Too sensitive. The accusation, the pity, etch my soul. I felt all the pain and betrayal, all the neglect and abuse, every silently suffering stupidity around me. My involuntary tears painted a bullseye on my forehead, turning on the waterworks, or taking it all too seriously. I came to hate my own senses, unable to turn any of it off, tune any of it out. Muting my responses dug into the heart of my privacy, dignity, but I had far less control than I needed.
I felt crazy. Weak and deformed. Cracked, leaking, and sparking. One year, the worst of all, I managed comfortably numb, Pink Floyd vibrating through my bones. It was like my whole self had gone to sleep, like a crossed leg, a slept upon hand, a horrible sensation of disconnection and loss.
Only during the last sixteen years with D, who loves me entire, who sees my twists and scars as proof of character, raw and compelling as Red Rock country, have I embraced my yawning gaps and wells of tears. I have come to believe when I feel broken and isolated, that I am, yes, flawed, amputated, wobbly. And that damage is why I can see into others' hearts, why I can understand. My ability to keep my reactions covered has improved, a quilt of cheerfulness, a merry laugh of genuine distraction.
Unlike the obviously good gifts of the fairies, that often turn out to be curses, the curse of the "bad" fairy is the hard gift, and the one that opens up the world. No easy, painless, lazy distraction, but the wretched path to real peace. Feeling deeply leads me to understand what, exactly, I am experiencing.
The easy, quiet roads all lead to vague dissatisfactions and despair. Comfort that hides truth, silence that precludes necessary, harsh, words, are traps. The drugged denial of feeling leads away from humanity, and insight.
My sensitivity is a blessing entire. I know what I have endured, so I can know how to love, and give. Pain won't kill me, a broken heart will heal (albeit with the doors knocked off.) Loss will fill with new understanding, tears will dry in the presence of laughter, love grows more the more who share in it, open, open open, withhold nothing.
I cast my senses out, fearing no torn holes. I know how to mend them. A net in a box rots uselessly, better shredded and lost to the storm in the attempt. Insensitivity is no virtue. Responsiveness engages, grows, changes.
I stretch out my arms, my heart aches, tears burn my eyes, laughter burbles.
7 comments:
I'm cheering!
And I love the image of the net.
Bless you, yes, it is a blessing! You express it so beautifully, as always. I often think that perhaps it's easier for those of us who've gone through feeling sorely, rawly 'different' to welcome getting older - that it brings self-acceptance is such a... yes, a blessing! I'm so glad you are true to yourself, in all your prickly, stormy complexity, and that it permeates your writing.
The first paragraph reminds me slightly of my childhood.
"The easy, quiet roads all lead to vague dissatisfactions and despair."
Shh! I'm in denial!
Yes, beautifully written. It ain't easy being sensitive, most especially in daunting circumstances. But it cetainly has its gifts. Surviving and thriving can be exhilarating, and then, with self-acceptance comes the ability to really use those gifts...
excellent, z. also like randomness of camera angle.
I still have to remind myself that it's not personal, and then to let it go when it's over. Typical writer, think of the best stuff too late.
P. The copper Shield of Denial. Just don't go out in any thunderstorms.
mark, I take that as a great compliment from you. I pointed the camera up to the open sky above our building's back courtyard, door half open, trying not to let the rain wet the camera.
Beautiful, dear Zhoen.
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