The process of excavating Sensitive Girl requires me to tell the truth about why she went into hiding in the first place. My dad had this huff that let you know when he was done with you. There was a reward for being funny and a profound sting that came with his exasperation. The worst days were when he called me a “nuisance,” a word that causes a wince forty years later, even though he’s been in the ground for more than a decade.
Nuisance raged from his mouth when I asked too many questions, interrupted the football game or M*A*S*H on TV or was needy for attention or affection. But it was so much worse was when he could see the reflection of the effect of the words he inflicted on my face. I learned to withhold tears until I could safely make it to my bedroom. I learned to be quiet. And I began a long relationship with trying to please older men.
Life is suffering, and it’s difficult for all of us. But for the particular brand of sensitivity that I was born with, getting through the day is like driving a car with no windshield. You feel everything. There’s no defense. No protection. The smallest things feel big when they come at you so fast.
I learned how to shrink the depth of my emotional life to make everyone else feel comfortable. That’s what the give in the give and take of my marriage was. But sometimes, when I was feeling either brave or out of control, it would all come out.
“Wouldn’t your life be easier if you didn’t decide to be so sensitive?” Marc would say on the occasions when I failed to contain myself.
But I didn’t choose this proclivity. I’m on the right track, baby, I was born this way. However, I did need to learn how to live with it, how to be responsible for it and how to exist in the world without curling up into a ball and crying at work. (I haven’t gotten there yet.) I could go back in therapy for decades to find out all the hows and whens and wheres, but I will always be left with the question: Now what?
I found a man. Fresh off the breakup of his own marriage, we clung to each other to heal and to validate. We used every bit of the infatuation with each other as validation: See? I am loveable. There’s nothing wrong with me! It was them! All Them.
That felt good.
We analyzed each other and kissed the parts of us that were hurt and broken. I wanted to bare my soul. I wanted him to see all of the ugly parts and find the beauty in them, so that I could start to love me again.
I wasted no time with the ugly. My thought process was two-fold: I wanted to make sure he knew what he was getting into. I was living life as my authentic self, goddammit, and I was through pretending for anyone. The second reason was: If you’re going to reject me, do it now. I will give you every reason.