Why is everyone’s opinion louder than mine?

It’s a special kind of hell when you can’t even trust your own head. Every time I try to sit with my feelings, talk to myself, figure out what’s going on in this storm of a brain, I end up shutting myself down. Like I’m my own worst critic and my harshest audience rolled into one.

I’ll think, “Maybe I’m upset because—” but before I even finish, there’s this haunting voice that chimes in, parroting every dismissive thing I’ve ever heard: “You’re overreacting. That’s not how it happened. Stop making everything about you.” It’s not even my voice; it’s a carbon copy of everyone else’s, an echo of years spent having my feelings labeled for me.

And now? Now I don’t even know what to call my feelings. Are they valid? Are they even mine? I don’t know where to put them, don’t know how to untangle this mess, so I just don’t. I let the thoughts scramble in my brain until they’re unrecognizable. And when I try to reason with myself, I only end up more confused.

I know I’m not blameless in this. I’ll be the first to admit that I procrastinate, push back, and let my own stubbornness get in the way of growth. I hold myself accountable, but it feels like accountability doesn’t mean much when I don’t know how to turn it into actual change.

I keep telling myself, “You know you're better than this,” but for some reason, the doing part never catches up. Accountability? Got it. Improvement? Ehh, we’re on different wavelengths. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s survival mode. Maybe I’ve dissociated so much I’m just a cardboard cutout of myself.

Speaking of which, dissociation? Top-tier nightmare fuel. Everything feels fake. I feel fake. The people around me feel like extras in some budget indie film I didn’t sign up for. And the staring? God, the staring. It’s like everyone’s dissecting me, peeling me apart, waiting for me to react. I hate it. I hate them. I hate me for hating them.

But hey, feelings aren't exactly welcomed here. They get shoved into little boxes with neat little labels: Too Sensitive, Overreacting, Attention-Seeking, Victim Complex. Then the boxes pile up, pressure builds, and when it all explodes, I'm the bad guy. Cue the gasps. People clutch their pearls like, “Oh my gosh, we didn’t know you felt this way!” No, you just didn’t listen. 

Oh, and let’s talk about the phone. The phone I pay for. The phone they took away. The irony isn’t lost on me that I still have the audacity to respect them. Same with the door they took off the room I pay rent for. My compliance is almost comical at this point. Like, yeah, let me quietly fund my own disrespect. Gold star for me, right?

But here’s the kicker: their rules have turned me into the ultimate procrastinator. Since I can’t use the phone in the house, I’ve started leaving early just to sit in some random parking lot. Scrolling, texting, music—anything to claim a little autonomy. But it also means I’m avoiding real life, real responsibilities. The irony is choking me out.

Maybe if they hadn’t created a scarcity around the phone, I wouldn’t feel like I need to cling to it. Maybe if they respected that I pay for this shit, I wouldn’t feel like my own freedom is on loan. But maybe it’s not about the phone at all. Maybe it’s just another box they shoved me in, waiting for the next explosion they’ll pretend to be shocked by.

Life feels like a game I never agreed to play, and right now, I’m losing.