In high school, especially at the point that Big Bob knew me, I had gotten to the place where my wounds defined me and shaped every aspect of my life. I tried to become loud and angry in an effort to scab them over and protect myself–a new version of “stiff upper lip.” But ultimately, he was right in saying that I was “The Sad One.” I’d chosen to be and made myself a lot more miserable in the process. That was what made me the most uncomfortable to reflect on. Sensitivity may have been my nature, other people had inflicted many of my wounds, and some of what made me sad was brain chemistry, but letting my pain define me had been a choice and it had some hard consequences.

Toward the end of high school, I’d gotten so caught up in being wounded that I ended up driving some of my friends away through a combination of bad behaviors. For one, I was so wrapped up in myself and my issues that one of the sensitive qualities that I’d been most proud of–being a good listener–went totally out the window. I was always venting and crying to my friends, but not taking any time to hear them in return. I had legitimate problems that I was dealing with–depression and the recovery from my abusive relationship–but I can see now that I was manufacturing my own misery as well. For example, I was convinced that I was hated by a whole group of people whom my friends were also friends with. My abusive ex had told me that they didn’t like me and had spread nasty rumors about me. For some reason–probably just because I’d felt uncomfortable around them–I held onto this even after realizing that my ex was a master manipulator. So when my friends hung out with those folks, despite their assurances that I was invited too, I’d make it a big melodramatic thing and would sit outside and pout or go off and get high.

I did this sort of stuff whenever anything set me off. Again, sometimes it was because I legitimately couldn’t cope with the emotions I was experiencing, but I was also so wrapped up in being wounded that before long, I didn’t know how to be anything else–every emotion had to be an extreme one. It was painful, but it was also cathartic, and that was addicting. I was angry when my friends started distancing themselves from me, but in retrospect, I completely understand why: I was all drama and zero fun. To her credit, Katie stuck by me even through my worst in high school, but after I graduated, when I started seriously numbing myself with alcohol and drugs (and creating new wounds and lots of drama in the process), she stopped calling and visiting me at college or in the town I’d moved to when I dropped out.

Our friendship had been rekindled when I started to get my act together, just before I moved home. That night when we ran into Bob, I was just beginning to recognize what I’d lost and missed out on by being “The Sad One,” or more accurately, the walking open wound. It wasn’t just people–the friends I could have had that I lost or lost time with due to my behavior–it was the experiences. I spent so much time dwelling on what made me sad or angry that I didn’t appreciate the fun, upbeat parts of life like concerts, sleepovers, and sunny days in the park. I also skipped out on things like school dances and parties either due to some drama I’d created or simply because it didn’t fit with my wounded way of life. While my immediate reaction to Bob’s memory of me was to hate that others might have reduced me to my dominant emotion, I would realize eventually that the truly sad thing was that I’d reduced myself to being that girl.

Since I was so used to letting my dark feelings rule my life, it took a lot of therapy and soul searching to become a whole person who could ride out her emotional lows without falling into a pit of despair and anger, and who could focus on the good aspects of being sensitive. I didn’t want to swing the other way–seeing sensitivity as a negative trait and walling off emotional responses is just as damaging. I am someone who will always find good in her wounds and scars. At the core, I still see the same positive aspects to being sensitive or being honest about and closely attuned to emotional situations. For one, it does make me an empathetic listener. I just have to make sure that I’m not getting too swept up in my own problems and that I’m not letting others take advantage of me since my openness has led to that in the past. I’ve started to recognize what balance feels like: I’m not coming away from an interaction or series of interactions with a friend feeling like I’ve given all my energy to their drama or like I’ve spent the entire time unburdening myself. I dropped the people who were emotional vampires and am left with very solid friendships based on trust and honesty, generally with fellow sensitive folks.

I do also think that sensitivity is an important part of my art, but not in that 27 Club, I-must-be-damaged-and-depressed-in-order-to-create sort of way that had once driven me. I use it instead to get into the heads and hearts of my characters or the people I am writing about and to write stories and essays that are emotionally honest and that (I hope) will create open dialogues about topics that are hard to discuss.

I clung to my woundedness for years because it had become a comfortable identity for me–it was all I knew. Sometimes when a wave of sadness, or especially anger, hits, I still lose myself in it. It is cathartic to sob your heart out and/or break stuff while basking in either the gothest or ragiest music you can think of. In fact, I believe that’s healthy. But I have to come up for air and remind myself ultimately to heal, to grow. ♦