“It Was the Lighting. And the Stir-Fry. And Capitalism.”
It started with the lighting.
You know the kind—fluorescent, soulless, hums like a nervous breakdown with a dimmer switch.
Like a gas station bathroom had a baby with a haunted hospital hallway.
Then the music kicked in.
One of those upbeat trauma bangers.
The kind that used to play in your ex’s car when love still felt like a safe bet.
Suddenly, “Walking on Sunshine” felt more like “Melting in Hell.”
I took a breath.
Mistake.
Then the cart squeaked.
One wheel. One demon wheel.
Dragging me sideways into emotional collapse like it was auditioning for the role of “Final Straw.”
I was fine.
Until I wasn’t.
There I stood, wedged between the frozen peas and the judgmental bag of “Stir-Fry for One,”
when my nervous system hit Ctrl+Alt+F*ck This.
Tight chest.
Buzzing ears.
Vision doing that tunnel thing like my brain hit the escape hatch while my body stayed behind to finish the shopping.
I crouched.
Not for the produce.
For the shame. For the spiraling. For survival.
A guy walked by—khakis, ball cap, buying beans.
He looked at me like I was browsing for pain instead of pasta.
Said, “You okay?”
I nodded.
He nodded back like we were in a club.
The “Collapsed in Public but Still Polite” club.
And just kept walking. Sir. I am on the floor. By the f*cking edamame.
That’s the thing about panic attacks.
They don’t care what you had on your list.
They don’t care about your affirmations, your morning meditation,
or the fact that all you wanted was frozen waffles and a new toothbrush.
They just drop in.
Like unwanted exes or extended warranties.
And when it’s over?
There’s no credits.
No dramatic swelling of music.
Just you, sweating in your hoodie, paying for groceries with shaky hands and trauma in your cart.
The cashier smiled.
Asked how my day was going.
“Good,” I lied, with the kind of laugh that says, ‘I just sobbed next to the tater tots.’”
I left.
Sat in my car.
Turned off the engine.
And laughed until I almost cried again.
Because honestly?
If I can survive a breakdown in aisle 6 under the cold glow of capitalism and trauma lighting—
I can survive anything.
And now?
I shop online.
With headphones.
And emotional support snacks.
Panic Attack at the Grocery Store: A Memoir
The peas were loud, the cart was hell,
My chest said “nope,” my brain rebelled.
The checkout beep became a scream,
And frozen food warped into meme.
But I survived, then wrote it down,
Made aisle 6 my nervous crown.
Now meltdowns come with club card grace—
And courage wears a produce face.
—The Funny Phoenix, aisle dancing through anxiety
