Sensitive woman as a diagnosis
Feeling your feelings without exploding... ???
Watching the avalanche, becoming the avalanche. An avalanche is triggered by the victim — disturbance of nature’s order by human misbehavior as opposed to a sudden natural disaster. Feel the similarities. A sensitive woman is a diagnosis. The magic moment of giving fewer fucks is always gently promised but never comes. Whoever said sensitivity was a strength has never found themselves bedbound on account of Too Much Emotion or curled up in a bathroom that isn’t theirs. Sorrow is a classy lady dressed in pinstripe, sensitive to sun, sudden motion, and indiscretion.
You’ve been there too, right? Desolate and frazzled, unable to step forward, nauseously pitiful, just drowning in acidity, lingering feelings of applause. Too sensitive to move?
And now we’re here. Wet hair, high socks, post-shower scrolling, lotioned up. I’m feeling very girly, a little fragile and alone, but with a solid backbone still. Reaching for a snack warranted by late afternoon. Thinking back on a time where ‘snack’ was not part of my vernacular, yet I’d gladly reach a state of armageddon and pay interest instead. Like that one time, my 23rd birthday, Stockholm, I bought a twelve-piece lemon cheesecake and some candles, presumingly for the next day’s party. It was aligning in the stars then, bubbling from within, imminent trouble and malnutrition. Who doesn’t feel alone on their birthday?