Westport, MA
The most damaging and hurtful criticism frequently spoken over me as a child was this simple phrase: “You’re too sensitive!”
I was three or four the first time I remember hearing it. The hours I spent playing in our small sandbox were punctuated by frequent requests for my mom to take off my navy blue sneakers, dump out the sand, and then retie them. I imagine she was worn out by the repetition and one day, the words leaked out. Even though I was quite young, I knew it was not meant as a compliment.
I can now tolerate sand in my shoes but I’ve not outgrown many of my other sensitivities. Extended time in buildings with artificial lights and no windows often results in a headache. Particular sounds (e.g., styrofoam against cardboard) can make me feel like I want to hurt someone. Visual imagery continues to profoundly affect me. I can still recall scenes from Looking for Mr. Goodbar and Tales from the Crypt, some forty-five years after watching them as a teenager. (Apparently, this is quite common for higly sensitive people, also known as HSPs.) And you might agree with my mom’s charge if you peeked into our bedroom and saw all of my sleep accouterments including blackout shades, mounds of pillows, four layers of foam, earplugs, eye shades, air filter, and fan. (Just imagine what fun it would be to travel with me—and then buy my husband a drink the next time you see him.)
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Photo shot in Westport, MA, early in the morning.