It used to be, when someone told me I was sensitive, I was frustrated and, well, hurt. Sensitive seemed like a bad word, an insult, and something that made me immediately defensive. I’m not sensitive — you’re just INsensitive!
I still think it can be hurled like an insult. Almost anything can, if you use right derisive tone of voice and a condescending glance. But after a few years of relative isolation and feeling unknown, I am now finding a new response to “sensitive” — relief.
Oh, good. You know. You understand. You see me. You recognize that this is an area to be careful around, just a a finger that has just been smashed in a door jam is sensitive and needs a little extra protection.
I am home sick. Literally, almost to the point of nauseousness. There are other things contributing, too, but the homesickness is more intense than it’s every been, and the tears hover very near the surface. I keep trying to explain away my problems, rationalize my situation, talk a good stiff upper lip into myself, drag myself through these next several weeks.
“And also, the landscape was more homelike. You are strongly affected by such things.”
More than yes. Absolutely, completely dead-on.
My surroundings must take care of me. And if they don’t, I have to change them. I cannot, unfortunately, change the landscape of the biggest mountain range on the continent. And so I feel oppressed. I’m not speaking in hyperbole. I do not just feel uncomfortable, or out of place, or disconcerted. I feel, literally, oppressed.
I am sad. I hide in my room. Even though there is sunshine and fresh air outside. It is not okay. And I can’t fix it. I can only endure.