#i want to do a high empathy run since i went with thinker the first time

[draconicace]

haven't even finished my first playthrough (though i'm getting close) and i'm already planning my second

[apothecarinomicon]

Spring week 3, part 1

I felt much better this morning. I suppose whatever sickness fairy visions impart is strictly transient—or maybe dealing with reagents has given me a good immune system. 

When I went outside, I found that I’d somehow managed to plant the foxsocks in the garden. I don’t know how I could have done it in my feverish state and I certainly don’t remember it, but there it is. The foxsocks seem to be thriving already, or at least to have a solid foothold. As I’d hoped, they should be reliably available from here on out.

As I stood there, sleepily puzzling over the garden, I heard a screech from above. Looking up, I saw what at first appeared to be a large bird circling down towards the ground. When she landed, though, I saw she was a woman with wings instead of arms, talons instead of legs, and a feathered tail, wearing a khaki uniform—a postal harpy. She greeted me while balancing on one leg and asked me to confirm my name. I told her and she introduced herself as Liùsaidh. She indicated I ought to retrieve my mail from her talon (it’s polite to wait for their permission). She asked if I might be sticking around and I said I thought I was. She said she’d see me next time I got mail and flew off.

What she’d brought was a letter, with a return address listed as “The Gleoclas J. Ledgerwood Muſeum of Magicke.” It was a single handwritten (actually, impressively calligraphed) page. The spelling and grammar was, shall we say, characteristic. It’s easier to just stick the letter in between the pages than copy it down, so that’s what I’ll do.

To whom it may concern:

It has come to our attentionne at The Friends of The Gleoclas J. Ledgerwood Muſeum of Magicke that ye are a practicing vvitch reſiding in the hamlet of Greanmoore. We would like to congratulate ye on your appointmente and hope you find the positionne both fulfilling and rewarding. We had brief correspondence with your predeceſsor and were glad to learn of yovr presence.

The Gleoclas J. Ledgerwood Muſeum of Magicke is among the premiere magical muſeums in northweſternne High Rannoc. It has one of the moſte exhauſtive collections of magical materials, svbſtances, and hiſtories native to High Rannoc in the vvorld. Academicks, travelers, and school field trips regularly reference and reſearch the Muſeum’s collections in their purſuit of more compleat knowledge.

As The Muſeum of Magicke does not have a repreſentative in Greanmoore or the surrounding areas, we have a requeſte to make of ye if you are willing to fulfill it. We pride ourſelves on the compleatneſs of our Magickal Components collectionne, but we are miſsing many of the species native to Greanmoore and its svrrounding locations. We humbly ask that ye help vs remedy this deficiency. If you are willing to do so, we woulde requeſt that ye send one of each magickal componente available in the area to the Muſeum, at the returnne addreſs listed above. Should you do so, ye will receive compenſationne.

We hope ye will partner with vs in this endeavor. Your contributionne to societal knowledge shall be greatly appreciated by generationnes of reſearchers, thinkers, and touriſts.

Eagerly avvaiting your reſponſe,

The Friends of The Gleoclas J. Ledgerwood Muſeum of Magicke

[A plain text accessible version of this letter is available here.]

Obviously, the spelling is horrendous. This might have been forgivable a few decades ago, but the shape of the ‘s’ (that is, it not being that odd ‘f’ looking thing sometimes) and the distinction between ‘u,’ ‘v,’ and ‘w’ have been standardized since before I was born. Not to mention, the Ledgerwood Museum is associated with the University of Arcbridge—so there must be someone there who knows better.

The thing is, for a long time the only people who could write were those who received higher education, so the vast majority of documents that exist throughout history have to do with academia. So, even as reading and writing became more accessible and spelling and grammar more standardized, that outdated irregular styling retroactively became associated with education, with decorum, with genius.

I’ve never really had much respect for that kind of posturing—I think that if you’re brilliant the content of your writing ought to speak for itself. You shouldn’t have to so explicitly climb on the shoulders of those who came before you, especially not by intentionally making the mistakes they made or using the outdated styles they used.

I sent back a letter inquiring about the specifics of compensation along with a sample of my foxsocks.

I’m going to the library.

 ────⊱⁜⊰──── 

The Greenmoor Public Library is near the center of town, not quite in the square but on Market Street directly off of it. It has some interesting architecture: it looks as if it was originally three separate buildings the size of single-family houses, that were all connected up at a later date by a circular addition between them so that the final building looks like a cog with three spokes. Each section of it is made up of a different material—exposed stone, lime render, and brick for the original houses, and cement for the central cylinder—but it all works together in a quirky, oddball way.

There are no internal walls in the library—even where there must have been external walls in the original houses. They must have knocked them down (I don’t envy that job). Every wall is lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, and in each of the spokes there are many close-set freestanding shelves besides, with only narrow aisles left between. At the center of the center is a circular desk, and around this are scattered tables with benches and clusters of armchairs for convenience of reading and research.

