Despite the Fact . . .

that I have pursued an academic career in English literature, I have long had a keen interest in the human body. Sometimes that’s been a good thing, and other times bad.

Since childhood, I’ve been acutely aware of any sensation in my body. I remember the first time I noticed something physically “off” at the age of three. As I lay in bed, I could hear the fabric of my pillow moving as my heart beat. It was annoying: once I noticed the sound, I couldn’t ignore it. I had to get used to the fact that I felt my heartbeat in my earlobe, that I could hear the cotton pillow slip slide in response to my pulse, and that I couldn’t shut down the part of my brain that was aware.

Of course I didn’t have the language to express these experiences when I was three. It wasn’t until five years later, when my optometrist was shining a bright light in my eyes, that I learned a phrase to describe my keen sense of presence. As my optometrist routinely scanned my retina for any signs of damage or bleeding, I asked if seeing the veins on the back of my eye was normal. My optometrist lowered his light and asked me to describe what I saw. I told him, “It looks like a tree with lots of branches.” He said that I could see what’s called the arbre de vie (tree of life) running through my retina, that my awareness was uncommon, but that I was okay – just photosensitive.

I had a label. I was photosensitive. With time I realized I was audiosensitive, olfactosensitive, degustosensitive, and tactisensitive. I was, in short, sensitive. That sensitivity set me apart, made me feel responsible for my body, made me aware of how much the human feels in every given day.

The human body is amazing, but for a long time I lived in the shadow of fear that something within my incredibly complex system of systems will go wrong. I didn’t say might – it will. Whether from trauma, mutation, or age, I will someday break. And then I will no longer be sensitive.

Oddly enough, this with time became a reassurance. I will break. And, honestly, I probably won’t be aware of the fact that I’ve broken until it’s too late to do anything about it. Humans, no matter their levels of sensitivity, are notoriously bad at self-diagnosis. When a doctor finally told me this (after I noticed that the veins in my chest turned bluer when I raised my arms), I began to accept that my sensitivity can be all blessing, no curse. I just have to stop worrying about what I sense and start living in the world I DO sense.

And, when I’m no longer looking inward, that world is a vibrant place.