I was always so sensitive.

That is what they said.

And the way I hurt, the way I felt so open and aching inside, I know it must have been true.

They constantly teased.

And called names.

And I would reel.

Why do you have to be so sensitive? they would ask.

And the thing is, they weren’t all wrong.

Not, at least, in calling me sensitive.

I was sensitive.

I know.

Hypersensitive.

Things just hurt more than they should.

I constantly felt like I was going to fall apart.

I guess it was the big things we had to ignore that made the little things hurt so deeply.

The big things we could not acknowledge.

The little things were addressed more readily, usually to friends or anyone who would listen.

And I guess it was around that time, in my childhood, when I learned to pin big strong emotions on little things, and people, that did not matter.

This is when I learned to divert the pain.

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When I got older, after I had my first breakdown at the age of 19, I made the conscious decision not to be sensitive anymore.

I just couldn’t do it. Everything hurt too much. If I had continued at that rate, I knew I never would have survived.

So, I tried to shut down.

And I tried to immerse myself in anything I thought would numb my senses. This is when I began to drink. And this is when I began to introduce myself to situations that overwhelmed, and eventually deadened, my sensitive soul.

Because I believed that my naiveté had been the catalyst for my sensitive nature, and consequently, my intense pain, I wanted to be exposed to everything in hopes that one day, nothing would surprise me anymore.

And I got there.

Nothing surprises me anymore.

As a result, I know I will never again be as sensitive as once I was.

And, perhaps against my better judgment, I still can’t help but think that this is a good thing.