There's Another Possibility
"I dwell in possibility…" Emily Dickinson
Larry decided to head up to the lake for a few days and finish working on the dock before the next atmospheric storm hits California. That was the invented reason, but I suspect what he really needed was a break from his harried wife, who has been taking on the characteristics of a gray stone.
I decided not to go along (that strange noise you just heard was his sigh of relief), and other than a short to-do list, I really couldn't tell you what was prompting me to stay home, aside from this subtle but persistent feeling, something hard to define.
No, I'm not talking about my arthritis.
It might have something to do with the book I'm currently reading called, The Art of Possibility by Rosamund and Ben Zander. It claims our world is all invented, "so we might as well invent a story or a framework of meaning that enhances our quality of life and the lives of those around us."
Escaping to the lake is where need meets want, but for me, staying home is where want meets needs. I realize that's confusing; don't overthink it.
As it turns out, I was to discover something essential about myself and possibly life-changing. The thing about new insights is that they give us the opportunity to understand something about ourselves that we did not have the ability to perceive, as if colorblind, without the proper lens to bring our vibrant world into focus.
On the morning of day two, I decided to have my blood work done after weeks of procrastinating (I'm not a fan of being punctured and drained of my own blood unless it's from a handsome vampire, and even then, I'm terribly squeamish). So I had to fast all morning, and of course, I called my sister to see if she could drop by before work and distract me from the eggs and bacon, beckoning me from the frig.
"I'm on my way," she said, and as always, I was giddy with excitement, so I poured myself a fresh cup, turned on the gas fire, and waited for her by the front door.
While debating the attributes of life over coffee with Nancy, I asked if she remembered the stories about how I used to hold my breath until I passed out when I was a baby.
Nancy says, "I don't remember you actually doing it, but I remember hearing the stories about it."
"Why do you think I did that?'
"You were a brat?"
"Really? I'm not sure infants have the capacity to be brats."
"You were advanced."
Clearly, she loves to goat me. I say, "In my defense, I always thought it was more about me not melding with Dr. Spock's Baby Book, Mom's bible at the time. He was all about strict feeding schedules, excessive use of playpens, and not creating a needy child by letting them cry it out. Leave it to a man to screw up an entire generation of people."
"Apparently, I was a model child."
"Apparently, I was not."
After Nancy left, I pondered my infancy, wondering why I had such a strong reaction when I didn't get what I wanted or maybe needed. Who knows what was going through my tiny brain, but clearly, I was trying to communicate preverbally, using behavior in place of vocabulary. I know adults who still do this.
But what was I actually trying to say?
Then I had one of those serendipitous experiences sitting by the fire, all alone, fasting in the middle of the week, with that burning question of why I am who I am. This is when I stumbled on something Carrie Cesario wrote, quite by accident, actually prompted by my computer, as something it thought I would be interested in.
AI at its best.
Carrie Cesario is a birthing doula, life coach, and healer. She published a series of articles about highly sensitive people (HSPs) and how they lack boundaries because "boundaries are rarely taught to HSPs and, more often than not, they become overwhelmed and overloaded by the energy…of people and places."
She went on to explain, while I was gasping for breath, how highly sensitive kids often develop ego personalities such as peacekeepers (hello, I'm a 9 on the Enneagram), people-pleasers, and fixers, all to avoid over-stimulation caused by hostile environments.
I was stunned, to say the least.
Then I read her list on how to identify if you are a Highly Sensitive Person (which I have recreated for your benefit):
- You're often told you're too sensitive. (Just about everyone I've ever known has observed this trait in me)
- You avoid violent or intense TV shows and movies because they leave you rattled. (I usually hide in the kitchen)
- You are easily overstimulated by sounds, lights, and busy or crowded public spaces. (I'm burnt toast after being in New York for a few days)
- You're deeply moved by art, beauty, nature, and the human spirit. (Always)
- You need lots of alone or downtime and often find yourself retreating to a quiet room. (Hello, I've been begging for a she-shed for years)
- You are a "deep thinker" with a rich and complex inner world, someone who struggles with or avoids casual, surface-level relationships. (I've been accused of this on multiple occasions)
- You care deeply for your friends and loved ones, often seeing the best in others while ignoring their flaws. (Guilty)
She claims that boundary-less sensitive types are more likely to accommodate, appease, or pacify others when confronted with conflict. They have a tendency to get tangled with people who have opposite energetic fields because like it or not, opposites attract.
Carrie stresses that HSPs need to take time to refuel themselves in quiet and calm environments because the swirling energy of highly stimulating situations can be exhausting, and if you're like me, you might end up holding your breath until you pass out.
Crazy right?
