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.

I answered, "Nothing."

He looked at me.

I think parents sometimes know that "nothing" means exactly the opposite.

He sat down next to me.

I finally told him, "When you speak loudly, it stays in my head."

Dad didn't answer right away.

Then he said, "Even after I've forgotten?"

I nodded.

He thought for a moment, then told me he would be careful.

Not that he would never correct me again, just that he would be careful about how he did it.

That made me feel better.

But for a long time, I still thought there was something weird about me.

Why could others forget certain things so easily?

Why could I be upset by a story when everyone said it was just a little sad?

Why could an argument between two people make me feel bad when I wasn't even involved?

Why did I hate seeing someone humiliated so much?

And above all, why did I sometimes cry when I absolutely didn't want to cry?

That was the worst.

Because once the tears start, people ask questions.

"Why are you crying?"

And sometimes, I didn't even know how to answer.

One Friday, after school, I had a really bad day.

The class had been noisy, I had forgotten my notebook, a classmate had said something I didn't like, and on the bus, two girls had argued right next to me.

Nothing very serious.

But everything had piled up.

When I got home, Mom simply asked me how my day had been.

And I cried, just like that, without warning.

I think she was surprised.

I was too.

She let me cry.

She didn't tell me to calm down.

She didn't ask me ten times what had happened.

She gave me a glass of water, then sat down next to me.

When I managed to speak, I told her about my whole day.

Even the noise, even the forgotten notebook, even the argument that didn't involve me.

Mom listened.

Then she asked me, "Do you often feel like everything comes too strongly?"

I said yes.

She asked me if noises, remarks, and other people's emotions could sometimes tire me out.

I said yes again.

Then she explained something to me.

She told me that some people are very sensitive to what's happening around them.

They notice a lot, they feel a lot, and sometimes, all of that takes up a huge amount of space.

I asked her, "So am I too sensitive?"

She thought for a moment, then answered, "I don't know if 'too' is the right word."

I looked at her.

She continued, "Your sensitivity sometimes tires you out, but it's also thanks to it that you notice things that others don't always see."

I thought about Lina, near the wall in the schoolyard.

Mom added, "That doesn't mean you have to put up with everything; you can learn to recognize when you need calm."

I asked her how.

She suggested several things.

Moving away a little when there's too much noise, breathing quietly before responding when something hurts me, saying what I feel instead of keeping everything inside, and above all, stopping telling myself I was ridiculous every time an emotion came.

That was hard, very hard.

But I started trying.

A few days later, during recess, two girls argued right in front of me.

I could already feel my stomach tightening.

Usually, I would have stayed there, listening against my will.

This time, I went to the other side of the schoolyard.

I sat down for a few minutes.

At first, I told myself I was weird.

Then I remembered what Mom had said.

I just needed some calm.

Another day, a classmate made a remark that hurt me.

I felt my brain start its usual work.

Why did she say that?

Does she really think that?

Do all the others think the same?

Did I do something?

Then I stopped myself.

Well, I tried.

I told myself, "A remark isn't necessarily the whole truth."

I didn't stop thinking about it right away, but for a little less time.

Little by little, I started to understand myself better.

I realized that some days tired me out more than others.

That when I was already tired, noise bothered me even more.

That sometimes, I needed to be alone for a few minutes.

And that didn't mean I didn't like others.

I also started to notice something I had never really considered important.

I could tell very quickly when Mom was tired, even when she said everything was fine.

So sometimes, I cleared the table without her asking.

I knew when my little sister needed someone to stay with her.

I often knew when a classmate needed to be spoken to gently.

And when someone was happy, I felt their joy too, very strongly.

One day, Lina came up to me in the schoolyard.

This time, she was smiling.

She told me she had made up with her friend.

I was so happy for her that I smiled for several minutes.

She laughed, then said, "Why are you happier than me?"

I didn't really have an answer.

So I just said, "I don't know."

But deep down, I was starting to understand.

I feel things very strongly.

Difficult things, but also beautiful ones.

I'm not going to say I always like it.

There are still moments when I really wish I could find that famous button behind my ear.

When the class is too noisy, when a remark gets stuck in my head, when someone cries and I want to cry with them, when I think too much, when I feel too much.

But now, I know I can learn to live with all of that.

I can ask for calm.

I can say when something has hurt me.

I can step back.

I can also enjoy everything my sensitivity allows me to see.

Because sometimes, it tires me out.

And sometimes, it allows me to be there when someone needs me.

Before, I thought I had to become less sensitive to be more like others.

Today, I don't think exactly like that anymore.

I mainly want to learn to better understand what's going on inside me.

I don't always feel things the way others do.

And others don't always feel them the way I do.

It's not always simple.

But it's not something I have to hide.

My name is Aya, I'm nine years old, I feel everything very strongly, and now, little by little, I'm learning what to do with everything I feel.