Aliya Naseer Farooq
How many times has someone said to you,“Oh c’mon you’re too sensitive!” or “Hey, let it go…don’t be so sensitive!” usually accompanied by a shrug, smirk or that patronising look that I call the “I am better than you” look. It is a common one. We all get it from almost all the people around us and may have given it to some people ourselves, for all we know.
Let me explain the dynamics of this particular scenario. I am a self-acclaimed expert on the above; having heard it all my life. That is half a century on this planet. I know my sensitive. I can safely say that half of my time on earth has been spent listening, one third of it talking (most of it as a teacher…) and the rest being “sensitive!”. I have listened to rants on how hurt “they” are, how “wronged”, how “emotionally abused” and how “taken for granted”.
That is my speciality, if any and as I do not have a degree in psychology, I cannot get paid for it. So, yes, it is all voluntary and yes I do pick up the call even when I know full well that the other end is going to vent… today, another day and then another.
“Why don’t you just let it ring?” I have been asked. You know it will go on for an hour or more, it does and it happens again and again. I have never ever told my “venters” and “ranters” that they are being too sensitive. I restrain myself. I refrain from dishing out that one dismissive, “Hey, grow up… don’t be too sensitive!”
Sometimes I have to literally pinch myself on the arm. I have bruises to show for it. Bite my tongue or whatever it takes but I never say, “You are too sensitive!”
You might think I’m a saint or something; let me clarify – the thought did cross my mind.
“You are superb, you can take a lot of **** and not react”. Some saintly suspicion crept up my “over sensitive” mind but then it stopped in its first flush. I found myself using four, five, seven lettered words that I did not realise were part of my vocabulary. These after effects of listening to a particularly marathon rant session, happen far away from the world, thankfully in the seclusion of my bathroom.
These have a strange cleansing effect on the heart and mind. Having lived in Lahore all my formative years and doing what I do best – listening. Being a listener growing up in Lahore is an enlightening experience, to put it mildly. Our household was an island of decency in a sea of profanity. All in the most harmless, unintentional, regular manner.
Lahoris, you see, do not pay much heed to the frivolities of formality. Their realms of refinement only extend to the games of gourmet gastronomical genius. Here, they excel: how to cook the innermost organs of all halal four-legged and two legged creatures. This “donkey” matter is a recent addition, I have no memory of it in my day. They have exquisite taste in all that concerns the digestive tract. Other matters relating to the tongue are not given any thought, whatsoever. Their “happy” is accentuated with a selection of obscenities reserved for congratulatory exclamations. Their “angry”, well, that is when you need to immediately move to another room, house, country or continent. It includes the mention of body parts that no anatomy book ever explored.
Coming back to the question about sensitivity, you are sensitive means you have feelings, you show emotion. Insults, snide remarks, taunts and jibes affect you, as do manipulations and manoeuvres and underhand tactics. The best part of it all and the most difficult one is when you see it all, understand it all and can even predict the next move. To be able to exert self-control in those moments – those teeny tiny winks and winces, the half-smile, the raised eyebrow. When they see-unsee you, forget to return your salaam, take forever to look up from their desk and let you stand till you either move away or forget what you came there for in the first place. Then there are those who when faced with a rational, logical, competent person who does not follow the dotted line drawn by them or has enough creativity and experience to think out of the box and who, God forbid, does not give them the lip service on which they thrive or give them the praise which is oxygen to their hollow existence. If someone refuses to be a sycophant; all hell breaks loose.
They make up fantastical mighty towers of fake qualifications and expertise, not to forget the accent that goes with it, to make up for genuine work and self-realization. They stand on top of these towers looking down upon all the sweat and blood people that they need to satisfy their fanciful narcissistic existence and it works. Yes, believe me, it does. The whole act has a shelf life, of course. Like any other perishable item. The tower stands for a certain time and they know it. It is their game, after all, and they are good at it. They cultivate a circle of week and insecure people around them as a safety barrier against the self-assured ones, those who have had enough experience in life to see through their facade. They need to bring them down before their tower of ice begins to melt. That is when they will hit you where it hurts, and it hurts. It does. You know why? Because the person being kicked in the stomach, the person you are backbiting or maligning, spreading false rumours about, is a real person. She has a real degree, real compassion, real self-respect, real self-control and real decent upbringing by honest and hardworking parents. This real person will not take attitude, will not praise where it is not due and she will not resort to the mean, weak and underhand tactics that she sees you stoop to each hour of every day.
Once you have succeeded in demolishing the reasonably decent, now you know in your twisted psychotic timeline, that it is time. You cannot do more damage around here. Move onto another pasture and wreak your havoc over there. If the ravaged one so much as winces in pain or lets a tear escape – “Ooohh she’s too sensitive!”, “I don’t know what her problem is!” accompanied by that rolling of the eyes heavenwards. I know this only too well now, having had my share of such narcissistic Nellys and how they are absolutely professional when it comes to dodging the blame and shifting it to the unsuspecting victims.
When confronted by toxic behaviour patterns, I choose flight over fight, just as I choose to move to another room when the torrent of vernacular hits. I will not stoop to your level. I will not pretend to climb up your fantasy tower of greatness. I will not call your bluff. It is a battle I choose to ignore. I will leave you to your existence of pathetic darkness of your own making. I will not tell you to leave space for a window in your lightless tower. I will leave. I will leave to a more positive existence. I will strive harder to make myself better. If a tear escapes in this whole process then so be it. I shall not wipe it away. It is a testament to my honesty and labour of love.
When you say “too sensitive”, I hear “too human”. Yes, I am too human. This world can do with more real humans than pretend ones. It sure needs them. It needs us. It needs me!
Charles Bukowski wrote in his poem “The Bluebird”:
There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him
I say, stay in there
I’m not going to let anybody see you…
…I only let him out at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep
I say, I know that you’re there
so don’t be sad
then I put him back
but he’s singing a little in there, I haven’t quite let him die
and we sleep together like that with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to make a man
weep
but I don’t weep
do you?
Aliya Naseer Farooq, holds a Master’s degree in English Literature from Kinnaird College Lahore. She has written columns for English dailies such as ‘The Nation’ and ‘The Frontier Post – Lahore’.
