Thoughts, Theories & observations
of a Grown Ass Woman
A couple of years ago, my stepdaughter, and I were having a pretty intense phone conversation. She asked me if I was HSP. I didn’t even know what that meant. I quickly learned that HSP stands for highly sensitive person. At first, I was taken aback and, quite frankly, offended. What was she getting at? Was I being too emotional, too sensitive, too much of a mom? She explained it to me, but suggested I look at the body of work by Elaine Aron who began studying HSP as a biological trait in 1991 to learn more. At the time, Aron said this trait affected 15% to 20% of the population. Now it is thought to affect as much as 30% of us, and this trait is often misunderstood, and HSPs are sometimes judged if they reveal their HSP-ness. When someone hears the word "sensitive," they sometimes assume we are emotional basket cases, weepy or otherwise deficient. As I read through the behaviors an HSP has, I recognized many of them in myself
These are just a few of the signs that resonated with me. You can take self tests on Aron’s website to see if any of them feel familiar to you. About 70% of HSPs are actually extroverts, but many label us as introverts, shy, inhibited, neurotic or even narcissistic. When I started studying this trait, I can’t tell you how relieved I was. I had always felt different from everyone else. I felt things so deeply and it was debilitating at times. I presumed it resulted from my childhood or that I was just weird. I finally had an answer to everyday issues. Here are a few personal examples of how the HSP trait manifests itself in my life:
It’s not all bad It isn’t all bad though. My “rich, inner life” is why I am so creative. It also keeps me up at night, but I consider that creativity a gift for which I am grateful. It has been problematic in relationships, though I have learned to tame that side of me. For example, if I react physically to someone (e.g., feel my heart quickening, sense that fight-or-flight is about to strike, etc.), I know it is time to walk away, put my phone down, or step away from the keyboard. That visceral reaction is a sign to me that I need to step back, think about the situation, and think through how I want to handle it. I pay attention to the physical triggers. I don’t always catch myself in time and I may overreact, but I am learning how to curb. I also own my behavior and apologize if I’ve overstepped. Being HSP also increases my awareness of others, and I am very empathic. In some ways, this is challenging but I wouldn’t change it. I can sense someone’s emotions in ways other people might overlook. I take on their energy and their emotions. It isn’t a choice; it just happens. For example, if a friend is hurting emotionally, I feel their pain in a unique way. This can lead to overwhelm and my taking on “stuff” that isn’t mine to carry, but it also makes me very compassionate. It serves as a good BS detector, too. If someone tells me one thing, but I sense something else, I can call them on it, or I can choose not to react. Awareness of my specific traits and how HSP manifests itself within me is my key to embracing it. Granting myself grace, daily self care and exercise help too. Resources To learn more about highly sensitive people, check out my articles and other resources at HighlySensitiveRefuge.com. 7 Ways to Adapt – and Embrace – Being a Highly Sensitive Person 13 Signs You are Overstimulated How to Handle Civil and Political Unrest as an HSP 7 Ways HSPs Can Effectively Deal With Life’s Daily Disappointments
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When I am not pondering past relationships or playing with my pup, I read. A lot. In fact, I usually have one fiction and one non-fiction book on my nightstand, waiting for me at the end of a long day. As I was walking my dog this morning – this is when I get my best ideas – I realized that books and romantic relationships have a lot in common. See if this is true for you too.
