April 24, 2025
By Riley S. Quinn

I hate being this sensitive.
Like genuinely, deeply, hate it.

My body reacts to everything like it’s trying to file a complaint with HR. Pollen? Rash. Dust? Sneezing fit. Too much cold air? Congrats, now I’m sick for a week. I can pass out just from standing too long in the wrong shoes or getting too hot in a crowded room. It’s like living in a body made of glass.

But it’s not just physical.

Emotionally? I’m a damn sponge. I cry when I’m mad. Not like a cute, single tear either—full-blown shaking, sniffling, can’t-even-finish-a-sentence kind of crying. And if I get really pissed? I might actually wake up sick the next day. Like my immune system just clocks out in solidarity with my feelings.

And it doesn’t take much.

Someone says something passive-aggressive? I spiral for two days wondering what I did wrong. A friend posts something cryptic? I worry it’s about me. Something slightly bad happens? I’m immediately catastrophizing, playing out every worst-case scenario like I’m the director of my own personal disaster movie.

I hate that I’m wired this way.
I hate that the world doesn’t seem built for people like me—people who feel everything like it’s on fire, even if it’s just a flicker.

But what can I do?

This is the skin I live in. This is the brain I carry. It’s exhausting, yeah, but it’s also why I notice when someone’s off. Why I care so deeply. Why I love hard. Why I can tell when someone needs space or silence or a stupid meme to distract them.

It’s hard. But I’m still here.
Sensitive as hell. Still standing.