The library is owned and run by Donella and Saundra Glasford, an older couple. Saundra is actually the schoolteacher, but she helps with reshelving and organization on weekends. I know this because Donella explained it to me in detail. As soon as I walked in the door she stood from behind (within?) the circular desk and approached me, insisting that she give me a tour of the library. In addition to a survey of the entire space and what kinds of books it contained, this ‘tour’ involved a hefty amount of insight into the daily lives and routines of the Glasford family. 

They have a kid named Muiredach, who’s very interested in ancient things at the moment—giant skeletons and the like. Donella has lived here her entire life but Saundra moved here forty years ago. Saundra’s expertise is in thaumatology (specifically thaumatozoology, the study of magical animals), in which she has a degree. Meanwhile, Donella has extensive knowledge of literary and epistemological history, though she received no formal schooling past twelve.

After she finished showing me all the different sections and layouts of the library, Donella told me I should feel free to poke around as much as I wanted. She added that I wouldn’t find any secret passages or hidden rooms, and that they had nothing to hide.

I hadn’t realized before she said that what this was all about.

I told her that the rumors weren’t true, that I wasn’t some Government spy or anything like that (I heard Saundra mumble something like “well you’d also deny it if you were a clype, wouldn’t you?”). Donella quickly assured me that she believed me, but then said “better safe than sorry,” so I’m not quite sure she actually did. I told her I didn’t understand where all the suspicion was coming from. Saundra piped up, saying that I was a stranger who came to a small, isolated town I had no prior relation with to fill a position whose previous occupant had mysteriously disappeared, and asked if I understood how that looked (not in quite those words—her accent and dialect was rather strong). I told her I’d been summoned directly by Mòrag McKinney, and had the paper trail to prove it. I asked if she thought Mòrag was involved in some conspiracy, too. She shrugged and said she was just saying how it looked.

Donella said regardless that I should feel free to use the library—it was for the public, after all—and pointed me in the direction of the section on rune magic. Thus, the conversation ended, but my uneasiness didn’t entirely abate. Still, I’d come to the library for a reason.

The rune section was limited, but I didn’t need to know any more than the basics. I’d only ever been taught one way to create runes, and it was clear my predecessor used a different one—all I needed to do was to figure out which and I could reverse engineer the runes’ meanings.

I found that she used a combination of the witches’ circle and magic square methods, which are both apparently very popular. I wonder why I was never taught them. Both systems derive the shape of the sigil directly from the letters of the intentions they’re meant to invoke. It’s traditional to remove the vowels before doing so, but luckily for me my predecessor chose not to do that.

So, with a bit of work I was able to determine that the sigils I copied down meant: life, autonomy, gentleness, congeniality, and empathy respectively. It was clearly built to be a very kind golem. Now that I know that, I’m going to try to create my own sigils and charge them, and see if that helps.

 ────⊱⁜⊰──── 

While I was at the library, I also collected a few of the greatest works of modern literature—Lord of the Midges, Beathag’s Choice, To Kill a Gull-Drake, et cetera. The next morning I packed the books into the rucksack I’d used to travel to Greenmoor and set out to take them to Morna, heading to Hero’s Hollow by way of Moonbreaker Mountain.

As I skirted the base of the mountain, I heard a voice call out from above me, crying “hey, you! Groundling!” It was clearly far above me but somehow also quite loud. I looked up and saw, blotting out the sun, a great hot air balloon.  I’d heard vague stories but had never seen one in person before. The most striking part of it was the balloon itself, made of canvas patterned beige and blue and larger than a house. The top half of it (as I was informed later) was enclosed by a net, which had metal rings on its edges attaching it to a tangle of myriad ropes and cords. These in turn held aloft the basket, which was not the simple platform I’d seen described in books but rather looked like a small sailing boat, complete with railings, rotors, and a steering wheel.

The voice announced that it hadn’t seen me around before and that I ought to climb aboard. A ladder with metal rungs unfurled over the side of the boat, just low enough that I could reach it if I jumped. I did so after making sure my rucksack was firmly on my back and shut, and climbed up to reach the aircraft.

The man onboard was only slightly taller than me. His white shirt was rumpled and stained with oil, and his left suspender was fraying. The thick goggles on his forehead, held together with large bolts and screws, were the only thing keeping his thick black hair from whipping in all directions with the wind (mine, in contrast, had already become hopelessly tangled). His sleeves were rolled up, but his forearms were covered by brown leather fingerless gloves, with metal studs that flashed in the sunlight as he hauled the ladder back onto the balloon. He wore a mask over the lower half of his face, with a cylindrical chamber marked “O2” sticking out from each cheek. Directly in front of the mouth was a clear window, so that I could see his lips moving when he spoke. He offered me a similar one and I accepted—the air was rather thin so high up. I could see him say something that was drowned out by the wind, and then he beckoned me towards a door. Given the shape of the craft, I wasn’t surprised to discover that it led to a kind of captains’ quarters.

Inside, the wind wasn’t quite so brutally loud and I could actually make out what my host was saying. He introduced himself as Captain Akash Majhi, aviator extraordinaire, and asked if I needed a lift. I said it might have been a bit late to ask since I was already on the balloon, which made him chuckle. I said that since he’d offered, I was headed to Hero’s Hollow, and he replied that that would be no problem. I noticed as we conversed that he only made eye contact when he was speaking—when I spoke, he instead watched my lips.

