Even when I am fully employed, I tend to have a daintier sense than most. It has always been thus. And it always felt as mocked as the word daintier suggests it is. I have been called “too sensitive” my whole life. I have come to learn that this sensitivity is not necessarily a flaw but a trait shared by a small but significant part of the population. That is – there is an official name for a person with a nervous system with this measurable daintiness. I am a Highly Sensitive Person. And it does have its advantages.
Today I can’t remember what those advantages are because I’m feeling overwhelmed, like a canary coughing in a coal mine, trying to get the world’s attention but knowing they won’t see the problem until I’m dead on the floor of the cage.
But there are advantages to this kind of sensitivity.
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Curiously though, I’m not at all troubled by a gravedigger singing while he digs graves. I think singing will help you in every troubling situation. I’m all for it. And my dainty sensibilities almost never got disturbed by theatre – I always know it’s pretend. In film though, I can’t even watch someone getting an injection without turning away.
The Hamlet Project 