Too Loud For Me

A quiet confession about the days when patience runs out before the morning even begins.

There are days when you wake up already exhausted. Nothing has happened yet, but everything bothers you anyway: someone's voice, a message, a too-cheerful "good morning," as if the world didn't understand that today you're not built for that. It feels like your patience quit overnight, leaving you alone with a mood you can't even explain.

And then anything-the smallest, dumbest thing- sets you off. A simple question. A noise. An opinion you didn't ask for. A "are you okay?" that sounds more like an accusation than concern. And there you are, feeling every word that leaves you mouth come out sharper than you intended, as if you were fighting the world when really, you're fighting yourself.

These days start like that: with a sigh that's already tired, with a body that gets up but a soul that stays in bed. You walk around the house as if everything were to much: the light, the sound, the people, even your own thoughts. You look in the mirror and don't have the energy to deal with you.

And the worst part is that no one notices. Or worse - they notice too much.

They ask what's wrong, as if you knew. They tell you not to be like that, as if were easy to turn off the fire inside you. They ask for patience when the only thing you have left is a thin thread that's about to snap.

That day, for example, started with the phone vibrating. It wasn't anything serious: just another message, another notification. But it sounded like someone banging on the door of your mind with a hammer. And with your eyes half-open, you thought: Why today? Why now? Why can't they leave me alone for five minutes?

You got up anyway, because life doesn't stop just because you want it to. You dragged you feet to the kitchen, looking for coffee like it was a lifeline. But even the coffee annoyed you. Too hot. Too bitter. Too... everything.

And that's when the chain of small things started wearing you down. The spoon falling. The water splashing. The door creaking. A comment that on any other day would slide right off you, but today pierces like an arrow.

"You're so serious." "Again with that mood?" "You should relax."

And you just want to scream: It's not you. It's not anyone. It's me. It's my head. It's my exhaustion. It's this day that woke up crooked and dragged me with it.

But you don't say it. Because you don't want to sound dramatic. Because you don't want them to think you're exaggerating. Because you don't want to explain something you don't even understand.

So you swallow the words, swallow the irritation, swallow the knot in your throat. And you keep going.

You step outside -with that feeling that the world is too loud. People walk too fast. Cars pass too close. Voices sound too sharp. Everything feels designed to irritate you.

And you just want to be invisible. Not hear anything. Not answer anything. Not feel like you bother others or like they bother you. Just exist in silence until your soul settles again.

But life doesn't give you that luxury. Life throws tiny, stupid tests at you -insignificant on any other day, but today they feel enormous.

Someone who won't stop talking. An email marked "urgent." A call you can't ignore. A responsibility that can't wait.

And there you are, breathing deeply, trying not to explode, not to cry, not to tell everyone to go to hell.

Because the truth is you don't want to fight with anyone. You don't want to yell. You don't want to snap. You don't want to be that version of yourself that comes out when you're drained and the wold keeps pushing. You just want a space to breathe without feeling guilty for needing it.

But no one gives it to you. Or they don't know how. Or they don't understand that you need it.

So keep everything inside. You swallow every irritation. You accumulate it all like a bottle about burst.

And as the day goes on, you carry that strange mix of irritation and sadness, like everything is too big and too small at the same time. You want to explain it, but how do you explain something you don't understand? How do you say "it's not you, it's me" without sounding too obvious? How do you ask for space without it sounding like rejection?

So you keep going. You breathe. You bite your tongue. You hide a little inside yourself. You wait for the internal storm to pass -because it always does, even if it's late, even if it hurts, even if it leaves you exhausted.

And when night finally comes, you lie down with that feeling of having survived yourself. It wasn't a great day, it wasn't a pretty day, but it was a real one. And sometimes, that's enough.

Night arrives without asking, like always. And even though you think you're ready to rest, you know it's not that simple. Because night has that cruel habit of bringing out everything you hid during the day. Everything you swallowed. Everything you pretended didn't affect you.

The silence of night isn't silence. It's mirror.

And there you are, finally without people, without noise, without interruptions... but with your mind awake, restless, uncomfortable. Your body is tired, but your head is running a marathon you never signed up for.

You lie down, but you don't rest. You cover yourself, but you don't calm down. You close your eyes, but you don't shut off.

Night greets you with that mix of relief and fear: relief because you don't have to talk to anyone; fear because now you have to talk to yourself.

And that's when it all begins.

You replay the day even though you don't want to. Every gesture. Every word. Every sharp response. Every moment you wanted to disappear. Every thing that irritated you for no reason.

And you ask yourself why. Why today. Why like this. Why you.

But there's no answer. Just exhaustion.

Nights makes everything feel heavier. What bothered you in the morning now weighs on you. What you ignored in the afternoon now hurts. What you swallowed now screams inside you.

And there you are, staring at the ceiling or your phone or the darkness, feeling like the day left you empty and full at the same time.

Empty of energy. Full of thoughts.

And the worst part is you don't want to feel like this. You don't want to be irritated. You don't want to be sensitive. You don't want to be overwhelmed.

But you are. Ad night doesn't let you hide it.

Sometimes you try to distract yourself: music, videos, anything o get out of your head. But nothing works. Because it's not boredom. It's not loneliness. It's not lack of things to do.

It's that emotional exhaustion sitting beside you like an uninvited guest. A tiredness that doesn't understand schedules or limits.

And as the night goes on, you become more honest with yourself. Because you're no longer performing. No longer responding out of obligation. No longer pretending everything is fine.

At night, you are you. You without filters. You without defenses. You without the mask you wore all day.

And in that uncomfortable honesty, something appears that you didn't say out loud: you didn't want to disappear from the world... you wanted to disappear from yourself for a moment.

From your thoughts. From your emotions. From your sensitivity. From that part of you that feels everything too deeply.

But night also has something good: it lets you release.

Sometimes you cry without knowing why. Sometimes you sigh as if you're emptying yourself. Sometimes you just lie there in silence, letting your body do what your mind can't.

And little by little, without noticing, the tension starts to fade. Not because anything was solved. Not because you're better. But because you finally stopped fighting yourself.

Nights give you the space the day refused. That permission to feel without explaining. The rest that isn't physical, but emotional.

And when you finally settle into a position that doesn't bother you, when your breathing slows down... you realize something simple but important:

You survived the day.

It wasn't pretty. It wasn't easy. It wasn't your best version. But you made it through.

And even if you don't know how you'll wake up tomorrow, for now, in this moment, night holds you a little. It doesn't fix you, but it calms you. It doesn't solve you, but it supports you. It doesn't change you, but it lets you rest.

And sometimes, that's enough.