As Akash turned to pull a lever on the wall, I asked where he was from. He didn’t respond. With the lever pulled, a large strip of the ceiling rotated so that a piece of what had been the floor above—the piece to which the steering wheel was attached—became the ceiling of this room. Akash then tapped what seemed to just be a wooden accent covering a swath of the metal wall above the desk and bed. The wood slid to the side, revealing a bay window through which he could see.

He took his place at the wheel, positioning me in his field of view, so I asked again where he was from. He told me he was a proud resident of the Cloud Isles. I told him I’d never heard of such a place, and he said I really must be new to the area. Belatedly, I told him my name and that I had in fact only moved here a few weeks ago. He told me that the Cloud Isles were just that: islands in the clouds, with wildlife, ecosystems, and culture. At the center was a great city that, yes, was attached to the clouds, but had mostly been built flying between and amongst them by generations of architects, donors, engineers, artists, and aviators like himself. 

I asked him where the city was located and he vaguely waved his hands. “Here and there.” He said that as the clouds drifted so did the Isles, but that the city itself never strayed too far from Greenmoor—otherwise, mapping and resource-gathering from the ground below would be difficult or impossible.

I asked him how I might visit the Isles, and he told me I’d need to be able to fly. He said the general ethos of the residents leaned towards mechanical solutions, but he had heard that there were magical ways of flight as well. I said I would have to look into that. He handed me a business card with his name, “balloonist | engineer | aviator extraordinaire,” an address, and a smoke signal pattern to use to contact him. He said if I was ever in the city he’d be happy to show me around. Then, he announced that we’d arrived.

We went back onto the deck and he unfurled the ladder over the edge. I  went to hand him the oxygen mask back but he told me to keep it—they were expensive, but he had plenty and I’d be needing it when (and he did say “when”) I visited the city. I thanked him, shook his hand, and started descending the ladder.

 ────⊱⁜⊰──── 

I made it back to the ground (the hop down from the ladder was smaller than the hop up had been), and smoothed my hair down before setting off into the Hollow. I’d only barely made it into the skull when my plans for the afternoon abruptly shifted.

It was just around midday, so the guards must have been on break or between shifts. Hurrying out of the dungeon was a group I recognized—it was the Lows, the mining family. Angus was carrying the son in his arms. The boy was clutching his thigh, and even from a distance I could see blood seeping through his fingers.

Crystal spotted me and immediately called out to me, thanking the gods for my arrival. I hurried to them and guided them back to the cottage, where I knew I’d be able to better determine how to treat the issue. Morna would have to wait—I had a patient to tend to.

⇦●〇●⇨

[slayxwolf]

Stiles Stilinski Imagine- Where’s My Love

Masterlist

Author’s Note: So this is based on this song, you can find it here. I just think it’s so beautiful so I had to make an imagine based on it.

Word Count: 1,995

Cold bones. Yeah, that's my love She hides away, like a ghost Does she know that we bleed the same? Don't wanna cry but I break that way

‘I can’t do this anymore. I am sick and tired of losing people to this fucking town. I have loved and lost so many people because of the supernatural backlash and I'm afraid I’ve lost myself’. That was the last thought that ran through your mind, the words that repeated as you packed your bags, as you left your house key and as you began to drive. It wasn't easy. None of this was ever going to be easy.

Scott and Stiles rushed into your house, they hadn't seen you in over 24 hours and you weren't answering your phone. Scott was still covered in blood from the night before, trying to protect Beacon Hills from yet another supernatural threat. “Y/n!” they both called, storming through the empty rooms. Scott rushed upstairs, while Stiles checked downstairs. Suddenly, Scott’s footsteps from upstairs came to a halt; catching Stiles’ attention. He followed and walked into your bedroom, Scott glanced behind him with sympathetic eyes. The further your boyfriend walked into you room, the more he realised you were gone. A place that had once felt like a second home to him, felt unfamiliar and cold. “I'm sorry” Scott dropped his head in guilt. You and Stiles had been inseparable since Freshman year, you didn't find out about the supernatural until the time you saw Jackson turn into a fucking lizard. Scott wondered if it wasn't for him getting bitten, that things would have never ended up like this. Stiles looked around your room, clothes were ripped off the hangers in your wardrobe, essential items were pulled out of your draws, your suitcase and bags were missing and your room was practically bare. Stiles stood staring at blank walls and let out a subtle laugh, one of shock and astonishment; as opposed to amusement. “She’s gone-” he breathed. He turned to face Scott with tears in his eyes, before Scott pulled him into a hug, holding the back of his head firmly with his hand.