Do books have the same effect on you? Copyright © 2023 by Dana E. Neuts. All Rights Reserved. No portion of this content may be used without permission from the author. Thirty years is a long time to be silent. It is a long time not to talk to someone who was once a constant companion, best friend and little sister. One day, when I was in my early 20s, my brother just stopped talking to me and, to this day, I don’t know why. C stopped talking to my dad at the same time, and my dad didn’t know why he was getting the silent treatment either. It is a cruel way to slip out of someone’s life. C ghosted us long before ghosting was a thing. He just disappeared from our lives. My dad and I lived without C for a little over 30 years, and except for the last two visits before he died, my dad always, without fail, asked if I had heard from my brother. I always told him, “no,” even when I contacted my brother in 2019 to let him know my dad was in a nursing home. I’d give my brother periodic updates as my dad’s health changed, but he never once reached out to me or to Dad. C never once asked about my him, where he was, or how he could reach him. Now it’s too late. My brother called me about two years ago to tell me he was selling the house we grew up in to pay for my mom’s nursing care. She had dementia and was moving to a memory care facility. Since then, he contacted me a few times a year to provide updates. During those calls, he didn’t ask how my dad was doing, or how I was, for that matter. I had been shut out of my mom’s and brother’s lives for so long, I can take the hurt and disappointment. It is status quo for me. But my dad didn’t have a lot of time left, and seeing my brother or getting a phone call or letter from him would have meant the world. C waited too long. When my dad passed away after Christmas, I debated calling C to tell him the news. I knew I had to tell him, and texting was too impersonal. I decided to call and got his voice mail and left a message for C. He called me back 30 minutes later and I explained what had happened. He said, “Mom’s not far behind him.” He told me that my mom could barely speak, and he didn’t expect her to live much longer. Eleven days later, C called to tell me my mom had passed. He was with her right til the end, holding her hand so she wouldn’t be alone. He told me then that he wanted to be involved if I was having a service for my dad. I had originally not planned to do so, because my daughter and I are the only surviving family. I assumed C would not care to come. My stepmom is also in poor health and receiving hospice care so my stepsister S and I decided we would have a joint service for them both. They wanted to be buried together, so we want to honor their wishes. When my dad passed, they had been married 38 years. After my mom died, my brother and I texted for hours that first week, and it was surreal. I asked if it was OK to text/email. He said “the past is in the past.” A cryptic reply. And yet I still don’t know what I did or failed to do to earn 30 years of silence, or was he simply following my mom’s playbook? Was he following her lead or her instructions? When she felt she had been snubbed or wronged in some way, she would cut that person out of her life forever. No exceptions and no redemption. She did it with her own mother and sister, and now my brother had done it to me. Seven years after my brother quit speaking to me, my mom quit speaking to me too. I still don’t know why, and now I will never. More unfinished business. For my own health and peace of mind, I forgave my mother several years ago, but forgiveness isn’t a switch I flipped overnight. It was a conscious decision followed by a process of letting go, of not letting pain and anger eat at me anymore, and of recognizing that I don’t know the whole story – or any of the story, in this case. Fast forward to the recent communication with my brother, and he told me my mom asked about me more often in the months leading up to her death. I had been home twice last fall – I debated about seeing her but didn’t want to upset her. If I had known she was talking about me, maybe even asking for me, I might have made a different choice. It was much too late to rehash the past, but I could have told her I loved her. Cards, letters and flowers over the last few years did not adequately convey my love for her. I never understood her, never felt loved or wanted, but I loved her just the same. She was my mom, and she had her own inner demons to fight. I had gotten to the point where I didn’t take her treatment of me or my silence personally anymore. It was more about her than about me. My brother’s silence, on the other hand, I do take personally. We were so close as kids – playing wiffle ball together, playing board games and tag, and playing with our dog Frisky. One day that closeness ended. I am really grappling with that right now. I’m profoundly sad we lost so many years together, I am angry he didn’t tell me my mom was asking about me, and I am very disappointed that he never reconciled with my dad. I feel that he made decisions for us that weren’t his to make. His desire to be a part of my dad’s service is particularly upsetting. For my dad’s sake, I will honor that and include him. But why now? Why not 20 years ago, 10 years ago, or last fall when his presence would have warmed my dad’s heart? C has no idea – and maybe doesn’t care – how much my dad loved him. He will never have that chance now. After 30 years of silence, I want to forgive C, but I’m not ready. I can take the pain; I’ve