Room for sigaret smoke – not for me

Smoking has always been everywhere: In movies, on billboards, at family visits, outside the supermarket, in stairwells and on balconies. Doctors even used to recommend it.
It became part of everyday life: something social, a break, a way to belong.

But for me, it never felt normal. My body reacts immediately. Not with mild discomfort. But with full-on alarm: headaches, nausea, dizziness, a sense of panic in my whole system. It’s not dislike. It’s not annoyance. It’s overload. As if my body is screaming: something’s wrong: get out.

But there’s rarely space for that. People who are sensitive to smoke are seen as dramatic. You’re overreacting. You’re exaggerating. “It’s just outside.” “It’s only for a moment.” “And others have the right to smoke too.”

It often feels like society is more willing to understand addiction
than sensitivity. There’s room for smoking. There’s no room for my nervous system.

And that’s the real issue. Not the smoke itself, but the way my reaction is dismissed. The way I have to keep explaining myself.
Holding back. Making it smaller. As if I’m the one being difficult.
When really, I sense things before most people even notice they’re there.

I have hyperosmia. I’m highly sensitive. I’m autistic. My system works differently. I feel more. Always have. Not by choice, just by nature. And I’m tired. Tired of trying to prove that what I feel is real.
Tired of trying to fit into a world that thinks sensitivity is a flaw.

I’m tired of making it easier for others, when it never feels easy for me.

Maybe there’s nothing wrong with me. Maybe my body is just responding in a world that numbs everything down.

Maybe I’m not the problem. Maybe I’m the signal that this world is too loud, too toxic and too much.