they’re on the left.”

(And later on, while she’s in the bathroom doing her hair…)

Girlfriend: “Why is my birth control in the trash?”

Me: “Probably down the toilet.”

Girlfriend: “What?! Why?!”

Me: “She wants to be a grandmother.”

Girlfriend: “Did she throw away your condoms before?”

Me: “No, she just poked holes in them.”

(Thankfully, I caught that one before any damage was done.)

Girlfriend: “She’s never allowed over again!”

Me: “She wasn’t allowed over last night. If you can keep her out, I’m on board.”

(Years later, we’re still not having any luck getting rid of my mother non-violently. And despite that, for some reason, this has girl still decided to marry me.)

When I was going to college at a commuter campus, there was one semester that, due to tight finances, I was stuck driving an old car. It had a recurring problem where the engine would randomly die while idling. I was working on getting money together to get a more reliable car, but in the meantime I had to use this one.

Usually, when the engine died, it would start right up again without issue, but every once in a while it would take several minutes of letting the engine sit before I could get it started again.

One time I was on my way to class, sitting at a red light at a busy intersection, when the engine died. Unfortunately, it did not start up again right away, and I knew I was going to be stuck there for a bit. I immediately put on my emergency flashers while trying to gesture to the lady in the car behind me that she would have to go around. The light turned green, and the lady started honking at me and angrily gesturing for me to move. I frantically tried to start the car again, hoping I could at least get it going enough to pull up on the curb and out of the way.

While I was doing this, I saw a woman who was parked nearby get out of her car, walk up to the lady behind me, and angrily shout, “You dumb b****! Can’t you see he’s having a problem with his car? GO THE F*** AROUND!”

The lady squealed her tires in doing so. The woman who did the shouting then came up to my window and in the kindest, sweetest voice asked if I was okay. I told her that I just needed to try to get my car moving enough to get it out of traffic. She said, “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Just do what you have to do. I’ve got your back!”

I thanked her profusely, and finally managed to get the car moving long enough to pull it into a parking lot where I could wait for a tow truck. That turned out to be the last time that car worked right, and I ended up getting a replacement soon after.

While I definitely wouldn’t have handled the situation the same way that woman did, it was an amazing feeling to have a stranger so fiercely watching out for me!

(We have a service we offer in which, if you buy a mattress from us, we will remove and dispose of your old mattress for $25. My coworker is speaking to a customer who has purchased this service and is expecting delivery tomorrow.)

Customer: “So, I paid for you guys to come take my old mattress…”

Coworker: “Yes, sir?”

Customer: “I’ve decided I want to bring my old mattress to my daughter’s house.”

Coworker: “Oh, okay. So, would you like to cancel the $25 removal and have a refund?”

Customer: “No, I want you to take the old mattress to my daughter’s house.”

Coworker: “Unfortunately, our delivery team can’t do that. They can bring you the mattress you ordered, and if you would like, they can take your old mattress away for disposal. They can’t deliver your personal item to someone else.”

Customer: “No, I paid you $25 to take my old mattress, and I want you to take it to my daughter’s house!”

Coworker: “Sir, the $25 charge is to dispose of your old mattress. If you do not want us to do that, we can refund you, but we can not deliver your belongings to another residence.”

Customer: “Well, I will just tell the delivery people when they get here.”

Coworker: “Sir, the delivery team does not offer that service. You can ask them, but they will most likely refuse, and they would be well within policy by doing so.”

Customer: “That’s ridiculous! I don’t think you know how to do your job!”

Coworker: “Sir, if you would like to speak to a supervisor I can transfer you.”

Customer: “Yeah, right… You’re just going to pass me to someone sitting next to you.”

(My coworker turned her head to the side and saw that the person sitting nearest to her was the supervisor, and we both burst out laughing. The conversation went on for another ten minutes before the customer gave up.)

I have a learning disability. I can’t hear out of my left ear — single-sided deafness — and have Dysgraphia, so my written grammar is out of wrack. I understand the rules, but when I write in silence, it gets to be unreadable.

In college, I have to show proof of my disability — provided by the disability services at our school — that outlines what my disability is and what I need to help minimize it. For me, I need to take my written tests on a computer, I need additional time, and I need someone to review my papers before I submit them. I give teachers and professors proof that I wrote what I wrote, and ensure them that I received no outside help.

I am studying abroad on a ship. We go to classes on the ship while it is at sea. When we land in different countries, we don’t have classes for five days, but instead, we have that time to explore another culture. It advocates diversity and understanding of other people that are different.

I get into the program and manage to get a discount as a work-study student! I make sure to provide the program with my disability information, and they claim to have received it when I check before I leave, so I am ready to go. Since calling on international waters and going online will cost an arm and a leg, I don’t want to use the precious minutes I’ve bought for working out paperwork.