I called my sister straight away and read her all the above information while she was fielding customers and ringing up sales.
She says, "Wow. That's crazy."
"I know, totally crazy."
She says, "I remember the stories about you holding your breath were mostly at restaurants. That makes total sense now, all the noise, lights, business, and strange people. You probably got overwhelmed and just decided to check out the only way you knew how."
"My breath literally became my escape."
"Hey, I'll call you on my way home. Some of us have to work."
"No boundaries."
"Bahaha"
I sat there on the couch for a long time thinking about all these things and realizing that I hadn't been alone since before COVID-19. Like, really alone for any length of time, to sit, soak up the quiet, meander with my own thoughts, and restore my depleted energy.
I've been so content these last few days, putzing around the empty house, enjoying a fire, writing, or diving into a good book. Maybe even more appealing was doing exactly what I wanted, when I wanted, and with no distractions. Even my chores were a treat. I could not figure out why all this quiet was making me so happy.
Who is this cheerful woman?
Maybe I need therapy? Or maybe I just need to schedule time alone now that we're both retired, doing a lot of traveling and spending so much time together. What did she call this? Boundaries.
Unfortunately, I made an appointment at Quest, and it was time to drive over to the lab and have a technician suck the blood out of my vein. Of course, I ran into problems straight away. They didn't have my paperwork, so I had to drop by my doctor's office, get a hard copy, and bring them back to the lab. That took the better part of an hour. Did I mention I was fasting?
When the deed was finally done, I was famished, so I picked up an empanada on the way home and ate the whole damn thing. Then I did what I always do when I'm trying to figure things out.
I wrote, and wrote, and wrote about everything that came into my mind, raw and unfiltered, until I reached absolution, if you know what I mean. I droned on and on about highly sensitive people as if I had invented the word. I drew conclusions about my relationships, my personality, and the way I invented my entire world through a lens of sensitivity. Then I deleted most of it.
This is what's left.
Life is simply a story we tell ourselves over and over again until the possibility of it not being true becomes impossible to bear. It's as if I've built a moat around my life with this singular narrative and it's become impossible to breech.
Then one day, I was so tired of the fairytale I had woven for myself and the "castle" that imprisoned me because I refused to let my hair down (you see what I did there), and I realized it was time to take a leap of faith.
Dare I cross my own barrier?
Absolutely, even though I had to struggle against a swift current that threatened to drown me. I scanned the terrain for a savior, someone who'll pull me out of this situation, yes, the one I myself created. And guess what? That savior ends up being me.
Did you hear me?
Our world, this world, is a construction of our own making. Including an infant who holds her breath as a means of escape.
And by the way, I've created some exceptional delusions, escapes, and distractions, all of which continue to propel me home. Home, in this case, is a circular journey, as in, it ends where it begins. Birth, breath, and endless possibility.
But today, I found out something new about myself, and I have to believe this information came to me when I was not only ready to hear it but desperate to understand myself on a deeper level.
It's the scaffolding I need to build a drawbridge (fancy that), one that I can draw up when I feel the need to restore my sense of peace and well-being. And the beauty of it is I can lower the damn thing when I want to draw you into my world.
It's all about the bridges.
Most of all, I feel compelled to understand my own nature, the things that make me unique, and how I can manage my own breath in the face of difficulty and discord. We're all born with attributes that can benefit the world if we only see ourselves as gifted and talented instead of flawed and useless. Maybe being overwhelmed by the constant swirl of life is actually an asset?
It's interesting that even as an infant, I was able to figure out how to escape the things my system could no longer tolerate and quite proficiently, I might add. I suppose that might depend on if you are my mother or not?
The Zanders remind us, "It's all a story you tell yourself --not just some of it, but all of it." It's important to remember that all our stories are part of the scaffolding we use to construct our world, and even though our stories are woven with hidden assumptions and biased conclusions, they still define us.
It does present a hopeful picture for HSPs because we are naturally empathic and enjoy empowering others with our idealized view of the people and places we encounter. If we learn to distinguish the connection between our circumstances and our stories, then we can break through the barriers we've constructed and create the life we envision for ourselves and those around us.
I believe we're allowed to shift our narrative whenever we feel the need to hold our breath and pray for oblivion. We can build the life we desire by creating that drawbridge that gives us access to the other side, one that hinges on the art of possibility instead of the land of limitations, and all I have to do is extend my thinking and see what happens.
I'm Living in the Gap, jumping to conclusions as usual, looking for your breath of experience in the comments.
I can't thank you enough for your wonderful support of Grow Damn It, for picking up copies, telling your friends, and expanding the scoop of my work. Makes me want to keep writing!
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