I’ve been thinking about this for a while now; why I don’t like when people laugh at me, even though I laugh at other people too.   At first, it felt like a contradiction. But the more I sat with it, the more I noticed something: when I laugh at someone, it's usually about one specific thing. A single moment, a single comment, something narrow and contained. It's not really about them as a whole. But when people laugh at me, it feels different, bigger, somehow. And I think it's because I talk about myself a lot. I share more, I say more, I put more of myself out there in conversations. Which means there's simply more material for people to laugh at. Not one thing but a lot of things, from a lot of angles.   When you are an open book, you accidentally hand people the exact map they need to find your insecurities. You think you are just participating in the normal back-and-forth of a conversation, but you don't realize that every personal detail you share is being logged away as potential ammunition for the next time the group needs a quick laugh.  

I used to be called names over my physical appearance, and sometimes mocked for the things I say. And when I ask people to stop, the response is almost always the same: "You laugh at others too," or "You're being childish." Which feels off in a way I can't fully explain, like the moment you push back, you're the problem, not the thing that was said.   It is a strange kind of gaslighting that happens in friend groups. They disguise insults as banter, and the moment it pierces through your skin and you call them out on it, they turn the blame entirely on your sensitivity. Suddenly, you are the one ruining the vibe. You are the one who can't take a joke, even though the "joke" was designed entirely to pick you apart in front of everyone else.   There've been times I've thought about just going back to being quiet, saying less, sharing less, giving people less to laugh about. Shrinking yourself feels like the safest defense mechanism available. You start rehearsing sentences in your head before saying them out loud, filtering out anything that sounds too unique, too enthusiastic, or too real, just to fit in.  

But then I remember there's always someone you can actually open up to, someone who doesn't make you feel like everything you say is weird, someone who just listens without turning it into a joke. Finding that one safe person changes the entire game. They don't collect your flaws to use as punchlines later, and they don't look for angles to make you feel out of place. With them, the constant weight of self-filtering completely drops away.  

  Maybe that's the real answer. Not shutting up entirely, and not sharing with everyone either  just being more careful about who you open up to. A few real friends is better than a lot of people who laugh the moment you speak.