I never imagined that something as simple and sacred as a lunch break would become a battleground. Yet here I am—girding myself for work each day as if preparing for war. Not because of the job itself, but because of the silent, strategic, and subtle attacks waged against me by coworkers who see my peace as a threat.
There’s a bully. There’s her friend. There’s a triangulated flying monkey. And then there’s one who seems absentminded—so much so, I once gave her the benefit of the doubt. But now I’m not so sure. Whether she’s being used or playing into the toxicity willingly, I can’t tell. What I do know is that I’m the common denominator in their mobbing behaviors.
Their favorite time to ramp up their efforts? Lunch. That sacred hour I use to retreat to my car, eat in solitude, and take a short nap to reset from an overstimulating environment. I don’t bother anyone. I don’t gossip. I’m not part of the cliques. And maybe that’s the problem—they can’t control what they can’t access.
I began parking in a consistent spot, far away from the chaos, under a tree – for a little over two months. It became my refuge. I noticed early on that no one else really ate in their cars until I started doing it. At first, it felt like mimicry. Then it became surveillance. Now it feels like warfare.
They park aggressively—too close, taking up extra space, boxing me in. One in particular double and triple parks in a way that prevents me from finding shade or parking comfortably. These same individuals, who gave me the silent treatment for weeks, now appear to monitor my actions more closely than their own jobs. Their aim? Disrupt my peace. Force a reaction. Corner me into the role of “the problem” while they continue to play innocent.
But I won’t give them that satisfaction.
I’ve started going elsewhere during lunch, reclaiming my space away from their hostility. I choose shade elsewhere. I eat and rest elsewhere. I don’t need to be seen. I don’t need to “win.” I need peace. And I’m finally honoring that need, even if it means sacrificing the comfort of routine.
This isn’t just workplace drama—it’s psychological warfare. It’s the way narcissistic abuse thrives in professional environments: silently, covertly, and with plausible deniability. Parking space mind games. Synchronized isolation. Passive-aggressive movements meant to provoke a target into looking unstable.
But I see it for what it is.
They mistake my silence for weakness. They might know that I’m on the spectrum, but they don’t know about my selective mutism. They don’t care to know the effort it takes to simply exist in overstimulating spaces. But I refuse to give them access to that part of me.
I could lash out. I could speak truth that would cut deeply. But I choose not to. I choose to remain rooted in something they will never understand—inner peace. Because while they strategize on how to break me, I’ve already decided I won’t break.
I’m not playing their game.
I’m choosing wellness over war. Silence over slander. Rest over retaliation. And peace over everything.
My Voice Unchained 