Am I Too Sensitive?

My name is Aya, I'm nine years old, and I don't know exactly when I realized that I don't feel things the way everyone else does.

Maybe it was at school, maybe it was at home, or maybe it has always been like this.

I just know that there are things that others forget very quickly, while I keep them in my head for a long time, a very long time.

A remark, a look, a voice that's a little too loud, someone who isn't doing well.

Even a sad story can keep spinning in my head even after it ended hours ago.

Sometimes, I wish I had a button, a little button somewhere behind my ear.

I could press it and make things less intense, less noisy, fewer thoughts, fewer emotions, just a little.

But I've never found that button.

So I feel everything, very strongly.

At school, my class is often noisy.

There are chairs scraping against the floor, pencil cases falling, girls all talking at once, a classmate laughing very loudly in the back, and sometimes the teacher having to raise her voice so everyone listens.

The others seem to get used to it.

Me, on some days, I feel like all the sounds come into my head at the same time.

One morning, during an exercise, Meryem was spinning her pencil on her desk.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

She wasn't even doing it on purpose.

But after a while, that's all I could hear.

Tap, tap, tap.

I tried to continue my exercise.

I read the same sentence over and over.

Impossible.

So I gripped my pencil very tightly.

The teacher came over and asked me if everything was okay.

I said yes, because I didn't know what else to say.

How could I explain that the little sound of a pencil made me want to leave the classroom?

It seemed ridiculous.

So I said yes.

At recess, it's different.

I notice a lot of things, maybe too many.

I notice when a girl is pretending to laugh.

I notice when a classmate says she's fine, but she's looking at the ground.

I notice when two friends stop talking as soon as a third one arrives.

I notice when a girl is left alone while the others play.

One day, I saw Lina sitting near the wall.

Everyone was playing, but she wasn't.

I walked past her, then I stopped.

I didn't know why, but something in her face told me she felt like crying.

I sat down next to her.

I didn't ask right away what was wrong; I just stayed there.

After a while, she told me she had argued with her best friend.

She thought no one had noticed.

But I had noticed.

When the bell rang, she said thank you.

I had barely done anything.

But all day, I thought about her.

Even in the evening.

I wondered if she was feeling better.

Mom found me quiet at the table and asked what was wrong.

I told her.

She said it was kind of me to sit with Lina.

I shrugged.

To me, it was normal.

I couldn't understand how I could have walked past her as if I hadn't seen anything.

But it's not always easy to notice so many things.

One day, in class, I answered a question.

I was almost sure of my answer.

The teacher corrected me.

It wasn't even a big deal.

She didn't make fun of me; she just explained why my answer was wrong.

But behind me, someone laughed.

Maybe she wasn't even laughing at me.

I don't know.

Yet my face got hot, and my stomach tightened.

For the rest of the day, I kept thinking about that little laugh.

On the bus, I was still thinking about it.

At home too.

At night, when I went to bed, my brain decided to replay the scene over and over and over again.

I knew it was over.

I knew that probably no one in the class was still thinking about it.

But I was.

It's often like that.

Sometimes, someone tells me, "It's nothing."

I know she's trying to help, but that phrase annoys me.

Because maybe for her, it's nothing.

For me, at that moment, it's something.

Once, Dad spoke a little loudly because I had forgotten for the third time to put my things away.

He didn't shout; he was just annoyed.

Two minutes later, he had already moved on.

But I hadn't.

I locked myself in my room.

I knew I probably deserved for him to remind me to tidy up.

But his voice was still spinning in my head.

I felt sad, then I felt ridiculous for being sad, then I felt even sadder because I thought I was ridiculous for being sad.

It was complicated.

Later, Dad came in.

He asked me why I was there all alone.