I've always been a sensitive person. And I've always been told that it's a bad thing —as if being sensitive makes me weak. Turns out, that's just not true. I get it though. Because a highly sensitive person (HSP), experiences the world differently than others. And I think it's because only 15 to 20 percent of the population are HSPs; so we're often misunderstood. I just wish I knew about this earlier. Because for the longest time, I was told there was something wrong with me. Friends of mine couldn't understand why I acted the way I acted. Heck. I didn't even know why. Until now. Because I recently found out that I have a personality trait called HSP (I'm a highly sensitive person). It's not a disease or a disorder. And it's not something learned; it's something I was born with —like in my DNA. And when I understood that, things finally made sense. Like when I first read a description about what it means to be an HSP, it was like looking at myself in the mirror. I never realized there was a specific term to describe my way of perceiving the world. It brought incredible relief to know I wasn’t the only one. So if you can relate to any of this, here are 13 signs you're a highly sensitive person (just like me).
Sometimes I feel as if I’m a failure at a disease I never asked for —something I could have never prevented. Most days, yeah. I look like everybody else. But I’m not. I want to feel normal. I don’t want to be different. But I am. Every single morning, I get out of bed just like you, but my routine is probably different than yours. I mean, how would your life change if you were diagnosed with a life-threatening illness that you were told was incurable? For me, I’m tired. I’m tired of having to prick my finger every time I want to leave the house or do anything for that matter. I’m tired of worrying that maybe one day, I will not wake up. Because yeah, there’s a chance, I won’t make it past a certain age because of some diabetic complication. Oh and, I’m tired just thinking about how tired I am. But no one really notices. No one actually wants to talks about it. But I do —even though, most can’t understand. No one understands because you don’t until you do. You don’t because you don’t have too —until it’s you. Well, now it’s me. I was never good at math but now I have to be. And even though, it's apart of my new normal, I don't think I'll ever get used to it. So this is what I want you to know.
Don’t pretend you know me. Sometimes I don’t even know myself. I certainly didn't back then and neither did he. It hurts that I let him take advantage of me. I'd say no but he'd expect a show. Why? Because I was chemically chained to a friend turned foe. Like when everything hurt —from my body to my skin, I caved and said, “Fine. Let’s begin.” I knew the password (you fucking coward). With one simple word, I could get blurred. But at what cost? I was pissed off, sick and lost. Can you relate? If so, let me advocate. You're not your abuse. You're more like the Greek GOD Zeus. You're the cleverness that survived. So don't forget that you're still alive. And even though I can't erase the fact that maybe we were raped, above all, you're the courage that escaped. Because in the end I fucking won. Here's how it was done.
Dear self, I've been holding onto a lot and I've got to get it out. I'm mad —mostly at myself. I'm mad because I lost over six years of my life. I'm mad that I didn't say no or ask for help sooner. And yeah, I'm mad that I'm mad. It's like the figurative bases were loaded in the game of life. I had one walk to win the game and one out to lose it all. The metaphorical pitcher releases the ball from his glove as gravity accelerates it straight into my bat. It’s like everything was set in place for me to succeed. I was supposed to succeed. Like all I had to do was hit the damn ball. But I couldn’t even do that. So I'd snort a line instead. Not anymore. Starting today, I'm going to try a little harder. I'm going to put in some effort to mend what's broken like all the people I fucked over. I'm going to start on the inside though. Because in order to heal, we must first forgive. And sometimes, the person we need to forgive most is ourselves. Here goes nothing.
Dear Mr. Painkiller. Goodbye to you. I thought I’d never get your poison off my skin. I thought your toxins would grip me in and take me down, but today I am taking you and saying my goodbyes. It all started with a blue circular pill. A pill smaller than a fucking pea. So how could one tiny chemical combustion actually combust me? I don't know, but it happened. I had to have all of you and somewhere along the way, you took all of me.
In my last blog post, I discussed how I’m trying to swim through life with multiple mental illnesses but I can’t even float. It feels like I’m sinking with nothing to stop me but me. And so, I pretend everything is okay. And if you're like me, you want to feel normal but maybe you just don't know how. Well, here are three mental health treatment options that can bring you back to the person you were always meant to be.
A blue circular pill, created from a scientific formula designed to take away the pain. But in all reality, it's killing me. On one side, I had the boy of my dreams. The other, the reason my life was falling apart at the seams. On the outside, it looked like I didn't care. On the inside, I was really scared. In short, I used to hush the chaos in my head. Like I said— I was addicted, restricted, and fucking conflicted.
You have to kill it before it kills you. Your worst enemy. Your best friend. You hate it. You love it. You can’t live with it. You can’t live without it. You want to be happy. You should be happy, but you can’t take your finger off the trigger. Why? Because want and need are two different things.
It's over. It's been over for a while now. It took a lot to delete your number; even longer to block you on Facebook. I was still holding, afraid to let go. They say it gets easier each day. I know I wake up further from what I used to be. But some days are easier than others. If I were to say I didn’t miss you —that would be a lie.
If you knew my story, would I still have you? If you knew who I used to be, would you still love the girl I have become?
She sits there quietly, laying still; but her head is spinning. Her legs are crossed; pretending— that her life isn't ending, one li(n)e at a time. High off pills and potions; Oxy has this white girl lacking emotions. Externally, she's calm and serene. Reality —she's anything but clean; when playing her favorite role as trap queen.
Psychopath. Pyromaniac. Fake laugh. Body cast. Nicotine patch. Can I make it last? You mean no. You say yes. First place? Second best. High fashion? Worst dressed. Never right. Always wrong. Trying to find my voice. But I got no song. What's up, Donkey Kong? And when I still can't get it right, I try to remember —Brad Pitt. The club. Fight. I might, just win. Fuck this life of sin.
I was walking a tightrope between my old familiar behavior, and the life I thought I wanted. Little did I know, it was leading me to death. The new unknown path promised hope, but I didn't want hope. I wanted to get high. It was a dangerous time. In spite of my wishful attempts to better myself, one part of me —obviously the more influential part, always succeeded in undermining my good intentions.
There would be no real way of knowing then that I was about to create a storm that would soon ravage all in its line of vision. Everything, my world —up in smoke. Just when I thought I had conquered it all, when things couldn’t get any worse, I found myself lost, alone, and addicted.