Something inside me has shifted. I don’t know if it was a switch flipping on or off—but suddenly I’m aware of things I’ve never seen clearly before. It’s like I’m meeting myself for the first time, but also investigating a long-abandoned version of me. Sometimes I feel like a detective, a survivor, and a witness all at once—dusting off forgotten memories and buried emotions that have been quietly running the show.

I feel like the whole cast and crew of Inside Out live in my head—and I’m not just Riley. I’m watching the control panel, the islands, the memory storage, even the monitor that shows what Riley sees. I’m the observer, the critic, the rescuer, the fixer, and the confused child—all living inside the same system, trying to speak over each other. Sometimes I don’t know whose voice is talking, or if what I’m saying is fully true when I say it. I catch myself adjusting my words in real time, as if I’ve spent my whole life making sure I say what others want to hear. Not out of malice—out of survival.

This level of awareness is both fascinating and exhausting. I’m constantly aware of my thoughts and the fact that I’m aware. It feels like I’m running the control tower of a giant airport—watching the weather, scanning radar, managing signals, and trying not to crash—while also being the plane flying through the storm. It’s a lot.

And yet, I’m still functioning. I still show up. I still smile. But it’s getting harder to fake it now that I’ve started unmasking. I don’t want to go back to hiding, but I also don’t know what moving forward looks like. I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a massive canyon where my younger self got lost. Now I’m walking back in with a flashlight—trying to find her.

I know people might think I’m overanalyzing or being dramatic. But this is just how my brain works. I speak in metaphors because they’re the only way I can explain what’s too complex to put plainly. I feel like I have a thousand tabs open in my mind, and I’m finally starting to look at what’s on each one. This might be some combination of autism, ADHD, trauma, or something else—I don’t know yet. But I know it’s real. And I know I’m trying.

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