Stiles couldn't sleep that night- or any night for that matter. He feared that you could be hurt or scared while he was sleeping peacefully, he also feared that he would dream of you- and wake up without you lying beside him. The same routine every night, he would scroll through pictures of you together, re-read texts and constantly think about old memories. The heavy feeling you get In your chest when you hear bad news, Stiles had that all of the time. You did what you needed to do for yourself, but that meant breaking people’s hearts along the way. Stiles stared at the most recent picture of you in his phone, you looked so happy and he searched for signs of the sadness you felt- but couldn't find any. He felt the indent as someone sat at the bottom of his bed, “Come on son” he sighed gently, locking the phone in his hand. Stiles put it on his bedside table and shook his head, “I just miss her” he barely spoke. “I know” he replied, giving Stiles an endearing pat on the shoulder, before reaching to turn his lamp off. He stood up and walked out of the room, not because he didn't care, but because he felt the same pain Stiles felt. When his wife died he did the same thing, went down the same path of self destruction and grief. Nothing hurts like the first heartbreak, its an inevitable pain- but he thought you two were different. I guess he was wrong.

Cold sheets. Oh, where's my love? I am searching high, I'm searching low in the night Does she know that we bleed the same? Don't wanna cry but I break that way

“Hey Stiles”  Lydia said casually, but failed to mask the empathy in her voice. He simply nod his head and gave her a weak smile. “You haven't been at school in a while, I'm surprised you remember where the library is” she joked, trying to make him feel better. Stiles just stared at her blankly. “I'm sorry- that was a stupid thing for me to say- sorry” she rambled, feeling terrible. He let out a soft laugh. “You asshole, I though I upset you” she laughed back, punching him playfully in the arm. “I'm fine- honestly” he claimed, his voice crack suggesting otherwise. She looked over his shoulder and at the laptop he had open on the table. She shook her head a took a seat beside him. Stiles hung his head. “You hacked into her phone records, Stiles you are aware of how illegal that is right?” she asked in disbelief. “They’re useless anyway” he huffed, taking the headphones from around his neck off and slamming his laptop shut. “You’re looking for her, aren't you?” she asked, and his lack of answer said it all. She sat for a moment and sighed, thinking before making any type of decision. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she questioned. “What if she doesn't want to be found?” he asked, his voice raspy and his eyes glazed. “Sometimes, two people need to fall apart, to realise how much they need to fall back together" she answered, giving him a small but genuine smile. He understood completely. “So if we’re going to do this...” she began saying, opening up his laptop. “Then we’ll do it together” she comforted, channelling her knowledge into helping him search for you. Lydia played cupid in Freshman year, which inevitably got you both together. It was only fair that she helped you find your way back to one another.

Did she run away? Did she run away? I don't know If she ran away If she ran away, come back home Just come home

You gripped onto the steering wheel tightly. What the fuck are you doing? You kept repeating in your head as you drove. You had no idea where you were going and quite frankly, you didn't care anymore. You adjusted you wing view mirror and put on your windshield wipers, as it began to pour down with rain. Great. You wiped the smudged mascara from under your eye, before returning to stare at the empty road in front of you. You glanced at your phone that was resting on the passenger seat, along with your purse. You hadn't turned it on since you left, because you knew that the missed calls and text messages from everyone will break you, but you kept it close to you because it was the only thing you had left, that kept you connected to Beacon Hills. You drove past couples on the street walking hand in hand. You remembered when your life used to be that simple, before you were constantly fighting for it, due to the next supernatural nightmare to plague the town. You lost your best friend to it, people you’d known since you could just about talk, and people that fought to save you all- you couldn't watch that happen anymore. As much as losing a loved one hurts, you now came to realise that leaving hurts the most. Everyone’s time is limited on earth and it’s better to live every second of it, doing the things you love, with the people you love. Maybe walking away from that was the biggest mistake you’ve made, maybe it was the best. But everything happens for a reason, right. Going back was the easiest thing to do- but you weren't sure if it was the right thing to do.

I got a fear, oh, in my blood She was carried up into the clouds, high above If you bled, I'll bleed the same If you're scared, I'm on my way

“It’s been weeks” Scott sighed, slumping onto his best friend’s bed. Stiles mumbled as a response and continued to type, print, highlight and pin up leads onto his investigation board. “You've stopped coming to school again- you’re failing history class” Scott continued. “It can wait” he brushed off, standing up and starting to search for his coloured strings. “Stiles, just stop” Scott spoke with authority, tired of watching him mope around his room desperately searching for someone that was never coming back. “We all miss her, she’s been apart of all of our lives for so long- but you have to let go” he said softly. “I know Y/n and I know that right now she’s feeling scared and alone, because she always does things before thinking rationally, it’s what she is- she’s a doer and that's why she needs me, because I'm a thinker and together we make the perfect balance and-” he began to ramble at 100mph. “You love each other, but sometimes things aren't meant to be and it sucks” he interrupted, for once being the voice of reason regarding relationships. “I cant live without her” Stiles admitted. Scott was familiar with a similar form of heartache and he knew it was the cruellest. He sighed and stood up, before picking up Stiles’ string from the desk behind him and handing it to him. It was a small gesture, with a huge meaning behind it. “We’ll find her” Scott reassured. Stiles nod his head and smiled at his best friend, as they continued to search together.

