I Play the Imaginary Game of Being “Over It”

I sometimes confuse being over something with no longer feeling any emotion or pain towards it. Ideally, we hope it means forgetting all about it. As that’s not always realistic, indifference will do. Peacefully detached. Pure neutrality towards the situation. The false sense of moral superiority where you can walk around with your head above the clouds.

People say there’s no timeline on pain and healing, but sometimes we want to be “over” something both for our own good, and because we feel we should be. The mistaken but common assumption that maturity looks like indifference (Oh him? What’s his name again?).

But then the anger resurfaces, and there’s a sense of self-annoyance. “Ugh, I thought I was past this.” “Why am I still here?” There’s a part of still having emotions toward something that hits the ego a little bit. Almost like we’re losing the imaginary (but somehow very real) game for still having a reaction.

Some days I really do think I’m above it. Other days I’m absolutely not. That’s when the steam comes streaming out my ears.

Some days you think about it and brush it off. Others, it cuts as deep as experiencing it in the moment — the dismissal, the disrespect, the misunderstanding — it feels like a fresh pain. There might also be a brief sting of what could have been, but it’s quickly overpowered by the feeling of being mischaracterised and diminished.

There’s a protective element in it too. Really, we’re still mad at our mistreatment, and sometimes that we allowed it. There’s a sort of embarrassment to someone having witnessed you in that situation. An embarrassment at having cared, explained yourself, shown more of your humanity than the other person was capable of holding.

That’s where we re-imagine scenarios, inserting better responses. The version where we’re sharper. Calmer. Head held high.

It’s like we think we know our standards, what we’ll accept and what we won’t. But in the moment, are we thinking about standards, or are we just wanting to be understood?

Knowing we have those expectations makes it easier to blame ourselves for not being “stronger” with our boundaries. And potentially, there’s truth to that.

They say emotions are signals. Anger is usually the one that tells you your boundaries were crossed. That you’ve stopped blaming yourself. That your pride is trying to repair itself.

And then there’s the resentment of never being fully acknowledged. The idea that they may never even recognise the hurt they caused you. The full on — “How can they walk around with no care in the world…” We all know the script.

I don’t mean getting your own back in terms of revenge, by the way, although there is a sense of satisfaction in imagining making someone else feel a fraction of what you did. I mean more in the way of restoring your composure.

That’s the part that’s funny to me. I notice how desperately we want to minimise our reactions, to keep our “self-respect” and pride, and yet in doing so we glorify the suppression of vulnerability — the very thing we usually wish had been shown to us.

The composed, detached, “cooler” response always feels more elevated. Like you’ve won something. It gives us the layer of control we lacked in the moment. A bit of emotional leverage we can hold onto and call dignity. The moral high ground of “We don’t even need to stoop to that level.”

But I wonder if often it’s just distance masquerading as dignity. As soon as someone shows us that they don’t care, we want to mimic that emotion as quickly as possible. It feels safer than being left hanging in the balance, even if the indifference is forced.

Admitting you still care when someone else doesn’t is a strength. But it can feel like a lack. As if care equals weakness. And yet, care doesn’t have to mean continued engagement. It just means you’re human. Yes, that care will have to go elsewhere eventually, but it’s allowed to still exist for a little while.

There’s a moral frustration here for me for sure — how can someone treat another person like that? Sometimes that’s quickly followed by my understanding of exactly how they could, which is even more irritating when I want to stay mad.

If you get to the point where you accept the fact that it really had nothing to do with you, and that it was a projection of their own unhealed narrative, it can offer a kind of calm.

I almost want to feel relief, because it reinforces the idea that it was their lack, not mine.

But knowing why someone behaved the way they did doesn’t change the way it landed.

Intellectually, you can see it. Emotionally, you’ve still absorbed it. And you absorb it again every time the situation replays.

Sometimes understanding even complicates the anger. You lose the clean villain. And it’s easier to move on when there’s a villain. Understanding, though, doesn’t have to mean forgiveness. It doesn’t mean weakened boundaries. It just means seeing it clearly.

You can understand someone’s motives. That doesn’t mean your body forgets how it felt. The eventual “peace” isn’t forgetting what was done or pretending it didn’t matter.

It’s just not rehearsing the same situations over and over again. It’s knowing that acknowledgement isn’t needed for your feelings to be valid. It’s knowing you’ve learnt what you needed to, and you don’t need any more resolution from someone else.

There’s something humiliating about imagining they know you still care. As if that hands the leverage back over. As if detachment is the only solid ground left to stand on. But if your power depends on them believing you’re over it, it’s not really yours.

(I even feel the need to say I’m not writing this because I still care. As if they’re even reading this.)

And maybe, if I’m honest, part of the anger was easier than a clean ending would have been. It gave me something solid. Something to push against. A clearer reason to walk away. A simple incompatibility might have left me with more questions than answers.

I realise being over it isn’t about feeling nothing. It’s about being able to sit with the ambiguity, without needing the pain to justify your exit.

Does the game even exist if I stop keeping score?