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.