iwonotobey

A Sickness Called Sensitivity

by someone who feels too much in a world that feels too little

Why does my sensitivity feel like a sickness,

in a world where indifference is the norm?

Where silence is mistaken for strength,

and numbness wears a crown?

I cry at things no one sees—

a fading light, a forgotten word,

a cartoon character breaking down

like they were someone I knew.

I carry the weight of things not mine,

like a sponge soaked in every passing sorrow.

And when I speak, it sounds like too much—

too soft, too slow, too raw.

They say I should toughen up,

but what if I wasn't meant to harden?

What if I was born

to feel the edges they sanded off?

If my chest aches with every beauty,

and breaks with every cruelty,

does that make me fragile—

or just fully alive?

So I ask again—

not in bitterness, but in wonder:

Why does my sensitivity feel like a sickness,

They want scars to be visible. Bandages. Blood.

Not breakdowns. Not silence. Not the kind of exhaustion that makes your bones feel like rusted metal.

You say, “I’m not okay.”

They say, “Try harder.”

The heart can break a hundred times and still get told it’s just overthinking.

And if you're a woman, they'll call your fire rebellion, not healing.

But I see you.

Those who feel too much, scream internally, still wake up and try.

That’s not weakness. That’s resistance.

And no, I will not obey.

Not a system that worships suppression.

Not a culture that teaches daughters to shrink.

Not a world that charges you for healing and calls it help.

So I write. I unravel. I remember.

Because clarity doesn’t make life easier — it makes it real.

And reality?

It’s already poetic enough when you’re still standing.