The Curse of Sensitivity

The curse of sensitivity

Imagine being able to feel the slightest hair brush against your skin. Imagine being so aware of your body that you can catalogue all your aches and pains by location, intensity, and duration. Imagine ordinary smells having flavors: feet, body odor, plastic, etc.

This is the curse of sensitivity.

Many don’t feel this wide a spectrum of sensation. I think the world population would lose its collective mind if that were the case. But there are a few of us who can name the miseries and joys of life in excruciating detail.

I can feel the electromagnetic field of a television from across the room. The crazy part is that the television is plugged into an outlet but not “on.” It’s like nails on the chalkboard of my teeth.

I can smell when something is cooked to perfection in the oven. It has a specific odor and heat. I couldn’t describe the mechanics. I just know.

I purchased a new microwave, a standard 1000w, and my son says to me, “It’s so nice to cook without having to guess.” Or, “You cook it, Mom. I always mess it up.” I didn’t realize until then that my sons could not feel the same things I do.

I take this delicate awareness for granted. I swim in an ocean of sensation.

I can see a wide spectrum of colors too. I remember my sister-in-law, who attended university to become a chef and sommeliere, asked me how I knew the boiling potatoes weren’t done.  I speared one piece with a fork and showed her.

“See the center. It’s slightly darker so it isn’t cooked all the way through. I can feel the texture through the fork. If you don’t cook it all the way through, whipped potatoes become chunky.”

She looked at me like I was crazy. I didn’t realize it at the time, but she was nonplussed by my haphazard approach to cooking. She couldn’t see the difference in color or even texture. Yes, the potatoes came out perfect.

I take this delicate awareness for granted. I swim in an ocean of sensation. I hear things that others cannot. It’s nothing like spirits. Instead, it’s the distant hum of every news station covering the same event. Snippets will come through but not necessarily anything that makes sense. I used to look around to find the source but no more.

There are some energies I’ve learned to interpret. Images form in mind as my skin and bones vibrate like a tuning fork. I can tell people things about themselves that even they don’t know. Some people call me a psychic, but that’s not what I am.

I am a walking, breathing tower of electrical lines, cellular receivers, and satellites. Only those who ingest LSD might understand the reality of my existence. I “trip” every day. There is no surcease except for the dark embrace of sleep, and even then, I’m awakened by the slightest sound.

The constant bombardment of cell phones, computers, and pollution take their toll on my constitution. Depression is exhaustion. Anxiety is hypervigilance. What will come next? Why do I sleep for hours on end? Why do I stay up all night staring at the ceiling?

Through this all, through the grief of loss and the sweetness of love, I remain stoic. I cannot function if I allow the depth of my emotions to manifest. I would be in jail if I lost a rein on my fury. Others consider me “cold.”

If the other 98% of the population could understand that my tribe is not broken but simply high-fidelity, I think mental “illness” would be treated differently. Our heightened senses would be acknowledged and fortification against the onslaught would be readily available.

Please. Be kind to each other.

Psychiatric research has established that trauma, an event or events that overwhelm baseline coping mechanisms, alters the structure and thus the chemistry of the brain. The findings are replicated through CAT scans and MRI images. The findings are observed in autopsies.

As a Sensitive, daily rejection would and did traumatize me. The threat of pain was enough to create that pain within me. Shouting was a fog horn in my ears. Ridicule was a stomach ache that would not go away. As a child I had no vocabulary, no experiences, to communicate my profound discomfort.

Even “non”-sensitives are traumatized to a degree, so it is in the best interests of our species to cultivate kindness and sympathy for each other. Children and the elderly are especially vulnerable, and society suffers as a result.

Please. Be kind to each other. Show sympathy for the tribulations of others, even if you don’t understand. Kindness and sympathy may be the best tonic for a suffering world and you, as an individual, could be a contributor to the cure one act of kindness at a time.

©2018. I.O. Kirkwood. All rights reserved for text. Image may be subject to copyright.

 

Insufferable existence

The Insufferable Reality of Being

My insides have been excoriated. Burned, salted, and frozen. I experience the agony like a physical pain that pulls my blood, my essence, into a pit of physical inception.

My goal is to break free of this intense apathy as the spirit roils within the bonds of flesh, tethered by a soul that desires manifestation. I am fighting the animal of my body whose bones have been programmed to fight, flee, and survive.

Before, I was too ill to wrestle with this demon. Though I am mostly well, the demon has grown toothier, hoarier, and sharper of claw. Survival is a traitorous bitch.

…now I look it in the eye. I scream in its face.

I have not escaped. I have not been ripped from my fate by the cold hands of medical science. Where before I had done everything imaginable to escape the horror of inception, now I look it in the eye. I scream in its face. I refuse to turn my back to it. I’m willing to name it.

About once every two weeks, I wake and know it will not be a good day. My body will ache, my head will throb, and my core will compact into a small, burning coal that sears the space below my rib cage. The Ego knows I long to escape. The Id throws temper tantrums that dance upon my teeth. I struggle within a concrete vise of emotional sterility.

I do not see things as others do. I am made differently. On purpose.

Sanity is a lipstick that smears my mouth. I’ve been raped by too many dark truths, drowned in too many deceptions, and hung too many times for crimes not my own to subscribe to this world’s idea of what is acceptable.

I do not see things as others do. I am made differently. On purpose. I am labeled insane by a society that does not see the wonders or the dangers that I do. I feel for a wounded world. Your hurts, his despair, her anxiety, are all within me. And still I smile because your joy, his relief, and her laughter are all within me too.

I often wonder if I have feelings of my own. Perhaps I do, but they are buried beneath the demands of this reality. I long to escape, and in the moments of agony, I realize that I cannot.

©2018. I.O. Kirkwood. All rights reserved for text. Image may be subject to copyright.