Confessions of a hypersensitive personality

Stupid stupid stupid.

That’s how I feel whenever I catch myself hurt over something/someone…again.

I’m not quite sure how it happens, but somehow my heart slips out when I’m not looking and latches itself onto things/people that cause me anxiety and pain.

Like a mischievous pet, it doesn’t obey my stern command to ‘not care’ and then wanders off without my consent.

The smallest incidents at work, with friends, with strangers, with boys…they affect me so much, more than I care to admit, more than I want to allow.

In anger and frustration I cry out, “STOP CARING.”

Yet my heart sits there, painful and unyielding, still hurting, still beating.

Stupid stupid stupid.

Don’t you know, silly thing? Don’t you know how this will end? Don’t you know what lies ahead? Have we not been through this countless times? You don’t listen, you don’t heed my warnings, you don’t learn.

How is it that after years of cuts and bruises you remain so reckless? How is that you’re still here, causing me so much trouble after so long? What do I have to do to make you see, make you understand, make you stop?

I want you to stop.

Stop caring:

About being liked

Her approval

His attention

Their intention

Being recognized

Being appreciated

Fitting in

Standing out

Pleasing them

Looking good

That comment

Their opinion

Just stop.

I just want things to not affect me so darn much. Is that too much to ask? Every interaction, the most miniscule gesture, innocent words…cut through me like a dull and clumsy knife.

Against my will, without my consent, my heart clings to any and every thing despite my continuous insistence that it be indifferent.

Stupid stupid stupid.

I have begged a thousand times for relief – or at least an explanation, a reason this burden was placed in my weak chest.

Don’t you know how frail I am? Don’t you realize how much it hurts? Does it not matter what I want?

Indignation wells up inside me. Anger boils to the surface.

Fine.

Have it your way.

‘It’s a gift,’ they say, to feel so deeply. Never has something been less welcome.

But I’m stuck with it.

I fight; I wrestle; I run; anything to escape this feeling, beating thing: but it is relentless; it is a part of me.

Why is it here? What is it for?

‘To love.’ But don’t they know? Don’t they see how hard it is? How painful?

“My vocation is Love”

Can I do it? Will I accept it?

I just wish I didn’t feel everything so much.

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