Did you run away? Did you run away? I don't need to know If you ran away If you ran away, come back home Just come home 

You tucked your hair behind your ear as you walked across the beach. You hadn't settled down anywhere and you were feeling alone to say the least. “Excuse me, you dropped something” an old women passed you a small polaroid picture that must have fallen out of your wallet. “Thank you” you said gently as she handed it to you. You began to walk away but she held your hand for a little longer. “He’s a handsome young man, is he your boyfriend?” she asked. You glanced down at the picture, it was of you and Stiles at a party. He had his arm around you and you were laughing. “Oh erm, something like that” you gave a weak smile. “Young love” she said understandingly, letting go of you. “Have a good day” you said, which she returned. You turned around and wiped the tear that had been desperate to esape your eye. You took a deep breath and continued to walk. The beach was always your place of clarity, you watched as the sun began to set behind the sea. “Excuse me” a voice spoke. Goosebumps rose on your skin, you had longed to hear it. “Stiles-” you turned around to see him. His eyes wide and his lips parted open. “Take me home” you let out a sob as you ran into his arms without hesitation. He tightened his grip around you and stroked your hair as it blew in the breeze. “I missed you so fucking much” he said in relief, finally feeling you in his arms after months of hurting. “I missed you too” you squeezed your eyes shut at the thought of having to live another second without him. “I felt like I was going out of my mind” he whispered into your ear. You pulled away from him and stared into his watery dark brown eyes, “I’ve realised something” you said, almost inaudibly. “What?” he asked worriedly. “I love you, I love you so much” you shook your head as tears fell from your eyes. He smiled for a second, “I love you” he replied. He put his arm around your waist as you both carried to walk along the beach. You felt so many different emotions, but alone was no longer one of them. You were back with the person you loved and you never intended to be away from him again- ever.

Sorry for being such a terrible writer and not being active in months, I suck I know x

[personalcoachingcenter]

The Beautiful Truths About Being a Highly Sensitive Human

New Post has been published on https://personalcoachingcenter.com/the-beautiful-truths-about-being-a-highly-sensitive-human/

The Beautiful Truths About Being a Highly Sensitive Human

Being intense and sensitive—seeing the world through different eyes and feeling the world on a distinctive wavelength—does not lay an easy path.

You are most likely a deep thinker, an intuitive feeler, and an extraordinary observer. You are prone to existential depression and anxiety, but you also know beauty and rapture. When art or music moves you, you are flooded with waves of joy and ecstasy. As a natural empathiser, you have a gift; yet you are also overwhelmed by the constant waves of social nuances and others’ psychic energies.

You might have spent your whole life trying to fit in with the cultural “shoulds” and “musts In school, you wanted to be in the clique, but you were unable to make small talks or have shallow relationships.

At work, you want the authorities to recognise you, but your soul does not compromise on depth, authenticity and connections.

You feel hurt for being the black sheep in the family, but your success is not recognised in a conventional way.

In these following paragraphs, I want to remind you how precious your unique life path is. Rather than pretending to be who you are not, you only do yourself and the world justice by celebrating your sensitivity and intensity.

(Please click here for a full definition of what it means to be emotionally intense and sensitive)

SENSITIVITY AS A FORM OF BRAIN DIFFERENCE

Emotional sensitivity is a brain difference—an innate trait that makes one different from the normative way of functioning.

While the mass media and medical professionals are eager to use labels to diagnose people with a way of being that is different from the norm, findings in neuroscience are going in the opposite direction. More and more, the scientific community acknowledges “neurodiversity”—the biological reality that we are all wired differently. Rather than being an inconvenience to be eliminated, neurodiversity is an evolutionary advantage, something that is essential if we were to flourish as a species.

Like many brain differences, it is misunderstood. As people naturally reject what they do not understand, the emotionally sensitive ones are being pushed to the margin. Those who feel more, and seem to have a mind that operates outside of society’s norm are often outcasted. In the Victorian era, women who appeared emotional were given the humiliating label of “hysteria.” Even today, emotional people tend to be looked down upon, and sometimes criticised and shunned.

The stigma attached to sensitivity is made worse by trends in the mass media. In 2014, author Bret Easton Ellis branded Millennials as narcissistic, over-sensitive and sheltered; from there, the disparaging term “generation snowflake” went viral. The right-wing media ran with the insult. Last year, a Daily Mail article described young people as “a fragile, thin-skinned younger generation.” This notion is not only unfounded but also unjust and damaging.

The sensitive male is also misjudged and marginalised. Under the ”boys don’t cry!” macho culture, those who feel more are called “weak” or “sissies,” with little acknowledgement of their unique strengths. Many sensitive boys and men live lives of quiet suffering and have opted to numb their emotional pain of not fitting the male ideal with alcohol, drugs, sex, gambling, or other addictions.

Being sensitive and intense is not an illness—in fact, it often points to intelligence, talents or creativity. However, after years of being misdiagnosed by health professionals, criticised by schools or workplace authority, and misunderstood by even those who are close to them, many sensitive people start to believe there is something wrong with them. Ironically, low self-esteem and loneliness make them more susceptible to having an actual mental disorder.

