*WANDERINGS THROUGH THE MINDVERSE*
Highly Sensitive

It was neither a smile nor a frown.   An odd wrinkling and twitching of the
lips, as though a stiff wind were trying to form a sine curve out of a
drooping clothesline.   My earnest attempts to infer mood from this facial
formation were in vain.   The psychologist's countenance remained
frustratingly inscrutable.

"Young man," he said, suddenly looking like an ambivalent magistrate torn
between both pity and censure.  "Your test results show that you are an
extremely sensitive person.    I suspected as much, actually."    My
psychologist then exuded a sigh that engendered in me a sharp jolt of
dread.   It sounded very much like the despairing sigh that Zeus likely
expelled when he first realized that Christianity wasn't just a fad.

"What does that mean?" I quickly asked before knowing if I truly wanted the
answer.

He shrugged and after drawing on his cup of tea -which he had emptied about
ten minutes before but still used to punctuate our conversation with
lingering pauses- said, "Life will be a challenge...everything in it will
matter, often much more than it should."

"Oh," I replied with a scream that was only visible in the ultra violet.
His answer didn't  truly help.    I said little more and, in retrospect, I
wish I had actually responded with.  "Look, buddy.  I'm a teenager and I
just want to reside in my own world every day instead of having to go to
school where I'm miserable because I am clumsy, awkward, persistently
ridiculed and, based on my academic performance, hopelessly, undeniably and
irreversibly stupid.   Every sneering moment of scorn, contempt and
criticism is as physically painful as the cat o' nine tails.   Could you
just write me a note explaining that I am not fit for human company and in
deference to the human rights cited by the Geneva Convention, state that I
should be relegated forever to the realm of dragons, fairies and Greek
philosophers?"   (I truly loved the chimerical.)

I soon thereafter left and told my parents about the assessment.   "He said
you're too sensitive?  Well, don't that beat all?"  my father said tiredly,
shaking his head.   My mother , of course, maintained a stoic calm.    You
realize, I was raised in a community that strongly encouraged quiet reserve
and stiff lips.  (They might have looked askance at my therapist's face.)
  It was as though we were all still leery of the elemental sorcery lurking
in the tenebrous depths of the surrounding forests and felt the need to
shield ourselves against its allure.    God save us from the sight of
scantily-clad officers of the ladies' church society dancing with bacchanal
abandon at evening twilight.     We were expected to behave as though
nothing much mattered at all, except, of course, the perception of others,
hence the dignified exhibition of indifference.

But, everything matters.
Doesn't it?
Does this description also apply to you?

Quite likely.    About 20-25% of the population qualify as "highly
sensitive."

Or, as the inimitable Pearl Buck once wrote,
"Every joy is an ecstasy, every friend a lover, every lover a god/goddess
and every failure a death."

A life of heightened amplitudes which, at least in my case, hasn't produced
a gifted spirit, but, instead, a blithering fool: one prone to taking
matters and myself far too seriously. At times, the end result was one of
mortifying embarrassment followed by years of shameful reflection.

That's all very well, but how does one cope in such a world in which every
sound or scent could be imbued with the most exquisite beauty and/or
excruciating pain?   Hells bells, one can sometimes hear every blade of
grass breathing.

What helps?
Reveling in it.
Embracing it fully, wholly and unapologetically.   It was only recently
that I realized that much of the suffering stemmed from the nagging sense
that something was profoundly wrong with me.     I still haven't abandoned
this notion entirely and perhaps never will.     Yet, for instance, being
HSP has served me well at my job, for despite the lamental lack of
razzle-dazzle,  all the thousands of planetarium shows still feel like the
greatest shows on Earth.

Yet, be well assured:  there is nothing wrong with you.
The hundreds of lumps in the throat, the sudden onslaughts of emotion that
induce a sensation of free fall, or even the propensity for tears are not
signs of weakness but indications of full aliveness.  Bear in mind that
Winston Churchill, the one who stood toe to toe with the ferocious Hitler
and ultimately prevailed,
once admitted that, "I blub an awful lot." One would have been hard pressed
to find an iota of frailty in that "crybaby."

Embrace yourself, for remember that scorn is almost always the judgement of
the ignorant.    Remember also that ours is not a world of superiors or
inferiors, but is one populated by amalgams of glorious imperfections and
intense feelings: beings plagued by uncertainty and insecurity.      Some
were born armor-coated against such onslaughts.  Others feel absolutely
everything, be it malevolent or benign.

Just breathe.
If every breath feels like dragonfire, simply savour the slow exhalations.

As always, I hope I haven't wasted your time.

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