I am a sensitive girl. This can be overwhelming for people who don’t expect me to act in ways that I usually do.
I have a heightened emotional response for everyday experiences. When someone talks to me in a boisterous tone, I can be easily offended. Even if they did not intend it.
Or when I am walking in a garden and see a flower that I have never seen before—I can be overly ecstatic. Even if the flower is ordinary. I can prostrate on the ground, elbows kissing grime, if doing so offers me a better view.
I like to think that being artistically inclined can explain away my odd tendencies. I tell myself that I am special because I started painting and writing at the age of 3.
My father was especially impressed. When most kids were running around the neighborhood, plotting mischief—I was usually glued to a book.
There were side-effects of my temperament though. Whenever dad raised his voice by a micro-decibel to correct me for something wrong I had done, I would start crying uncontrollably.
My low spirits could last for hours. To see dad’s angry face, nostrils flared up, big eyes bigger, voice bellowing loud and clear for all our neighbors to hear—would affect me for days to come.
When I grew older and met other artistically inclined people like me, I discovered that my behavior was not that out of the line.
Like this one girl who told me there are days when she wakes up in the morning and feels like crying. When I asked her what does she do to curtail such feelings, she told me she doesn’t hold back. She simply lets herself cry.
Recently, my dog started displaying similar traits. My dog is usually well behaved. He rarely climbs furniture and never barks inside the house. So, when he climbed our bed with dirty paws, I was taken aback.
My husband and I scolded him for being a bad boy. Seeing mom and dad turn against him at the same time was perhaps too much for him to process. In seconds that followed, he puked his entire breakfast out.
People who are practical minded to the bone would roll their eyes if they saw this happen. After-all they never allow emotions to get in the way of life. For instance, if they ever saw me stoop to the ground to photograph a flower, they would be convinced that I need a psychiatrist.
Who knows—that could be true?
I mean, I do spend a big portion of the day staring at cracks on a sidewalk, talking to strangers, jotting down everything they have to say, and publishing their rambling thoughts for you to read.
Posted in: diary, Immigrants, The Dog, USA