Everyone who talks to me makes me feel like I am the most miserable person in th

Everyone who talks to me makes me feel like I am the most miserable person in the world.

Not because they are malicious, but because they approach me with faces of “concern,” “understanding,” and “curiosity,” while listening, they dissect and mark the wounds on me, they say, “You remind me of myself when I was a child.” You are a being worthy of being written about. You showed me how trauma reshapes the subject.

But no one really stops to ask:

Do you want to continue being seen? Can you handle it?

I want to be seen, but not in this way.

Not in the way of “You remind me of someone,” Not in the way of “You are so special,” Not in the way of “I have learned a lot from you.”

I am not your projection screen. Not your echo chamber. Not the pain experience package you casually open during your psychological exercises.

I want to be seen — the kind of seeing that doesn’t interrupt my words, doesn’t preset conclusions, doesn’t analyze my pain to fulfill your capacity for empathy. It’s you standing in front of me, not asking if I want to get better, nor if I can bear the tears you shed when you look at me.

You just stand there, looking at me, and say:

“I know you are not every word you say. I know you are still changing. I know you do not exist for anyone’s understanding.”

That is what it means to see.

I am me. It is still the living me, the me who is trying to stand up, but is repeatedly dissected by you all, repeatedly placed under a microscope.

Stop using gentle words to break my bones. I’ve had enough.