Deviating from my metaphors and artistic style. It takes me a lot, to think, write and edit.
The woman at the café chose the corner table, back to the wall. I watched her scan the room twice before opening her laptop, noting the exits, the other customers, the staff moving between tables. I recognised the ritual because I do it too. That careful positioning, that constant checking, this exhausting state of readiness that trauma leaves behind like a security system that never quite learned to switch off.
I’ve been thinking about hypervigilance this week after spending forty minutes in the supermarket on Wednesday, unable to focus on my shopping list because I was too busy tracking the movements of every person around me. A man reached for something on the shelf too quickly. A child’s sudden laugh made me flinch. The checkout operator seemed irritated, and I spent the rest of the interaction trying to decode whether I’d done something wrong or if she was just tired. By the time I got home, I was wrung out like I’d run a marathon instead of buying groceries.
The Exhausting Mathematics of Safety
Hypervigilance isn’t paranoia, though it can look like it from the outside. It’s more like having a smoke alarm that goes off when you burn toast, when someone walks past the house, when the wind picks up. The alarm system works perfectly,it’s just calibrated for a war zone when you’re living in suburbia.
My father’s hypervigilance filled our house like smoke. He’d position himself where he could see all the doors. He’d wake at the smallest sounds, instantly alert, sometimes angry at being startled. We learned to move quietly, to announce ourselves before entering rooms, to read his tension like a barometer. What I didn’t understand then was how his nervous system, shaped by combat, had taught mine to scan for danger even when there wasn’t any.
Now I catch myself doing inventory everywhere I go. In restaurants, I note who’s sitting where, which tables have clear sightlines, whether the couple at table six seems to be arguing. At work, I monitor my colleagues’ moods, analysing tone of voice and body language for signs of displeasure or conflict. Walking along the cliffs near home, I’m aware of every person I pass, every car that slows down, every dog that’s off its lead.
When Your Body Keeps Score
The physical cost is enormous. My shoulders live somewhere near my ears these days. I wake up tired because even sleep doesn’t fully switch off the surveillance system. Sometimes I catch myself holding my breath without realising, as if quieting my own breathing might help me hear approaching footsteps better.
Headaches come in waves, usually after particularly intense periods of scanning. My digestive system rebels against the constant stress hormones, leaving me nauseous or unable to eat properly for days. There’s a bone-deep fatigue that rest doesn’t touch because my body hasn’t truly relaxed in years.
The worst part might be how normal it feels. I’ve been hypervigilant for so long that I’m not even sure what genuine relaxation would look like. Those moments when people talk about feeling completely at ease, letting their guard down,I can barely imagine it. It sounds fictional, like describing the feeling of flying.
The Social Cost of Constant Alertness
Hypervigilance affects how I connect with people, though I’m only starting to understand the full scope. I monitor conversations for signs of annoyance, criticism, or withdrawal. I read subtext that might not exist and miss obvious cues because I’m too busy looking for hidden threats.
Dating is particularly fraught. I analyse text message response times like intelligence reports. If someone changes their usual greeting, I wonder what I’ve done wrong. Physical intimacy becomes complicated when your nervous system is constantly asking: is this person safe? Are they angry? What aren’t they telling me?
Friends sometimes comment that I seem ‘intense’ or ‘always switched on.’ They’re not wrong. It’s hard to be casual when part of your brain is constantly calculating risk levels and escape routes. Social gatherings leave me depleted not just from interacting, but from the additional layer of threat assessment I’m running in the background.
Small Rebellions Against the Alarm System
I’ve been experimenting with tiny acts of trust. Sitting with my back to the door sometimes, though it makes my skin crawl. Walking past groups of teenagers without crossing the street. Choosing the middle table at the café instead of the corner one.
These feel like enormous risks, which tells me something about how deeply hypervigilance has shaped my world. My nervous system protests each small rebellion with increased heart rate, sweaty palms, the urgent need to check over my shoulder. But sometimes, when nothing terrible happens, there’s a moment of surprise. A brief recognition that maybe, just maybe, I’m safer than my alarm system believes.
It’s slow going, this attempt to recalibrate decades of hypervigilance. Some days I manage five minutes of genuine relaxation. Other days, like this week at the supermarket, I’m reminded how far I still have to go. But I’m learning to recognise the difference between actual threats and the shadows my trauma casts on perfectly ordinary moments.
The woman at the café finished her coffee and packed up her laptop, scanning the room one last time before leaving. I wanted to tell her I understood, that her vigilance made perfect sense, that she wasn’t being paranoid or difficult. But instead I just nodded when she smiled at me on her way out, two hypervigilant souls acknowledging each other across the careful distance we keep.
How do you manage hypervigilance in your daily life?
This post reflects personal experience only and is not medical or psychological advice. If you are struggling, please reach out to a mental health professional or contact Beyond Blue on 1300 22 4636.