"Are you sure you can handle this job?"

She'd asked me, stirring her coffee, leaning against the counter next to the McCafé machines behind the glass.

She was a regular customer, and chummy enough with my managers that I suspected they'd known each other from contexts outside the Mars Hill Road McDonald's.

She was friendly, calling me by name and gently teasing me about my soft-spoken nature. I knew she meant well.

As a quiet, socially-defunct person, working behind the counter presented challenges. (Then again, working the McDonald's counter presents challenges no matter who you are.)

I'd hoped they'd put me in the back grilling nuggets and throwing sandwiches together. But no. Front Counter Girl I became.

So I bit the bullet and did my best at a job that went against every single effing atom in my being. Speaking to total strangers. Making eye contact. Struggling, in vain, to appear as a kindly, well-meaning, neurotypical human. As one does.

And ultimately, I did better than I'd thought I would.

Every time someone walked up to my register, the fear rose up in my chest. Here we go again.

Then I swallowed that fear, and took their order and did all the things a counter girl's supposed to do, punching buttons, handing back their change and receipt, scrambling between the different stations during a rush, cleaning trays and tables and replacing straws/napkins/lids during a lull. Because it was my job. And that's what you do. Terrifying, but I muddled through.

Now, I know it's just McDonald's, not rocket science. Possibly among the lowest of the low as far as jobs go. It gets incredibly hectic and sometimes stressful, but almost anyone can get hired there. (Case in point: I did.)

So when this well-meaning woman asked me if I was sure I could really handle this job, I let it roll off me and forgot about it by the end of my shift.

But later, it nagged me. Are you sure you can handle this job?

No offense, but really, lady? I can't even be a freaking McDonald's worker? I can't even do this pathetic (in society's eyes), 7.50 an hour job?

I've experienced this type of underestimation so many times. And I think being underestimated is simply a part of life (especially if you're young or female). And it usually doesn't drag me down too much, because I know who I am and I believe in my potential.

But here's the thing. I've struggled with communication for over half my life. In fifth grade, I stopped speaking almost altogether. I was able to talk with certain family members, but not much more than that. This was not by choice.

At the time, I was diagnosed with a condition called Selective Mutism (SM), which is when a person gets so overwhelmed with anxiety that they physically cannot speak. Physically cannot.

That said, like many people with anxiety and communication difficulties, my issues stemmed largely from trauma. While many SM resources will tell you that SM does not originate from trauma, I say it absolutely can. It doesn't always, but it can. I'll also say that "trauma" as a term can be wide-ranging.

I've come a long way from fifth grade. I talk now. Yippee. And I've gotten much better at it in recent years as well.

SM was my first diagnosis, but I also struggled with mental health issues (as perhaps most people do to an extent) and a learning disability. Then on two different occasions I was diagnosed with Asperger's Disorder (an autism spectrum disorder).

That said... I personally don't live or die by labels. I stopped caring about diagnoses years ago. (Though I realize not everyone has the luxury of doing that, and I know that many other conditions are more cut-and-dry than mine.)

At the end of the day, I basically just consider myself am extremely socially-anxious person with a touch of autism. But I know what it's like to have trouble functioning in society. People don't understand how important communication is until you lose your voice.

When you look like a "normal person" on the outside, and then someone asks you a question, and you open your mouth to respond, and you can't speak without fidgeting or playing with your hair or clutching onto something, anything, for security. You simply can't hide the fear, and your voice comes out quiet and uncertain.

And you can't smile at them, even if you want to. Your face is like a stone. And the only words you can spit out are the ones already programmed into your weirdo robot brain.

And then it registers on their face, that there's something wrong with you. Or they just think that you're cold and unfriendly.

Your insides and your outsides don't match up. And it wears you down.

Human interaction is a real trip.

And it hurts to feel like a creepy weirdo. An alien. Like you're less than human. When you know you're a "normal person" on the inside, but that's not what others see, and that's not how they treat you.

I'm generally conflicted over whether to consider myself as one who has a disability. I think while others' experiences shouldn't invalidate my own, how fair is it to think of myself as disabled in some way, when other disabled individuals have it much harder? I am an able-bodied person, and my mind mostly works okay, so what reason do I have to complain?

But then I think about all the struggles I've had with my communication difficulties and with my brain, and I think a disability becomes a disability when it interferes with your ability to function in the world on a regular basis. Which includes Asperger's and other significant communication issues. And I'd say mental illness as well, when it's chronic.

I've had a great life and probably shouldn't complain, but at the same time, technically speaking, yeah, what I've dealt with is a disability. And to ask someone (who's doing okay at their job after all) if they can handletheir minimum wage McDonald's job, is ableist as hell.

Would you say something like that to someone in a wheelchair? Of course not.

Would you say that to a deaf or hearing-impaired person? No way.

(That said, I don't mean to compare my struggles to someone else's, especially not someone physically disabled, as I've never experienced that and don't claim to know what that's like.)

Obviously that woman knew nothing about me, and since I "pass" as an able-bodied/able-minded person most of the time, she probably didn't think about what she was saying. Just a simple ignorant comment that slipped out, because I'm not the greatest McDonald's counter girl, to say the least.*

Still. Invisible disabilities abound. Be careful what you say. There is always so much more beneath the surface.

Disabled people can function in society. And be successful.

Quiet, socially awkward people can function in society. And be successful.

We can live full lives.

*Apologies if I ever screwed up your McDonald's order.