If I told you that I'm emotionally sensitive, you wouldn't have a clue as to what I'm talking about.
I wouldn't have had a clue as to what I'm talking about until June of 2014,
When the nightmare that I had built my dreams upon came crashing down around me in a rain of diamonds and lies,
And I finally received the truth:
And since then, I have heard everything from:
That makes so much sense; you sound just like that that
Is that even a thing?
I don't know if it's a thing
But it's my thing.
Finally my world makes sense.
Finally I'm not drowning in emotions because I know how to sort them out and file them away in pretty little boxes.
Finally that bottle that held the pain of a ten-year-old girl who was ready to swallow the undead words of her peers like bitter pills of death and sleep the rest of her life away was finally opened and the demons let out.
Finally I was done saying "What can I do for you?" and started saying "What can I do for me?"
Finally I didn't have to stop and worry about what other people think of my, of my words, because the only opinion that should ever matter in this world is my own.
And the guilt crushes me every day.
The shame never lets up.
People ask "What is the hardest thing in life?"
I'll tell you: the hardest thing in life is when you cannot forgive yourself for sins that God has already deemed forgiven;
When you carry those chains that you yourself made unbreakable around with you for the rest of your life.
But I'm working on it.
I can smile again, and each little smile makes the chains a little lighter.
And I can love. And feel love through my veins and my broken-down, glued-together, duct-taped-up heart. I feel it.
And that makes it lighter, too.
Emotionally sensitive means that if a normal person's emotional dial has 50 notches, mine has 50,00;
If it takes you 5 minutes to forget something, it may take me 5 hours, days, weeks, years, lives to let it go.
If it takes you 10 minutes to cool down and regain control of your demons, I may never get to that point.
It may not be real.
It could be the mumbo-jumbo of the psychological world, but it makes sense.
My world makes sense.
My emotions make sense.
I can think and see the world in the shades that it really is without the veils of my own internal turmoil.
For so long, I locked myself away in self-invalidation, in castles built of stone and judgement, my OWN judgement; I weighed myself with chains of false perceptions and vowed that no one would ever be allowed back in to heal me because every time they did, I ended up more broken than before.
But those walls are coming down.
The smiles are coming through; I have life inside my body, inside my mind.
My emotions make sense again, and when they don't, I can figure them out like equations.
I have formulas that make me up instead of sporadic chaos.
I make sense.
Maybe it's a lie I've been told so I can get my shit together, but it's the best damn lie I've ever been told.