“Just” sensitive?
Jan 21st, 2008 by bipolarlawyercook
NYJLM had a post about what an impact the fear of being told “no” can have, and it was something that really resonated with me. I lived much of my childhood trying to be good enough, smart enough, quiet enough, helpful enough that my parents would give me praise, and recognize that their fighting was hurting me. In my imagination, being good would inspire them to stop being so angry, and to start being civil. It would inspire my father to stop drinking, and my mother to start working. It never worked out that way.
At the same time, I would cringe and try to hide when they were yelling at each other, on the phone or in person. When my father would be yelling back and forth with my grandmother, again I’d curl into myself. I’d read my books, try to lose myself in the world the author had created– because anything was better than here. (Looking back, I can now see that my distaste for contemporary fiction was likely born of a wish to avoid reading about situations I faced in my real life.) I’d get anxious whenever I was charged with telling the other something that I knew was going to garner an outburst, or some negative reaction. Never against me, but in my presence, at the other parent. (I don’t care how old they are– never, ever bitch about the other parent in front of your child). I’d sweat, get shaky, get the tingles on my neck and arms, start to hyperventilate. It didn’t take long until having to give any bad news of any stripe caused this reaction, which would last all through the delivery of the news.
Soon, I began to dread any situation that might result in a negative outcome that I’d have to tell my parents about. Geometry, a subject that didn’t come naturally to me, became a source of nightmares and crying jags before school. I got so I don’t think I could ever have learned it– I’d gotten so worked up about having to do it at all that I couldn’t think straight when faced with proofs and angles. Any test or paper in any subject would cause me anxiety, even though I usually got As and A+s. I needed “mental health” days because I would just get too anxious every few months to be able to school and function that day.
At the same time, I was prone to depression. I was a fat kid, and had a hard time making more than a handful of friends up to high school. I was lonely, too, because even in the accelerated program, I was far smarter than my peers, and couldn’t talk with them about the metaphysical and scientific inquiries rolling around inside my head, alongside my sadness and inchoate anxiety. I got a bit stalkery with some boys I’d dated, followed by months of bad poetic journal entries and evenings of heartrending sob sessions. But I graduated as Valedictorian, wasn’t obviously doing drugs, and hadn’t gotten pregnant, so when I tried to talk to my parents about what was wrong with me, they told me “You’re just sensitive. Try not to take it so hard.” It wasn’t that they didn’t care– they did. But they didn’t understand what I was telling them I was feeling, and they had their own issues to deal with.
Thank goodness for the several teachers I had in elementary, junior high, and high school who gave me their understanding and sympathy after school and between classes. There wasn’t a lot they could do to help with the family situation, since I was clearly being fed, clothed, and forced to wash behind my ears, while not being visibly beaten, but they could answer my intellectual questions, give me extra reading to do, and hand me tissues when I was feeling particularly wounded by something someone in my family or at school had done or failed to do. One teacher in particular, Mr. O’Connell, made me feel like there would be a point, sometime, when I wouldn’t feel so lonely, when I would feel like I was among people who understood me and felt the same way I did, and was always available to listen to a moody adolescent’s latest emotional bruising. Even into high school, there was always a chair in Mr. O’Connell’s office where I could sit and take refuge for a little bit. In his office, I was never “taking it too hard.” Instead, I deserved sympathy, and was allowed to say how I felt without being told that I simply had to get over it.
It would take several intermediate breakdowns in college and then a successful couple of years in law school and the gradual decline after until 2005, before someone would tell me that I wasn’t “just sensitive,” and would show me that there was something I could do about how I was feeling, but during all that time, one of the things that got me through was the knowledge that there were some people who knew I wasn’t “just sensitive,” but who thought I was special nonetheless. I spent some time trying to find an email address or telephone number, but have come up short, so far. So thank you, Mr. O’Connell, for never being someone who I was afraid would say no.
This is just why I want to be a teacher; it sounds cliche, but a teacher can make all the difference in your life.
Teachers can be such amazing influences in a teenager’s life - I recently caught up with a teacher who was really important to me through Facebook, which was pretty cool
Mr O’Connell sounds wonderful - I hope you manage to renew contact with him one day.
Back then people would say “she’s just high strung” instead of offering any real help. My mom had intense times where she was depressed and would stay in her room for days until she felt she could cope again. I felt bad for her, knowing she struggled, and seeing people take advantage of her doormat ways. After awhile, she would break down and would be called “high strung” by so many relatives, I grew tired of hearing it–but interestingly enough, her friends would say she needed help. Sometimes “outsiders” can be more caring than family.
Thank goodness for the Mr.O’Connell’s of the world. I’m just now thinking back to the things two very wonderful teachers in high school wrote to me in my yearbook. Wow- to know that there were people, even then, who really saw me. Wow.
I’m lol a bit about your revelation about contemporary fiction. I had a similar realization about Tom and Jerry, Mighty Mouse, and well, cartoons in general. I was so anxious waiting for the right time to leave the apartment to walk my sister and myself to school that the anxiety got caught up in the cartoons.
I thank my lucky stars for teachers like Justine DiIanni and Duke Schirmer, and curse the Mr. Aiellos and Mrs. Stocks of the educational system. Those who heal, and those who harm. You’ve given me fodder for a heartfelt post. Thank you.
This is a great post. I want to hug you, and I’m not overly hugg-y at all. If anything, I’m lovably aloof.
And listen: I know that you didn’t write this to garner sympathy or condolences or play the victim. But I am so, so sorry about the fighting and the anxiety and your pain. No child should have to worry about the health of their parents’ marriage, or listen to ugly words being slung back and forth between the two people who are supposed to love and protect them above all others. It makes me so, so sad. You, and so many children, everywhere, deserved better.
Thank you for this unflinching post. In many ways your experience mirrors mine, and I am sure many others. I am glad Mr. O’Connell was there for you, and it’s an excellent reminder how much the world needs us to follow his example.
Thank you for the great post. You’ve created a wonderful community here.
Though I never had a teacher or a guidance counselor or anyone lin Mr.O’connell in my school system I can imagine how great that must have been.
I’ve always heard about teachers who cared that much and I thought “That is so great to give of yourself like that.”
I hope there are some teachers reading this who have learned that it pays to be in tune to your students behavior. They can do so much more than teach. They can truly help great people realize their potential and dreams.
You’re lucky you had a teacher that cared!
A hundred things to say.
So I’ll just say the most inane thing I can grab at- I got all that “you’re just sensitive” crap too. Or “You’re just a worrier”. Or best of all “Oh, you’re so melodramatic!” and getting myself a proper diagnosis was one of the most validating experiences in my life and you know what so many of my friends and family are constantly trying to do?
They try to tell me that everyone has “problems” and that I’m normal. They are constantly trying to prove that I’m not crazy, that I’m totally functioning and there for am not really mentally ill.
I just want to scream at them all that the reason I am so high functioning is BECAUSE OF THE MEDICATION AND CONSTANT MENTAL VIGILANCE.
I too had a couple of wonderful teachers who really made me feel seen and who didn’t try to brush away who I am and what I had to say.
Wonderful post.
Thanks so much for writing this. I can really relate.
I can really relate to this post. I was the best little girl in the world…and it is sure nice to see all the people who want to be caring teachers.