Please don’t tap the glass

A few years ago, my therapist told me that I had a highly-sensitive personality. My whole life, I had attributed sensitivity to being problematic for those around me. I would cry every morning when my mother brushed my hair. I would become deflated if my cereal didn’t taste as nice as I expected it to. I beamed with joy when my favourite song came on the radio. I sobbed when my parents went to the shop without me, afraid they would never come back. I would bite down on my bed sheets when I got frustrated. I struggled to process any emotion correctly.

People always told me I was “too much”, but no one was actually able to give me a proper description when I begged for what I could do differently. I longed to be like everyone else, longed to be regulated. I began to have noticeable struggles with my mental health when I was around eight years old, and I started to experience severe intrusive thoughts that I never had the language to know how to express. I was so convinced my existence was a burden, so I found it difficult to trust someone to help me. I used to ask my parents “Do you ever find it so weird that you’re a real person? I just don’t feel real.” I got so used to feeling that way growing up that I actively avoided getting help for it. I found an odd sense of comfort in feeling so low and detached. I have an incredible amount of empathy for those who refuse refuge. Fear lives in the unknown and it’s so much harder to lose happiness and contentment when it re-enters your life after a long period. Even now, I still struggle to stay present in good moments because I am so cautious of getting used to that feeling. Pain can be addictive and in the current climate of so much damage happening in the world, it seems like the only natural response. I spent so many of my teen years talking about my emotions in the most vague sense, afraid of appearing hysterical.

I didn’t have anyone I could model myself after when it came to expressing my emotions. All I had was the act of letting everything fester, resulting in one massive day-long argument a year, which I believed to be the normal response. I thought I was wrong for having this intense inner monologue at all times. My whole family had this phrase that went “if it’s far from your ass, you won’t sit on it” — inferring that you can separate yourself enough from any problem if you push it away far enough — and so I started to live my life by that motto. However, all it meant was that I was ignoring all of my problems and squashing them down to a digestible pill. I was always told not to worry about things, but no one was talking to me about what was worrying me, which caused it to grow and grow into this unavoidable feat that I had to manage all on my own.

Through my last years in primary school, I was pretty severely bullied by my friend group. I found it hard to function in group dynamics, so I would gravitate towards only one or two people. I would give them everything I had in the friendship, and each time, it was always turned back on me for seeming like I was too obsessed with them. These girls would make prank calls to my house, send me messages from fake social media accounts, made up a rumour that I was giving blow-jobs to the boys in the school next to us, not invite me to sleepovers, hide my belongings in class, make fun of me for always being sick, and on and on, and still my only response was to continue asking them to spend time with me. Was it embarrassing to be liked by me?

I went to a secondary school where I knew nobody and made the conscious decision to switch off my emotions. I was not going to make the same mistake twice. This seemed to work for a long time. I had friends, people liked me, I was doing well academically, yet something always seemed peculiar. I started experiencing prolonged depression and anxiety at around fourteen years of age. I began to numb myself by completely sinking into any new music or tv show I could find for any sort of outlet to pour what I was feeling into. So much of my brain capacity has been taken over by useless facts about a million celebrities. I was really good at making new friends, but knew that they wouldn’t stick around long enough to have any real impact on my life. From my understanding, I thought that’s what growing up was. It wasn’t that I didn’t have good moments, but the highs were cosmic and the lows felt desolate.

I’ve had people in my life that have gone and left me hollow. I’ve always taken pride in how much effort I put into friendships, and though I’m initially resentful when they leave, I don’t regret trying so hard with them. I found so much joy in the time I spent with these people and I saw some real magic there. Sometimes it hurts, but I’ll never be mad at my capacity to see the good in people even if they don’t turn out how I thought they would. There are traces of them through so many memories, and spotify playlists, but it’s contributed to who I am now and I feel somewhat grateful for that. I thought I found someone who was bound to be in my life forever in some capacity and instead I just found a story — a simple paragraphical anecdote and a page I can always turn.

My therapist explained to me that I felt more than the average person when it came to my emotions, and how I regulated them. When I was happy, I felt truly untouchable, and when I was sad, I was wholly numb. It was the most invaluable validation I have ever gotten. The tiny six year old who thought so much was wrong with her was just wired a little differently. Since discovering and accepting this, a lot of truly incredible things have happened. I am starting to become less afraid of letting others in and I no longer see sensitivity as a curse placed upon me, but more the opportunity to connect with myself and others. My feelings are the only thing that are entirely mine alone. There is an extraordinary element to that.

Just under a decade ago, I started to secretly categorise my life into ‘those moments’. These are the little moments in my life that I would describe as being perfect — where I felt most content and at peace. Looking back, I believe these are the times that I allowed myself to switch my emotions back on. I get so overwhelmed by other people and their kindness — by the joy that can be felt in the world.

I remember how I felt when my friend bought me flowers when I graduated college. I enter a dreamy haze thinking of getting dinner with my friends in London a few years ago. I still beam at the thought of seeing my friend for the first time after he was missing for a few weeks. I love thinking about the day a friend drove us to college for the last time as students. And how another made sure I sat in the shade because he knew the sun gave me a migraine. I feel so much when I see the sky, and when I try new food, and when I watch my favourite film, or when I meet someone who loves it too. I get goosebumps when I hear certain songs and feel electric when I listen to music with someone who means a lot to me. I want to burst into tears when someone talks about me to their friends, or remembers any minute detail about me or what’s going on in my life. I am able to be more empathetic to others. I can connect with them in ways I never thought was possible. Being told that someone feels safe around me will always be the warmest compliment I have ever been given.

The low moments are still hard, but I have begun to gravitate more to gratitude when it surrounds my emotions. I was in pain for so long, pushing people away at any opportunity I got. Even if it hurts, to feel is so much better than not at all. I get overwhelmed at small things, shockingly stressed, desperately sad and deeply angry, but I can’t even begin to process these emotions if I wasn’t feeling them how I needed to. I thought it would be easier to squash it all down. I like myself so much more in my deeply emotional state. I wish I could go back to my younger self and tell her she is okay. I used to say that I understood why I got bullied, and give a list of reasons as to why, but I was so wrong and I feel a great deal of shame for doing that. I did not deserve that. I just didn’t know how to use my tools. To feel is the greatest gift of all.