After the orientation I go to the person who is head of the disability program; he is the program’s assistant dean. I tell him that I am learning-disabled and need the proof to give to the professors of my classes, to provide them with the information before any papers and tests are due. He claims that he never received it, and that I need to contact my school to send it to the program. I insist that I sent it over and that they told me before I left that they received it.

He sighs, goes to open up my records, scans them, and gives me a skeptical look. He asks how I could be a learning disabled student, since I am a work-study student, my recommendation letters to the program say I’m a very responsible and hardworking student, and I have 3.2 GPA at my college. Most importantly he wants to know how I got into a state college and into this program if I’m learning-disabled. I keep on pushing and explaining, and he just shrugs his shoulders, refusing to believe or help me. I go to the head dean, and he says that is out of his hands and he can’t do anything.

So, at a loss, I decide to speak to my professors directly. After going to the first three out of four professors, getting the same exact reaction as the assistant dean, one of them insists that I need to use the blue book and hand write my work, because using a computer would not be fair to other students. I decide not to mention things to my last professor, knowing that he and his wife are big-wigs for this program, and figuring that they won’t understand and will have the same reaction and responses as others.

I decide to suck it up.

After a few weeks, the first papers and tests are due. I’ve done my best, used the Microsoft Word program, and tried to proofread on my own work. I submit it and hope for the best, but I don’t expect much. I get my results returned, and as expected, I get Ds. The majority of the complaints say, “I can’t understand what you wrote.” I sigh, knowing I can’t do anything.

The professor I didn’t talk to about my problems asks me to stay after class. He’s noticed that I made lots of grammatical errors, and says that he knows that I know the information based on how I participated in class, and that he saw me do the reading. He asks if I have ever been tested for a disability.

I break down crying, and in between sobs explain to him what happened, how fearful I am that I’m going to flunk out on my tests and papers, and how I don’t want to be kicked out of the program that I worked so hard to reach. He waits for me to calm down. Then he tells me that it is okay and that he will do something about it, to give it a day or two, and not to worry about this paper from him.

The next day I get called by the assistant dean of the program all of a sudden, and he says that even though they never received the notification, he will make an exception for me and provide the proof that I need for my professors. My three other professors suddenly offer proofreading services or opportunities to take the exams orally or write them out on a computer, and agree to bump up my test and paper grades to Cs because I wasn’t adequately provided for my learning disability.  

I am shocked at the sudden change of attitude, and in trying to process what has happened, I leave the classrooms in a daze.

I bump into the professor before his class starts, and he asked me if I spoke to the other professors and the assistant dean. I nod, telling him that I’m uncomfortable with my grade being bumped. He says that I should take it because it’s their fault for not believing me in the first place. So, I ask what changed their minds.

It turns out that his wife has a doctorate for Special Education! Apparently, all three other professors and assistant dean hit a nerve of hers with their treatment of me. So, she and my professor personally complained for me, and said the magic words that I could sue the program for discrimination, as I was not provided an equal level of education to others. The argument was also made that that they were being prejudicial against people with learning disabilities and not understanding people that are different from them, directly opposite what the program was supposed to encourage.

The professor then tells me that his wife will gladly check for grammatical errors on my papers, and that if I need any additional services I can contact her at any time.

I thank him so much, and I’m in deep gratitude for rest of the program. Even though I still feel uncomfortable with the bump in the grade to this day, the professor did have a point that it was their fault for not believing me, and for their prejudgments about people with learning disabilities that we are all lazy, irresponsible, and slow.

A few years ago, I was having some issues with irregular periods and had to have my first pelvic exam. It was something I had avoided for a long time, because even the idea of it put me in a panic. My mom suggested I go to her gynecologist, and I agreed, largely because she was a woman and I refused to do it with a male doctor.

So, the day of the appointment finally came and I was a nervous wreck over it, actually nearly throwing up at times. But I went and met with a nurse first, and she put me a tiny bit more at ease.

But not for long. I was taken into the exam room and handed a “gown” to change into. I was told to have it open in the front, but it didn’t even come close to fitting me, so I was practically naked. If I pulled it as tight as I could around me, there were still at least six inches of skin uncovered across my chest, stomach, and lap. Then, the doctor didn’t come in for over half an hour, and at that point I was crying out of anxiety. When she finally came in, she asked if a student shadowing her could sit in, and I’m glad now I said yes.

The doctor began by rather aggressively checking my breasts while she started singing the opening lines to the song Do-Re-Mi from The Sound of Music, “Let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start.” She explained by telling me she had a two-year-old grandson who could only be calmed down by The Sound of Music when he was worked up, and she thought maybe it would help me, too. I was speechless.

I’m not sure why she thought it was a good idea to compare a grown woman having an anxiety attack to a tantrum-throwing toddler, but I’m still offended. The rest of the exam was relatively uneventful, with the student talking to me and holding my hand through much of it. I’ve promised myself that I will not let this experience scare me away from potentially necessary medical care in the future. But The Sound of Music is completely ruined for me forever.