SOME OF US ARE BORN SENSITIVE

Since the 1990s, various scientific frameworks have emerged to explain our differences in sensitivity. Some of the most prominent being sensory processing sensitivity, “differential susceptibility theory,” and “biological sensitivity to context” (Lionetti et al., 2018).

From birth, we differ in our neurological makeup. Each baby has their style based on how well they react to external stimuli and how they organises sensation. Medical professionals use tools like the Neonatal Behavioral Assessment Scale (NBAS) to measure such differences.

Harvard developmental psychologist Jerome Kagan was amongst the first scholars to examine sensitivity as a brain difference. In Kagan’s studies of infants, he found that a group of infants are more aroused and distressed by novel stimuli—a stranger coming into the room, a noxious smell. To these cautious infants, any new situation is a potential threat.

On closer examination, sensitive infants have different biochemical reactions when exposed to stress. Their system secrets higher levels of norepinephrine (our brain’s version of adrenaline) and stress hormones like cortisol. In other words, they have a fear system that is more active than most.

Since the regions of the brain that receive signals for potential threats are extra reactive, these children are not geared to process a wide range of sensations at a single moment. Even as adults, they are more vulnerable to stress-related disease, chronic pain and fatigue, migraine headaches, and environmental stimuli ranging from smell, sight, sound to electromagnetic influences.

In 1995, Elaine Aron published her book Highly Sensitive People, bringing the idea into the mainstream. Aron defines high sensitivity as a distinct personality trait that affects as many as 15-20 percent of the population—too many to be a disorder, but not enough to be well understood by the majority.

Here are a set of HSP traits in Aron’s original conception:

Noticing sounds, sensations and smells that others miss (e.g. clock ticking, the humming noise from a refrigerator, uncomfortable clothing)

Feeling moved on a visceral level by things like art, music and performance, or nature

“Pick up” others moods or have them affect you more than most

Being sensitive to pain or other physical sensations

A quiet environment is essential to you

Feel uneasy or overwhelmed in a busy and crowded environment

Sensitivity to caffeine

Startle/ blush easily

Dramatic impact on your mood

Having food sensitivities, allergies, asthma

THE ORCHIDS AND THE DANDELIONS

But does being born sensitive destine one to lifelong unhappiness and turmoil? To answer this question, Thomas Boyce, M.D., founded the “Orchid and Dandelion” theory.

Combining years of experience as a paediatrician, and results from empirical studies, Dr. Boyce and his team found that most children, approximately 80 percent of the population, are like dandelions—they can survive almost every environmental circumstances. The remaining 20 percent are like orchids; they are exquisitely sensitive to their environment and vulnerable under conditions of adversity. This theory explains why siblings brought up in the same family might respond differently to family stress. While orchid children are affected by even the most subtle differences in their parents’ feelings and behaviours, dandelion children are unperturbed.

But sensitivity does not equal vulnerability. Many of Dr. Boyce’s orchid children patients have grown up to become eminent adults, magnificent parents, intelligent and generous citizens of the world. As it turns out; sensitive children respond to not just the negative but also the positive. Their receptivity to the environment can also bring a reversal of fortune.

Orchid children’s receptivity applies to not just physical sensations, but also relational experiences such as warmth or indifference. In critical, undermining setting, they may devolve into despair, but in a supportive and nurturing environment, they thrive even further more than the dandelions.

The Orchid and Dandelion theory holds a provocative view of genetics, which asserts that the very genes that give us the most challenges also underlie the most remarkable qualities. Sensitivity is like a “highly leveraged evolutionary bets” that carry both high risks and potential rewards (Dobbs, 2009). The very sensitive children that suffer in a precarious childhood environment are the same children most likely to flourish and prosper. They may be more prone to upsets and physical sensitivities, but they also possess the most capacity to be unusually vital, creative, and successful.

In other words, the sensitive ones are not born “vulnerable”; they are simply more responsive to their surrounding system. With the right kind of knowledge, support and nurture—even if this means replenishing what one did not get in childhood in adulthood—they can thrive like no others.

THRIVING IN A NEW WORLD

Our world is changing. Qualities such as sensitivity, empathy, high perceptiveness—what the sensitive person excel at, are needed and celebrated.

In Daniel Pink’s book, A Whole New Mind: Why Right-Brainers Will Rule The Future, he pointed out that our society has arrived at a point in which systematisation, computerisation, and automation are giving way to new skills such as intuition, creativity, and empathy. For more than 100 years, the sequential, linear, and logical were praised. As we move towards a different economic era, the world’s leaders will need to be creators and empathisers. As Pink quoted: “I say, ‘Get me some poets as managers.’ Poets are our original systems thinkers. They contemplate the world in which we live and feel obligated to interpret and give expression to it in a way that makes the reader understand how that world runs. Poets, those unheralded systems thinkers, are our true digital thinkers. It is from their midst that I believe we will draw tomorrow’s new business leaders.”

