I know I’m not a perfect person. Not even on my best day. I know I can be difficult and stubborn. Myopic.
I have a mental illness that is very hard to explain. It’s depression laced up with anxiety. It steals my energy and confidence. There are times when even I don’t fully understand it.
Trying to explain my sensitivity to those who are not me is next to impossible.
A excerpt read on the Introvert, Dear blog, captured perfectly how I feel:
“At best, growing up as an HSP in an emotionally neglectful household is like being a musician in a world with no music. In other cases, it’s much worse — it’s the equivalent of having parents who actively tell you that your music is bad.”
I know I was emotionally neglected as a child. I never quite feel whole or fully loved. I can’t shake the feelings of wanting to shut down periodically because I’m this stimulated all the time.
I don’t really feel self pity for this. This is just the way things are. I do the best I can and need to shut off often.