Re-framing the Narrative- The Grocery Meltdown

Sympathy is to feel bad for someone from a distance. Empathy is to place yourself in their position and feel their pain.

I try to be empathetic to Jack’s struggles, but it’s difficult when at times I can’t even begin to imagine what he’s feeling or how he’s seeing the world. There have been times where I misread his feelings or become stuck in my own view of a situation, causing friction between us. To help with this, I practice with re-framing the situation. For example:

We had ordered our groceries online. It’s convenient and cuts down on the stress of shopping in a crowded grocery store. Our groceries were to be delivered that morning while I was at work, so Jack stayed home to wait for them.

About an hour after the scheduled delivery time, I got an email from Jack. The groceries hadn’t been delivered and he was asking if I had heard from the grocery store. I checked my phone, which had been on silent, and saw the store had called me, instead of Jack, trying to deliver the groceries to our apartment building. I called the store to ask if our groceries were available. They said they could be picked up at the store. I relayed this to Jack and went back to work, thinking of it all as a minor inconvenience.

Some time later, I received another email from Jack. He. Was. Livid. Apparently there had been some sort of altercation between him and one of the clerks.

Fuck.

I tried calling Jack to see if the groceries were still at the the store or if he had brought them home.

No answer.

God forbid you pick up your phone.

I went on my break and drove home, my frustration growing with each mile.

Jack was sitting at his computer and didn’t move or speak when I walked in.

“What happened?”

Without looking at me, he told me that the sales associate he spoke with accused us of writing down the wrong phone number to call. That it couldn’t have been their fault.

“So, I told him to keep his fucking groceries and go to hell.”

Jack shrugged and turned back to his computer. I stood there a moment, taking it all in.

How could he just sit there like that? I was using my break from work to clean up his mess and he can’t even apologize? I felt like crying and screaming all at the same time.

“You know. . .” I began to croak out, “This isn’t how I wanted to spend my break.”

He turned to look at me.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said in a flat voice, shaking his head and turning back to the computer.

I went into the bedroom and, putting on my best customer service voice, called the grocery store to confirm the groceries were still there. I left to pick them up without saying a word.

At the store, I asked to speak to the sales associate whom Jack had yelled at. He looked young and dumb. I wanted to slap him, but instead I apologized for what had happened, explained the situation, and thanked him for holding our groceries.

When I got into my car to leave, I noticed the time. I wasn’t going to make it back to work in time. I called the office.

“I’m sorry, I’m running a bit late. I had to put out a fire, but I will be back,” I explained.

“I hope it’s not a literal fire,” my coworker quipped.

Nearly.

After arriving home, I began dragging  bags up to our 2nd floor apartment. Without saying a word, Jack began helping. Before setting his first load of bags down, he snapped his head at me.

“You didn’t apologize to him, did you?” he snapped.

“Of course not,” I lied.

I went back to work without saying a word.

I sat at my desk and stewed. Why did I  have to be the one who kept it together? Why did I have to clean up his messes? Why couldn’t he have just kept his shit together long enough to get the groceries? 

An email from Jack.

I eagerly clicked on it, expecting him to have reflected on the situation and realize he overreacted and apologize.

I’m having a hard time expressing myself, but I’m feeling. . .betrayed? You didn’t even ask me if I was okay.

What?

I felt like I was going to vomit. I was angry at him and angry at myself for hurting him.

I went home early. As I got to our floor, I saw Jack locking the apartment door. He looked right through me.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice quiet and monotone.

“I wanted to talk.”

“I’m going to help my cousin with something,” he said, then, turned and walked away.

I went inside our apartment and cried. How did this happen? How did a little inconvenience get so out of control? Unable to reconcile, I started doing research to try and understand.

That’s when I found My PTSD.com, a large forum for both sufferers of PTSD and for supporters. There, I found a video explaining why PTSD sufferers may react so defensively in a situation that a neurotypical person may see as insignificant.

At the grocery store, Jack felt attacked and trapped, so he entered fight or flight mode and he fought back.

Then, he felt attacked by me.

I realized that my narrative of the situation was worlds apart from his. Once I was able to re-frame it, I realized something very important:

I fucked up.

Jack and I talked later that night and reconciled. He acknowledged he had put me in a tough position and I apologized for how I had reacted.

When you love someone who isn’t neurotypical, it can be hard to understand how they’re feeling or why they do the things they do. It’s important to accept that you will fuck up. But it’s okay, as long as you try to understand and be better.