It is clear that humanity is calling for a different way of being, and a redefinition of power. In today’s world, people yearn to be led by empathy, rather than force. Even in the most ego-driven corporate space, we hear people saying things like “trust your gut instinct,” “follow your intuition,” or “watch the energy in the room.” Sensitivity, emotional intensity, deep empathy—what were previously thought as weaknesses—are now much-valued qualities that make you stand out.

We are in a time where the previously highly sensitive and empathic misfits rise to become the leaders. Therefore, embracing your gift of sensitivity is not just something you do for yourself, but also those around you. If you can summon the courage to stand out as a sensitive leader, you set a solid example for all others like you. The more you can free yourself from the childlike need to trade “fitting in” for authenticity, the more you can channel your gifts and serve the world.

TRUE BELONGING

For years, you have desperately wanted to “fit in.”

But at times, you hear a tiny whispering voice that champions the truth. It asks:

What if what your inner self needs is to be allowed just to be you, even when it means not fitting in the crowd?

What if what your soul is destined to be different, like many rebels, the artists, and visionaries in history?

What if like all the honourable trailblazers and truth tellers, your seat in this world is indeed on the fringe?

Coming to terms with your authentic place in the world might mean accepting the reality that you will never “fit in” the conventional way.

This is not immediately easy.

After all, you want to belong, to be part of a tribe, to feel like a wider part of humanity.

But once you have released the old idea of what “fitting in” meant, you could make room for a new meaning of belongingness.

In true belongingness, fitting in means something different.

It means you have made a home for yourself.

It means you have committed never to reject yourself, even when the world says otherwise.

It means you have asserted your boundaries, and you honour only the opinions of those who have earned your respect.

It means you drop the task of peacemaking and align with the mission of truth-telling.

It means you stop buying membership with the cost of your true self, but instead create membership by making your mark in the world.

With the courageous acceptance of your authentic place in the world comes both beauty and terror, excitement and fear.

See if you can embrace both, but keep your eyes on the prize.

Soon, your courage will bring you what your deepest self have longed a lifetime for—a true sense of belonging.

(Original Post)

Source, N;

[personalcoachingcenter]

The Beautiful Truths About Being a Highly Sensitive Human

New Post has been published on http://personalcoachingcenter.com/the-beautiful-truths-about-being-a-highly-sensitive-human/

The Beautiful Truths About Being a Highly Sensitive Human

Being intense and sensitive—seeing the world through different eyes and feeling the world on a distinctive wavelength—does not lay an easy path.

You are most likely a deep thinker, an intuitive feeler, and an extraordinary observer. You are prone to existential depression and anxiety, but you also know beauty and rapture. When art or music moves you, you are flooded with waves of joy and ecstasy. As a natural empathiser, you have a gift; yet you are also overwhelmed by the constant waves of social nuances and others’ psychic energies.

You might have spent your whole life trying to fit in with the cultural “shoulds” and “musts In school, you wanted to be in the clique, but you were unable to make small talks or have shallow relationships.

At work, you want the authorities to recognise you, but your soul does not compromise on depth, authenticity and connections.

You feel hurt for being the black sheep in the family, but your success is not recognised in a conventional way.

In these following paragraphs, I want to remind you how precious your unique life path is. Rather than pretending to be who you are not, you only do yourself and the world justice by celebrating your sensitivity and intensity.

(Please click here for a full definition of what it means to be emotionally intense and sensitive)

SENSITIVITY AS A FORM OF BRAIN DIFFERENCE

Emotional sensitivity is a brain difference—an innate trait that makes one different from the normative way of functioning.

While the mass media and medical professionals are eager to use labels to diagnose people with a way of being that is different from the norm, findings in neuroscience are going in the opposite direction. More and more, the scientific community acknowledges “neurodiversity”—the biological reality that we are all wired differently. Rather than being an inconvenience to be eliminated, neurodiversity is an evolutionary advantage, something that is essential if we were to flourish as a species.

Like many brain differences, it is misunderstood. As people naturally reject what they do not understand, the emotionally sensitive ones are being pushed to the margin. Those who feel more, and seem to have a mind that operates outside of society’s norm are often outcasted. In the Victorian era, women who appeared emotional were given the humiliating label of “hysteria.” Even today, emotional people tend to be looked down upon, and sometimes criticised and shunned.

The stigma attached to sensitivity is made worse by trends in the mass media. In 2014, author Bret Easton Ellis branded Millennials as narcissistic, over-sensitive and sheltered; from there, the disparaging term “generation snowflake” went viral. The right-wing media ran with the insult. Last year, a Daily Mail article described young people as “a fragile, thin-skinned younger generation.” This notion is not only unfounded but also unjust and damaging.

The sensitive male is also misjudged and marginalised. Under the ”boys don’t cry!” macho culture, those who feel more are called “weak” or “sissies,” with little acknowledgement of their unique strengths. Many sensitive boys and men live lives of quiet suffering and have opted to numb their emotional pain of not fitting the male ideal with alcohol, drugs, sex, gambling, or other addictions.