endured it this long. But can I forgive him for the hurt he caused my dad when my dad did nothing wrong? Is it my place to hold onto that pain for my dad, or is it OK to let it go? I feel the need to defend my dad because I knew him as well as he would allow me to. C never tried to know him and now he never will. I’ve wrestled with this for two months, and yesterday I saw a video interview with Pink that gave me some clarity and some hope that forgiveness may be possible. “Love is a lifetime of just coming back to the table, that nothing is irretrievable or unredeemable.” ~ PINK I hope that’s true. Thirty years is much too long to hurt. Copyright © 2023 by Dana E. Neuts. All Rights Reserved. No portion of this content may be used without permission from the author. I have always had mixed emotions about Valentine's Day. My mom always celebrated by giving my brother and me Fannie May candy. Chris always got mint meltaways, and I got peppermint ice, high-end, classy treats for Midwest kids who probably didn't appreciate how special a gesture this actually was. It was an annual tradition I looked forward to. My dad and grandparents always sent Valentine cards too. Who remembers the dreaded valentine exchange? It was awkward to say the least. Am I the only one who hated that forced giving? I'm pretty sure I'm not alone. When I was 17, I met my first love. After flirting for weeks (months?), K. baked me pumpkin bread after we debated who could make it better. Mine was still tastier, but what he lacked in baking skills, he made up for by being the first boy to love me. That day he finally asked me out to a Van Halen concert -- the 1984 tour. I was over the moon! Of course, Van Halen changed their stage set-up and canceled the seats where we were located, so we never went to that concert, but it was the start of a lovely 18-month relationship. Before he broke my heart, of course. Fast forward a couple of decades, and I got married on Valentine's Day to a man I had been living with for 5 years. I wanted to get married on Friday, the 13th, but Valentine's Day was a Saturday and a much better day for family and friends. So I let go of the Friday, the 13th idea, and we had an intimate wedding with our closest family and friends coming as far as Maine and Chicago to be there for our special day. In retrospect, wanting to get married on Friday, the 13th should have been a sign. Sadly, the marriage didn't last. Four years later, I met a friend of a friend - let's call him M. - on Facebook on February 13, 2014. We both had plans to meet platonic friends at the same local restaurant the next morning. M. texted me the morning of Valentine's Day, telling me his friend had bailed. Ironically, mine had too, so M. and I decided to have breakfast together instead. Breakfast was 3+ hours long. When we said good-bye, he mentioned something about following me around like a puppy dog all day, but I had an interview for a story scheduled that afternoon, so I told him he was on his own for the day. After the interview, however, I was still thinking about M., so I texted him to invite him out for drinks. Of course, on Valentine's Day, every place was full. We ended up at a dive bar, talking for hours. When we left, I asked if I could give him a hug, and we have been together ever since. Well, not quite. We broke up last fall after 8 1/2 years together, so I am quite ambivalent about Valentine's Day with three failed long-term relationships that started on the Hallmark holiday. On a positive note, when my kids were little, I enjoyed spoiling them on Valentine's Day, giving them Valentine treat bags and cards and having dinner with my grandmother's china and pouring Kool-Aid into my Waterford crystal glasses so they could act like grown-ups. Like my mom had done, I wanted the holiday to be about family, not about who I was dating at the time. Unfortunately, I lost my dad right after Christmas and my mom 11 days later, so remembering their love on Valentine's Day is bittersweet. To try to get through Valentine's Day this year without reflecting on three major losses in five months, I have made February 2023 my month of self-care. Each morning, I text my friend D. to tell her what I am doing to care for myself that day (e.g., sleeping in, riding my exercise bike, going to the gym, eating healthy, having a glass of wine or walking my dog Jack). D. does the same, so we hold each other accountable for self-love. On Valentine's Day, I will do something nurturing - maybe making myself a nice dinner, taking a bubble bath, enjoying a glass of wine and watching James Bond (Daniel Craig, of course) while cuddling with my dog, the new love of my life. It is hard not to get hung up on failed relationships, especially ones that were once so dear to me and the recent breakup being so utterly raw still. But it is not all bad...many of my friends will be celebrating the special day with their sweethearts and their kids. I am happy for them. Also, two years ago, I met an amazing friend, B, to whom I've grown quite close. Her birthday happens to be Valentine's Day, so she will always shine some light on what otherwise might be a dark day for me. Happy Birthday, B.! xo This year, I will celebrate her - and myself - and try to learn from the mistakes of the past. Happy V-Day! Copyright © 2023 by Dana E. Neuts. All Rights Reserved. No portion of this content may be used without permission from the author. |
by Dana NeutsDana has been writing since she was 8 years old. She is now a grown ass woman with many musings to share. ArchivesCategories |