There are Times when I Hate being Highly Sensitive.

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There are times when I hate being highly sensitive.

I weep and press my pain into the page, as though it were flowers I could dry and look at, in a year from now, with equal parts fondness, frustration and warmth. Like a photograph of splattering emotions. 

Sensations cascade throughout my entire body. 

Tears come freely, as they land--each one becomes a word. 

"I wouldn't choose this", I think to myself. 

Except I totally would. Life is rich. Emotions are rivers. My heart roars the wildness of nature. Colors are bright. I love so deeply. I feel so much. 

I know there is beauty in this, I know it is a gift, it is the tenderness that sews me back together, it is the place that crashes like stardust, where the poetry comes from--

But it feels like sh*t, too. Like I have no skin. Like other people's energy ripples through me. Like I can taste what they're feeling, too. Like I know things that make no sense to my mind, but my soul understands it, somehow, in a language that is beyond time, beyond thought, beyond life, beyond death. 

And that's when it's really hard.

Hard to manage. Hard to breathe. Hard to sit still without dropping into what feels like a black hole. It's like I'm on the precipice of something that I doubt anyone would understand. 

It's like I am an island, all by myself. 

Goosebumps emerge, and it's like I feel the universe in my throat, there is so much love and so much beauty and so much hurt, but I don't know if I can hold it all. 

Because sometimes, it feels like the world rips me in two, just from walking out the door. In the hateful ways that people act, the stinging things they say, the way society stomps on women, the way people suffer, the way children go hungry. 

I feel it. I can't pretend that it's ever been any other way. 

I've tried numbness--and it's a false banner made of cheap plastic, for feelings also seep over the edges. They always plunge into my life somehow. 

There is an intensity in this---

I am so soft. 

I feel so much. 

I am vulnerable. 

I am gentle. 

I am sensitive. 

And I am so goddamn tired of hearing that this is weakness. That I should 'toughen up.' 

For being sensitive is actually my great act of rebellion---because wouldn't it be so easy to just armor up, and create a facade that isn't so real, but seems sparkly and ferocious. 

And all of this feels at the forefront now, for some reason--maybe it's the plumpness of the full moon, or that I am growing into fullness of myself. 

It's that I am not armoring myself anymore. I am not pretending to be anything other than who I am. 

And so I don't keep it at bay. 

Feelings comes like waves, I taste saltwater and swallow bits of the ocean in my tears. 

I mermaid around in the darkness, the sweet aquamarine waters that feel like home to me. 

I am different. Strange, maybe. I feel, what people say is 'too much.' 

But as I breathe here, my heartbeat slows. 

Because in truth, I am made for these depths--where feelings reign free, where anger lives, where shame resides, where hope transmutes into God, where beauty shines most brightly. 

Yes. 

I am made for these depths. 

And it hurts, and it feels isolating sometimes--this sensitivity, it's not just an inconsequential part of me---it's who I am. 

And in writing this, a most unexpected strength flows into me. 

Because there is water, but there is a secret kind of fire, too. 

Not fire to prove, to overpower anyone, or even, myself. 

It's the sun-like radiant fire in owning the beauty in who I am, finally--after all these years.

It's remembering all the times that I bought into the bitter lies that I am "too sensitive" for this world; that I should feel less; that I need to harden; that I am the problem; that my sensitivity means I have to take other people's sh*t; that softness means I'm powerless. 

And it's letting them go...

Because in truth, softness is what makes me so powerful. I source my strength from the gushing water of my feelings. 

And there is nothing wrong with that. 

Now, those old fears and beliefs part like sticky seaweed and the oceanic depths illuminate their own way. 

Softness prevails, like music. 

And it's this. It's this moment that I hold as it glows--and I cry even more, because I am starting to understand. 

It's this. 

It's all that happens when we finally begin to wholeheartedly embrace our gifts.