Taking Out the Garbage

I was reading an article about highly sensitive people the other day when something clicked. An epiphany. *Maybe that's what's wrong with me,* I thought. They seem to have a label for everything these days. I used to think I was just shy, a little awkward, maybe. But highly sensitive? Huh. Who knew?

And that's exactly how I would have reacted if I had read that article twenty years ago, back when I was still trying to pass for normal. But time has a funny way of shifting your perspective. You get older, and as you start to see the finish line in the distance, you realize something liberating: there really is no race. There's no prize for pretending to be something you're not, no one to impress. So why bother lying to yourself, or anyone else for that matter?

Yeah, I’m sensitive. Always have been. But I buried that part of myself under layers of false bravado, trying to mask it. Some of the stories I’m about to tell come from that place of vulnerability, but now, I’m looking at them with an unashamed mind. Like when I was a kid, and just the thought of a doctor’s visit was enough to send me into a panic. I dreaded shots. Hated them with a passion. You’d have thought I was a dog being dragged to the vet. Our German Shepherd was notorious for putting up a fight the moment she caught wind that a vet trip was in the works—and I was no different. Any excuse, any distraction, any escape route, I'd take it. Because where there was a doctor, there was probably a needle.

One time, I had to get a penicillin shot, and I put up such a scene that the doctor, Dr. Millard, actually sent me back to the waiting room. I thought I had won. Sure, I was embarrassed, but at least I was safe—until the doctor came out a little later, carrying a much younger kid. He praised the boy for being brave and pointed at me as an example of what *not* to be. "You're braver than that boy," he said to the kid. Four of my therapy sessions probably belong to Dr. Millard for that.

A couple of years passed, and I got better about shots. I still hated them, but I could tolerate them. There were limits, though—hospitals were way outside my comfort zone. One day, I was doing my chores, taking out the garbage like I always did. I kind of liked that chore, to be honest. It made me feel strong, hauling a bag nearly as big as me. But that day, something was off. Someone had tossed broken glass into the trash, and as I walked, the bottom of the bag knocked against my leg. I felt a dull pain, but it didn’t hurt too bad. Brave me, I thought.

But then I looked down.

Blood was running down my sock, pooling into my shoe. I walked inside and rolled up my pants leg, and sure enough, there it was—a gash in my ankle, blood pouring out. I tried to cover it up with a cloth, but my dad saw me right away.

"Let me take a look," he said, in that tone dads use when they already know the answer.

"Yep," he said, after inspecting it. "That’s gonna need stitches."

*Stitches?* My mind reeled. Stitches had to be worse than shots, I was sure of it. Right there in front of my dad, I went through all five of Kübler-Ross’ stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. And let me tell you, I camped out in the bargaining stage for a long while and spent barely a second in acceptance. But eventually, I had to face it: I was either going to the hospital or getting a swat on the butt. Maybe both.

Turns out, the stitches weren’t that bad. They even numbed my leg before they did anything. But man, in the moment, I would’ve done anything to get out of it.

So, I guess that’s the thing about being a highly sensitive person. Sure, we might tear up at sad movies or get emotional at funerals, but if you ever find yourself sitting near us in a doctor's waiting room, maybe keep your brave baby story to yourself. Some of us are still working on it.