I Murder Crickets: Life as a Sensitive Person.
{source}
Hot muggy air presses down on my body as I forge ahead with the lawnmower.
My lower back is dripping with sweat and blades of grass stick to my legs. My eyes focused on the ground ahead, I wince every time I see a cricket hop in front of the blade. This happens so often — just about every few steps or so — that my thoughts race back and forth, mentally willing the small black bugs to scatter.
Please scatter. I really don’t want to hurt you.
Except so many do not, but continually place themselves right in my path, leaving me no choice but to keep pushing through on my murderous rampage.
The heavy feeling to avoid hurting a single being is so strong in my soul that this is something I struggle with — daily.
From as early as a child, I instinctively sought those that were different, alone, in need or seeking some sort of love and attention. I felt the magnetic pull to build up the ones that needed to be built up.
The pain of any other person would, and still can, weigh so heavily on me that if I allow it, I can barely stand.
I strive so hard to please.
Creating a smile, touching a soul, giving away so that another can have — all are the things that make me happy.
I cannot stand to see you hurting. I cannot stand to see you in pain and will go out of my way to prevent it even if there is nothing I can do. This makes any type of self-preservation limited at best, and most of the time leaves me no room for boundaries in the sand.
Living life as a sensitive person can be a blessing. We see people differently. Those that are hurting sometimes seek you. They find you in a crowd like a moth to a flame and lay their hearts on a table right in front of you.
What a gift, really — to be a person that can see underneath the things others hold up for protection.
Except the barrier between allowing ourselves to be open and kind, yet prevent our own hearts from lying cut open on that same table is separated by nothing but a threadbare film.
And when we allow others a peek inside our sometimes tormented souls, the vulnerability to be shattered is so strong it can almost be heard. Leaving ourselves open — for even just a small moment — has the capacity to leave permanent damage on our sensitive hearts.
Words that were never meant to be placed directly in line with us, still pierce through like hundreds of tiny needles and leave us gasping for air.
Eyes that are unmet and turned away at a glance leave impressions of mistrust and self-doubt.
But most of all, the sensitive person will sometimes forge ahead anyway, regardless of all the tiny things that jump in her path. And many will think she does not care or does not notice, even though in fact she feels every bit of that pain.
Forging ahead, moving through it, she continues on as though each tiny cricket means nothing. As though each unkind word, each difficult interaction, each horrible tale on the news, each friend she sees in pain — all are a just part of life.
Because regardless of the crickets, lawns need to be cut. We can’t stop and shut off the mower for each tiny life that jumps in our path.
And so I forge ahead and I murder crickets.
Air pressing down on my skin, sweat dripping from my brow, throat dry from thirst, I push forward and silently will those little black critters to scatter.
Please scatter.
And I close my eyes and say a silent prayer for each being in pain.
*****
{Highly Sensitive Society}
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