I’ve been called “sensitive” my whole life. I pick up on far too much and a lot of people don’t like that. I’ve literally trained myself to let things go… to the point that I don’t like how I’ve been living. I had to take an “it doesn’t matter” approach to almost everything except basic needs. It’s how I settled for relationships that didn’t suit me, it’s how I fell into a loop of dishes in the sink, and it’s how I learned to take the pressure off my child. It isn’t all bad, but it isn’t all good.

There was a stain on the wall in my home when I moved in. I still don’t know what it was. Probably, hopefully, someone spilled a cup of coffee while walking up or down the stairs. I had the same reaction almost anyone would have “Ew, gross. I need to clean that.” Did I clean it right away? No. Why? I saw it every day and every time I saw it I found myself frustrated and disgusted, but feeling helpless. On the scale of importance, cleaning that stain from my wall was about a level 2 out of 10. It wasn’t hurting anyone, but me, and it wasn’t going to change if I left it longer. As long as my child didn’t try to lick it, it was in a stable state and not likely to cause further harm. So, it sat. I kept feeling the frustration and disgust, for far too long. Why? Because I learned to leave it, just like I’ve learned to leave a lot of things.

Gross story, but true: My stepfather used to make that “hocking a loogie” sound (you know it) all the time. One day, some of that loogie was left on the wall of our home, at approximately my eye-level. I was haunted by that loogie on the wall. I didn’t want to touch it, I didn’t feel like it was my responsibility to clean it, and I also didn’t feel like I could say anything about it. So, my only choice was to leave it. Live with it. Staring at me, every day. I cannot count the number of things that have fallen into this category in my life. Things that I didn’t like (at best) or horrified me (at worst), but I just learned to live with them. Because I’m too sensitive, and no one likes that.

I woke up from this fog recently. I suddenly realized how long and how much I’ve been doing this my entire adult life. How it’s accumulated over the years and grown worse as I gained more trauma. How, eventually, I started accumulating more traumas because of the actions that I was doing in this state and/or the results of those actions. I like order. I like cleanliness. I like being sensitive to things. I see things others don’t, I feel things others don’t, I experience the world differently and I wouldn’t change it. I never want to feel the numbness that I built to survive the environments I was in. Never again.

I have a long road ahead. I have a transition before me that is taking me back to myself; back to the version of me before I was taught that I was too much. I have lived in a scarcity mindset for as long as I can remember, and it’s not benefitting my psyche. I couldn’t see it for so long, but now I do. I’m overwhelmed by the work before me, but I’m determined to do it. If there is anything I can say about myself, it’s that I’m determined and resilient af. I will be better, no matter the time to get there.

My story this week is about a ticking clock.

I’m neurodivergent… and most ND people have quirks. My first husband had a sensitivity to the sound of ticking clocks. Like most things, I had effectively numbed myself to such things. Yes, I heard the clock, but I also was able to acknowledge “that’s a ticking clock” and isolate the sound so I was no longer bothered by it. He couldn’t do that. He once stuck a clock in a freezer while we were traveling so that it would be quiet enough for him to sleep. He didn’t want to kill it, since it wasn’t ours, but the clock was preventing him from sleeping.

My dad bought us a bird clock. I loved the bird clock when I was a kid, so it was a thoughtful gift, even if it wasn’t well-placed. That clock TICKED. Then it sang bird songs, to infuriate my husband further. It was not a pretty sight. Well, I suppose it depends on your humor, he exaggerated his reactions to a point of hilarity because he laughed at himself. So, I learned to laugh with him and we killed the clock (lost the batteries, then, lost the clock.)

Recently, my dad sent the same bird clock to me for my child. All I could think of when I opened the box was “What does a 4-year-old need a clock for?” and this story. I’m teaching my child to read clocks, but they aren’t ready for the bird clock… so it’s on a shelf, not ticking at anyone.

Sometimes, the ability to “numb” our perceptions is beneficial, but not if it affects who you are to a level of depression. Be you, be loved, stick that clock in the freezer if you have to.

Love, -S.