I don’t know anymore what it means to not worry. I worry about everything. I think this is supposed to be one of the downsides of being a sensitive person. The way I figure it, sensitive people go through life like an open wound, raw, gaping. Sometimes we manage to sew ourselves up enough to keep it together.
The gift of being sensitive is in feeling good when you help somebody. Or loving so hard and so much that you know that no person has loved as hard and much as you are “right now.” And the sensual side of sensitivity certainly has its advantages when it comes to touch and taste.
But the downsides are so hard, y’all. I try to live in this worry. It’s more like carrying a load than living inside of something. If you live inside of something, then you at least get to rest sometimes. You at least get to eat and sleep. This is more like carrying something. When you carry something, even if it’s small, if you carry it long enough, or in the wrong way, it can become heavy.
It can make you doubt yourself and question your worth. It can make you feel like everybody you care about will be snatched away because you don’t deserve them.
There is a dark side to the light of looking into the world with sensitive eyes. Each thing is either brilliant and blinding, or it is devoid of even a tiny flame. And flames cast shadows.
There’s good news though. I used to wait for a rope to be dropped down to me. These days, I find the damned rope or holler up to somebody to toss one down.
I’m still journaling. Or I should say, I’m back to journaling. As you can see, I’m back to blogging, too.
I hope to catch up in here. My sensual side needs some stroking. My brain has been focused on the daily struggles of just getting through life. I want to come back here and say hello. I missed you.
How are you today?