Don’t Be So Sensitive

“Don’t be so sensitive.”

Easier said than done, as I’ve been this way for 52 years and don’t see anything changing soon.

As a child I was a bundle of nerves, suffering physical manifestations of my constant state of stress. If there was a nervous habit a poor little pipsqueak like me could have, I had it- including stuttering, bed wetting and sleepwalking. “I’ll give you something to cry about” was a wasted threat on me, as it was pretty much my constant state of affairs anyhow.

So much so I’d come home from Sunday school and cry because people were mean to Jesus, reenacting scenes out of my little white faux leather bible where Ken would play the role of Jesus and Barbie would play Mary, but I’d change the ending so things would work out better for all concerned.

School did not hold fond memories, as I was a poor navigator of the social maze that included teasing, bullying and intimidation, spending much of my education in love with the learning but in fear of my fellow students.  Every hurtful phrase, long since forgotten by the heartless bullies who uttered them, is seared into my memory, including “I’d do her with a bag over her head” as I tried to walk invisibly by a pack of football jocks hanging out in the high school corridor.

Strangely enough, Miss Sensitive ended up as a sales manager, with a passion for non-profit fundraising on the side, a double dose of rejection that may seem like a heavy load for someone so fragile. Go figure. But somehow, I’ve compartmentalized my life so efficiently, that I can withstand amazing amounts of pressure when I’m working for the greater good of others. 

But when I’m alone, it’s a whole other story.

There are multiple things that can make me shed a tear on any given day.  I’ve cried reading books, and I’ve cried telling other people about the books I’ve read. I’ve cried listening to news of local tragedies, and I’ve cried poolside on vacation reading a magazine article about crimes against women on the other side of the globe. I don’t understand the phrase “It’s not real, it’s just a movie”, as I bawl my eyes out feeling the imaginary pain of the imaginary characters when their imaginary hearts break.

Being married to someone who relaxes by watching revenge movies is a relationship challenge, as I retreat to the kitchen to make dinner, while screams of torture emanate from my living room until I finally march in to announce “people are really being tortured at this very moment somewhere in the world” with a tear glistening in my eye as he turns the volume down ever so slightly, cautiously eyeing my potential breakdown out of the corner of his eye.

Yes, I can sometimes be dramatic. And yes, I’ve been told antidepressants may be in order.

But strangely, I don’t feel depressed. I feel emotionally wide open, and I’m not sure I would be myself if I weren’t.

Living wide open is sort of like the emotional equivalent of Planet Earth without our atmosphere to protect us from constant bombardment from space. Yes, it can be overwhelming at times, but in addition to the pain, I am also open to deep joy, bordering on misty eyes when it comes to babies, graduations, weddings and pretty much any time good things happen to good people.

I can also find moments of peace and thankfulness with something as simple as a sip of coffee in the morning, or watching an elderly couple taking a walk, gingerly holding each other up with their arms locked.

I’ve thought a lot about how much of this is just who I am, and how much of this a little pill could fix, but to paraphrase the great philosopher Kermit the Frog, “I’m sensitive, and I’ll do fine. It’s beautiful. And I think it’s what I want to be.”