You Are So Sensitive

We are born to a world that bombards us

I was talking to someone at a party when a woman came over and said, “I’m a psychologist and I overheard your conversation. There’s a book you should read. It’s called ‘The Highly Sensitive Person.’” I wasn’t sure whether to laugh, be insulted, or write it down.

Before I had opinion, I probably didn’t annoy her as much

When I was young, my mother called me sensitive, but it seemed more of a tool to excuse something hurtful she’d said than a genuine opinion. I came to hate the term because of its criticism for something innate. “You’re too this, you’re too that,” always boiled down to my over-sensing things. And in her judgment, that sensing was not acceptable. This thing that I was could not be turned off. It could only be hidden. Sometimes. I did learn to toughen my outer shell, which is another phrase for pretending you’re not hurt, but when I got good at that, I’d go too far in the other direction. I could hurt back with the best of them. My old bar days had taught me well. But I didn’t want to have to be the best of the worst in order to protect myself.

Eventually, I read the book. I was curious about changes I’d noticed in myself, sensitivities getting stronger over time in a way that was not all that pleasant. Sound was something that overwhelmed me. As a young girl, I could ride in a car with my father and sing along to every radio song shamelessly loud. He was impressed that I knew all the words even as the musician in him couldn’t help but critique the song itself. “Why does every song have the word ‘baby’ in it?” he’d ask. But then I got to a point where I’d leave a store or promise never to return to a restaurant because of the music I’d heard in it. Some song from that place would be so lodged in my brain that it would wake me in the middle of the night two weeks later. Music was definitely something I’d become more sensitive to.

Now, long after my father’s death, I’m beginning to understand that he also had this highly-sensitive problem, at least as it related to music. He played piano professionally. But as he aged, he did it less so. When I noticed it, I’d request a song, some jazz or classical piece he used to love, and he’d shake his head no. This was before I developed the musical sensitivity myself, and he didn’t explain his reluctance, so I’d push some more, thinking it would be good for him to return to his music. Eventually he would rise, walk to his piano, sit down and play the piece for me. But it was with a grayness that told of his suffering. He knew that pleasing me in that moment would cost him for a long time to come. Probably he’d wake in the middle of the night weeks later unable to escape the music between his ears.

Trying to follow in Dad’s footsteps, keeping Snoopy for support

No one talked about sensitivity in those days.

According to the book, about a quarter of the population—humans and animals alike—have this increased level of sensitivity. It can show up in various forms, including sensitivity to sound, light, smell, and stimulation. It comes with gifts too, like an ability to be especially intuitive about people or situations. As a society, this 25 percent is useful to us all in ways I’ve mostly forgotten now. Maybe the author was just trying to make us feel good about our uniqueness. But a special comfort among animals was part of it and I definitely inherited, and enjoy, that experience.

Today the word empath gets used in social media in a trendy way. Several people have described themselves to me as empaths. When I first read about it, it seemed to describe me too. But really, I’m not sure it’s any different than being highly sensitive. We’re just people who feel things strongly, the good and the bad. But with age, some of what used to be good, like singing at the top of my lungs, can intensify to the misery of waking up mid-night and being unable to escape from the noise. I’m learning to practice tools that help shield my senses a bit so I can separate myself from the world at a level you normal people do naturally. Being in nature is my favorite place. Nothing in nature is ever too much for my senses–not sound, nor light, nor scent. It’s all just right.

I’m writing this on a screened porch in the back of my house. I’ve counted eight squirrels pecking at seeds, standing on hind legs holding peanuts up for inspection. Squirrels make a noise you’d never believe came from a squirrel until you saw their bodies move with the effort. They also do something called splooting, which is basically laying themselves out flat, limbs spread. In the summer, it’s a way to cool their bodies of heat. But these squirrels sometimes do it just to spread out and eat in front of a pile of seed. There’s honeysuckle still covering the vines behind the fence, and the beginnings of a mimosa tree that smells just as pink as the blooms will soon look. I’ve learned the names of twenty different birds since living here and I’m coming to know their habits. The brightest red cardinals like to wait until it’s almost dark in the evenings to eat when everyone else has made their way back home. Maybe they are sensitive to all the movement around them.

This is the good part of being labeled sensitive. I didn’t go looking for it, and I don’t think it’s what my mother meant when she called me that so long ago. But if it’s true, I’ll take it. It’s the thing that brought me out here to this porch, in this spot in the world where everything is a little bit wild. Watching newborn foxes tumble over each other just outside the fence brings me more joy than travel ever has. If we have next lives (and the thought of that is so exhausting), I suspect mine will come with fur.

May your sensitivities bring you to life’s finest pleasures.

p.s.: If you enjoyed this article, please share it or like it to help Our Hundred Years continue.