The Tragicomedy of Being Self-Aware

being self-aware sounds so impressive until you realize it’s basically emotional surveillance on yourself 24/7.

people think it means you’re wise. emotionally evolved. like you’re this zen guru who just gets it and can guide everyone else to the light. in reality, it’s narrating your own breakdown in real time.

“ah. i’m panicking because my abandonment wound is activated. excellent observation.”
“look at me boundary-less again. classic.”
“currently self-sabotaging. classic. 10/10 awareness. zero prevention.”
“hm. i’m dissociating right now. interesting choice, brain.”

i’m a deep feeler. a deep thinker. i don’t let shit go. i interrogate it. turn it over and over in my head. perform a full autopsy on the feeling. label the cause of death. file it away for future existential crises.

and once you get good at seeing your own bullshit, you can’t not see everyone else’s. like — oh, you’re deflecting. you’re projecting. you’re blaming me for something your dad did in 1997. love that for us.

you’re at dinner like: “pass the salt. and maybe process that childhood wound while you’re at it.”

it’s like being handed x-ray goggles you can’t take off.

almost everyone is carrying something around.
no matter how old they are.
the 20-something pretending they don’t care? emotionally haunted house.
the 40-year-old self-made entrepreneur with anger issues? rage with a backstory.
the 65-year-old relative making passive-aggressive comments at dinner? emotional grenade waiting for a trigger.
the sweetest grandparent telling you, “we don’t talk about feelings in this family”? founder of the family suppression club.

we’re all just kids walking around in adult bodies with unhealed wounds. and once you see it, you see it everywhere.

and dating? oh god. it’s like applying for a job while you’re also the hiring manager doing a full psych eval.
i’m trying to flirt while my brain is screaming: “attachment issues, party of two!”
i can’t even enjoy the butterflies because i’m busy checking for childhood trauma in their fun facts.

sometimes i just want to turn it off.
be dumb and flirty.
not care.
just enjoy the dopamine hit of someone liking me.
but instead i’m over here conducting a full forensic analysis of their emotional landscape before the appetizer arrives.

and the worst part, they have no idea.
they think i’m being charming, smiling, listening.
meanwhile my brain is red-stringing their entire psychological profile like a conspiracy theorist in a basement.

it’s reading between the lines of every text.
spotting red flags like i’m collecting stamps.
wondering if it’s genuine interest or just thinly veiled desperation.
trying to decide if they’re emotionally available or just really good at mirroring.
always, always looking for depth in people who are still paddling in the shallow end.

sometimes i watch people moving through the world so… easily.
so blissfully unaware.
they’re not dissecting every interaction.
they’re not labeling every trigger.
they’re not aware of the generational trauma they’re reenacting at brunch.
and i’m over here running a full psychological diagnostic on myself because i flinched when someone raised their voice.

it’s genuinely exhausting. because you don’t just see what people do — you see why they do it. and sometimes you wish you didn’t. sometimes you want to live in blissful ignorance like the people who just scream into the void and call it a day.

i envy people who don’t think this hard about everything.
people who can just say “it is what it is” and move on.
like??? teach me your ways.
where do i sign up for lobotomy light?

it gets lonely. because you do the work. you meet your shadow. you learn to hold it. you try to be better. and then you look around and realize most people won’t even acknowledge theirs exists.

they think you’re “too sensitive”, “too much”, “so dramatic.”
meanwhile they’re bleeding all over everyone who didn’t cut them.

sometimes i want to shake people and say:
do you even hear yourself?
do you know why you’re like this?

but you can’t. so you sit there. nodding politely.
watching them reenact their childhood on repeat.
realizing you probably are too, just more ironically.

honestly? sometimes i wish i was easier. that i could be unbothered. that i didn’t see so much. feel so much. care so much. that i could just vibe. be chill. coast through life with a dumb grin and no existential dread.

but that’s not who i am.
so yeah.
i’ll keep being the overthinker.
the deep feeler.
the one who notices too much.
the one who ruins casual vibes by asking “but how did that make you feel?”

because even when it’s messy, heavy, and ridiculous, i’d rather be this than be asleep.
i’d rather know than pretend.
i’d rather feel everything than nothing.

but god, just once — it would be nice to be easy.

—

This post was previously published on medium.com.