On a Lunch Break - The Things We Do!

The other day, during a lunch break from work, I found myself seated in an inner-city food court, surrounded by the usual hustle and bustle. Before my ADHD diagnosis, I’d done this countless times—grabbing some cheap and nasty Asian takeaway, feeling momentarily satisfied. But there was always something else, something I couldn’t quite name back then—a creeping sense of overwhelm that would settle in afterward. Now, I understand it was overstimulation.

The bright lights, flashing signage, overlapping conversations, the squeak of trolley wheels, screaming kids, crying babies, people laughing, gossiping about someone in the office—it all blended into a chaotic, inescapable wall of noise.

Back then, my response was almost automatic. I’d buy something I didn’t need. Sometimes it was small—a chocolate bar or something sweet. Other times, it was something much bigger, much more expensive—things I couldn’t afford, especially when I was younger. The purchases brought an immediate high, a momentary sense of control. But it never lasted. Shame, regret, and intense anxiety would always follow. I knew I couldn’t afford it, or if I could, I certainly didn’t need it. And if I was in a relationship at the time—first with my girlfriend, then my wife—I hadn’t even discussed it with her.

One instance stands out.

It was the early ’90s. I was 18 or 19, wandering around Belmont Shopping Centre in that post-lunch haze—broke, but aimlessly browsing. I walked into Harvey Norman, or maybe it was Retravision. I can’t recall exactly.

Oversized televisions dominated the entrance, relics of the time—huge, heavy, some rear-projection models that looked futuristic but absurdly bulky. I quickly dismissed them as out of my league and moved on.

Then I saw it.

A row of sound systems, neatly lined up, with signs dangling above that read New Arrival and Huge Savings. Even now, I can still feel that moment—my hands going clammy, my heart pounding. I knew, without a doubt, that I wasn’t leaving without buying one.

I scanned the brands, dismissing the cheaper Teac models or anything unfamiliar. Then, about three-quarters of the way down the row, I spotted it. A mid-sized unit, positioned just right. The sign above it read, Get this today—12 months interest free. And just like that, despite knowing I couldn’t afford it, I signed the papers.

The initial thrill faded fast. By the time I got home, the weight of my decision had settled in. The excitement had been replaced by dread—the inevitable reckoning with my bank account, my future self, and anyone I’d have to justify it to.

It wasn’t the only time. There was the tent. The expensive shoes. The camping gear. The clothes. And, in one of the more extreme cases, a car. All unnecessary, all driven by impulse, by overstimulation, by the cycle of craving, consumption, and regret.

The food court that day was no different. People gathered to eat together, yet remained in their own little bubbles. Attendants ladled heaped spoonfuls of assorted dishes into oversized plates and bowls, each one described as something unique, though the core ingredients were mostly just onions and capsicum. Groups hovered with their trays, stalking tables, waiting for a spot to free up.

Looking back, it amazes me how much of this was invisible to me at the time. The patterns were there, obvious now, but back then? It was just how I lived. In my family, it was normal—though I now realise that normal doesn’t mean healthy. My parents and siblings haven’t been diagnosed with anything neurodivergent, but my younger sister has a referral booked. She’ll get her answers soon.

Beyond my family, I see it everywhere. So many people carrying the same guilt, the same financial stress. Some might have different reasons, but for those like me—undiagnosed, unaware—I feel an immense sense of compassion. I want to help.

And to the corporations that prey on this, that dangle “interest-free” offers like bait, knowing full well who will bite—shame on you. You exploit the vulnerable, selling them a fleeting fix that disappears into the void. A temporary salve that often leads to deeper wounds. A drug that so easily gives way to despair, self-loathing, and financial ruin.

But today, things are different.

Now, when I find myself in those same locations, I arrive prepared. Medication taken earlier in the day. Noise-cancelling headphones shielding me from the chaos. These tools form a protective cocoon, a buffer between me and the sensory onslaught.

I order my lunch, quietly find a table, and listen to music or a podcast. Sometimes, I listen to nothing at all—just silence streaming through the headphones.

And the result?

I no longer, or at least far less frequently, make impulsive purchases. I might still wander into a store, admire the equipment, let my eyes linger on the signs. But now, I can walk away.

I can say—No, thank you. Not today.