When You’re Sensitive Like Me
It’s a relief to get a bit of silence. To take a break from all the stupid annoyances that you wish didn’t bother you so much. A new pet peeve is added to your list each day, and you can’t even watch the news without losing all hope for humanity.
I remember reading Anne Frank’s diary at age 13. I remember those images, the darkness and the loneliness; her words haunting me for months. I used to wonder what she would have grown to be–what she would have written. And when you’re sensitive like me, these things become dark clouds–with even darker shadows–hiding all the good in the world. You’ll cry at night, overwhelmed with grief that peace on Earth feels so far away. And you’ll isolate yourself out of fear that no one could possibly understand you.
And as you grow older you’ll start to understand your sensitivity. You’ll hate that everything hits so hard; you’ll hate that you feel everyone’s pain. And then will come the moments when you’re a passenger in your best friend’s car in the summertime. The top is down and the sun is setting behind the clouds, shining like it’s calling out to the world. It reaches up towards the sky as it takes its final breath before the night comes. And your favorite song is blasting through the air as the winds splash upon your skin. And this moment feels like happiness was made for you by the hands of God. And you remember every tear you’ve ever shed, every single heartbreak, every betrayal and all that pain that still lives within you, and you’ll feel so fucking strong. These moments are diamonds that fill our lives with value, our hearts with love, and we remember them forever. And when you’re sensitive like me, all it takes is a moment; all it takes is a beautiful sunset and a fast yellow car to feel untouchable.