Lately, I’ve been nose-diving my way into territory that is quite unknown to me.
Not literally, of course.
Social distancing regulations and COVID-19’s knack for infiltrating every square inch of our lives are single handedly disallowing me to go anywhere in a non-metaphorical sense.
But figuratively speaking, I’m currently dipping my toes in waters I’d yet to swim in until now.
And by this, I mean that I’m starting to let emotions see the light of day without trying to push them back into the cognitive cavity they originated from…which is uncomfortable, to say the least.
And not only am I allowing my feelings to introduce themselves and stay awhile, but in addition, I’m pushing through the society-inflicted shame that arises when you’re anything but happy-go-lucky.
My life has been a sequence of interactions in which person after person after person has told me I’m too sensitive.
And it has always perplexed me because…
Well, how in the world would they know?
Did you somehow connect yourself to my inner world?
If so, I digress.
Mad respect, if this is the case.
Sounds like a scientific advancement in the making. Allow me to connect you with the APA. I’m sure they’d be enthralled by your abilities.
See, I’m keen to assume that no one has the hidden talent of tapping into my cranium and feeling my emotions exactly as I feel them.
And yet, up until my twenty-fifth spin around the sun, I accepted the label. I have silenced my emotions and berated them with the mortification bestowed upon me by the people who told me it’s flawed of me to feel anything in the first place…not to mention too much of something.
I reached my threshold for self-inflicted emotional suppression a short while ago, and it’s been a psychological enlightenment of sorts.
It all started when I asked myself…
❝ Wait a minute… Am I really too sensitive? ❞
❝ Hold up… Is anyone really too sensitive? ❞