My mind has been harboring the harshest of criticisms, the purge of feelings, and the dire want for release.
It has been a while since I have posted. I acknowledged for sometime that my posts were in conjunction with the audience it garnered. My words seek to perform. Since then, I get an idea to write, sleep on it, and if I am still so inclined to passionately spew forth words of the heart, then I would continue.
That hasn’t happened for months. Until now.
Sensitivity in a sense is often thought of as weakness. In any culturally significant setting, sensitivities are overlooked, called giant pussies and repeatedly crushed and ground to the ashes that will never rebirth strength, but only harrowing bitterness.
Grow thicker skin
It’s not all about you, you know
Stop being so selfish
You’re way over thinking this
(And for hard right’rs,) Snowflake.
I am absolutely a sensitive person. I dance around hidden connotations, climb to seek acceptance, and trample my character in ways to eliminate the overpowering feeling of being so utterly inadequate.
I have spent my whole life squashing my way into friend circles, squeezing into packs of people to fill my God-shaped hole of abandonment, only to recoil and realize how much of a waste of space I seem to be in my own mind. Rapport does not come naturally to me whatsoever. Kindness on the other hand, keeps my feet light in this mud I find myself in, time and time again. Kindness to me, and to others, as sensitivity comes with raw experience. Years and years of gazing at facial expressions, seeing ellipses vanish on texts, eventual exclusions, to sleepless nights wondering what I am doing by partaking in X group. Or talking to Y people. Why doesn’t person Z approve of me?
Within relationships, I am inevitably met with criticism and conflict, resolving with the ebbing of longevity and promise. Sensitive people, like me, find themselves thrust into situations almost candidly invasive, whether it’s a dinner with friends turned intervention for something you say regarding your feelings being hurt (love you guys, you know who you are but fuck that was brutal. The North Remembers). It’s a Saturday night alone waiting by your phone to ring, but it never does. It is the despairing and guttural tone your voice makes when you sing a song, that one song, which explains the sorrow so forcefully. It’s the course displacement of standing alone in a group of people that have their kids or husbands as the binding stitch to envelop natural camaraderie, while you observe from a distance. It’s the footsteps you take in place of those trekked in snow before you, to not make yourself appear anymore hyper aware than you already are by your apparent “selfish” ways.
This naturally ostracizes, causing more and more loneness, until you find yourself glaring down an abysmal pit that is both what you rely on, and your worst enemy.
I am here to declare that my sensitivity is by no means a weakness. It is a means to understanding, to sympathy. It is a hyperawareness that can lead to deeper meaning in everyday things. It turns the mundane into a new, exciting aspect, like turning a stone to a different facet, catching light in a new way. It is the feeling of hearing the birds chirp the world awake after staying up all night, dispelling the clutches of existential terror that flapped your eyelids awake all night.
Sensitivity shows us the path and forces us to learn quicker and become more acute, it by no means is a sentence of any sorts. It shouldn’t jail our minds, or character at the hands of others. The wonderful thing about this planet is we are all giant pieces of the puzzle. You might be a steady, prioritized corner piece; I might be an indistinguishable cluster of convex ridges. No piece is more crucial than the other. There are no “sides.” There is (or shouldn’t be) no us and them. Sensitivity is not a buzzword to be applied to people who operate differently than you. It is powerful to be able to feel too deeply.