On Being Overly Sensitive

Since I'm  pretty sure it's the posting date and not the date a post was originally penned that is attributed when one procrastinates in the shadow of anxiety and trust issues, and then finally--after months--musters the courage to hit the "publish" button, I will start by saying that what follows has been sitting captive in my "drafts" since 12/17/12:

Self Portrait c.2012: It's important to control what one lets out...

I'm overly sensitive. Yep. I've been told that by more than one person. It's usually noted as a flaw, and yet, I draw on that sensitivity all the time in creating nuanced characters, relationships and conflict in fictional works. I also draw on it in my interactions with those who tend to be misunderstood. Because I'm overly sensitive, I tend to give others a chance, even if I don't "agree" with them. Differences can be a huge component of the beauty of life--creating variety and texture.

When people try to blanket those whose experiences are foreign to them with their own overly-specific ideas of how things should be ("it works for me, therefore it should work for everyone"), they make a small world, (and if they try to spiritualize their thinking, a small god), and they will inevitably alienate people.

I'm being alienated by some well-meaning people right now. I know what they think and say doesn't matter, but it still hurts. I'm glad for these trials, though, because they are broadening my world, even broadening my faith. The thoughtless words jabbing at me like knives cause me to immediately evaluate my own rhetoric and vow never to do the same to another person (although it is tempting to flip it around on those who are dishing it out on me... even facing that temptation, I hope, will build my own character.)

Becoming Hurts... Sometimes...

The kids are gone on a camping trip this weekend, and my new housemate said, "You know what that means... Movie Night!" 

Oh yeah! I will always go for that. If the boys are gone, that means one of two things: Either something rated R that I don't want them to see, or a chick flick that they don't want to see. I was leaning toward the former until about halfway through the long drive home from dropping them off. 

Driving along the coast, I was mesmerized by a duet of other-worldly light: a rising moon preening for her penumbral eclipse and a setting sun singing colorful strains deep, deep into the shimmering waters... their combined illumination providing seamless saturation. It was one of those deeply personal moments that feels too big to experience alone... and I knew who I wanted to share it with. But no! That would not be appropriate... yet there was no one else on the earth whom I could imagine understanding, who could hold me without distracting, who could sing along without opening his mouth. "Don't go there," I chided myself, too late. That was the moment I knew what the evening's movie would be: I would torture myself with truth and watch Becoming Jane again. 

The first time I watched that movie, I bawled my eyes out and then blogged, but this time I did not cry--not at all. I guess I was prepared for the journey that was necessary--the reality of doing what one must do--of two separate entities doing what they individually must do, be it for the greater good of society or family or whatever, for propriety, for nobility... in spite of the seeming perfection of their fleeting harmony, doing the right thing. 

Maybe it does get easier. Or am I just becoming numb?

Portrait of Jane Austen, drawn by her sisterCassandra (c. 1810)

Portrait of Jane Austen, drawn by her sisterCassandra (c. 1810)

My previous analysis concluded that Jane Austen was able to stay true to her passion, venting it through her fictional characters. Art flourished because of her passion, while Tom Lefroy settled for a substitute that was somehow less. I said that I could see myself going it alone as Jane did and pouring my passion into my writing. But I haven't really been doing that. I haven't been writing. Not here. Not on my other blogs or in my journal. No progress on my novels or scripts...

Maybe I'm not hurting that much, not because I'm growing or becoming, but rather because I'm stagnant, safe.