Being sensitive and intense is not an illness—in fact, it often points to intelligence, talents or creativity. However, after years of being misdiagnosed by health professionals, criticised by schools or workplace authority, and misunderstood by even those who are close to them, many sensitive people start to believe there is something wrong with them. Ironically, low self-esteem and loneliness make them more susceptible to having an actual mental disorder.

SOME OF US ARE BORN SENSITIVE

Since the 1990s, various scientific frameworks have emerged to explain our differences in sensitivity. Some of the most prominent being sensory processing sensitivity, “differential susceptibility theory,” and “biological sensitivity to context” (Lionetti et al., 2018).

From birth, we differ in our neurological makeup. Each baby has their style based on how well they react to external stimuli and how they organises sensation. Medical professionals use tools like the Neonatal Behavioral Assessment Scale (NBAS) to measure such differences.

Harvard developmental psychologist Jerome Kagan was amongst the first scholars to examine sensitivity as a brain difference. In Kagan’s studies of infants, he found that a group of infants are more aroused and distressed by novel stimuli—a stranger coming into the room, a noxious smell. To these cautious infants, any new situation is a potential threat.

On closer examination, sensitive infants have different biochemical reactions when exposed to stress. Their system secrets higher levels of norepinephrine (our brain’s version of adrenaline) and stress hormones like cortisol. In other words, they have a fear system that is more active than most.

Since the regions of the brain that receive signals for potential threats are extra reactive, these children are not geared to process a wide range of sensations at a single moment. Even as adults, they are more vulnerable to stress-related disease, chronic pain and fatigue, migraine headaches, and environmental stimuli ranging from smell, sight, sound to electromagnetic influences.

In 1995, Elaine Aron published her book Highly Sensitive People, bringing the idea into the mainstream. Aron defines high sensitivity as a distinct personality trait that affects as many as 15-20 percent of the population—too many to be a disorder, but not enough to be well understood by the majority.

Here are a set of HSP traits in Aron’s original conception:

Noticing sounds, sensations and smells that others miss (e.g. clock ticking, the humming noise from a refrigerator, uncomfortable clothing)

Feeling moved on a visceral level by things like art, music and performance, or nature

“Pick up” others moods or have them affect you more than most

Being sensitive to pain or other physical sensations

A quiet environment is essential to you

Feel uneasy or overwhelmed in a busy and crowded environment

Sensitivity to caffeine

Startle/ blush easily

Dramatic impact on your mood

Having food sensitivities, allergies, asthma

THE ORCHIDS AND THE DANDELIONS

But does being born sensitive destine one to lifelong unhappiness and turmoil? To answer this question, Thomas Boyce, M.D., founded the “Orchid and Dandelion” theory.

Combining years of experience as a paediatrician, and results from empirical studies, Dr. Boyce and his team found that most children, approximately 80 percent of the population, are like dandelions—they can survive almost every environmental circumstances. The remaining 20 percent are like orchids; they are exquisitely sensitive to their environment and vulnerable under conditions of adversity. This theory explains why siblings brought up in the same family might respond differently to family stress. While orchid children are affected by even the most subtle differences in their parents’ feelings and behaviours, dandelion children are unperturbed.

But sensitivity does not equal vulnerability. Many of Dr. Boyce’s orchid children patients have grown up to become eminent adults, magnificent parents, intelligent and generous citizens of the world. As it turns out; sensitive children respond to not just the negative but also the positive. Their receptivity to the environment can also bring a reversal of fortune.

Orchid children’s receptivity applies to not just physical sensations, but also relational experiences such as warmth or indifference. In critical, undermining setting, they may devolve into despair, but in a supportive and nurturing environment, they thrive even further more than the dandelions.

The Orchid and Dandelion theory holds a provocative view of genetics, which asserts that the very genes that give us the most challenges also underlie the most remarkable qualities. Sensitivity is like a “highly leveraged evolutionary bets” that carry both high risks and potential rewards (Dobbs, 2009). The very sensitive children that suffer in a precarious childhood environment are the same children most likely to flourish and prosper. They may be more prone to upsets and physical sensitivities, but they also possess the most capacity to be unusually vital, creative, and successful.

In other words, the sensitive ones are not born “vulnerable”; they are simply more responsive to their surrounding system. With the right kind of knowledge, support and nurture—even if this means replenishing what one did not get in childhood in adulthood—they can thrive like no others.

THRIVING IN A NEW WORLD

Our world is changing. Qualities such as sensitivity, empathy, high perceptiveness—what the sensitive person excel at, are needed and celebrated.

In Daniel Pink’s book, A Whole New Mind: Why Right-Brainers Will Rule The Future, he pointed out that our society has arrived at a point in which systematisation, computerisation, and automation are giving way to new skills such as intuition, creativity, and empathy. For more than 100 years, the sequential, linear, and logical were praised. As we move towards a different economic era, the world’s leaders will need to be creators and empathisers. As Pink quoted: “I say, ‘Get me some poets as managers.’ Poets are our original systems thinkers. They contemplate the world in which we live and feel obligated to interpret and give expression to it in a way that makes the reader understand how that world runs. Poets, those unheralded systems thinkers, are our true digital thinkers. It is from their midst that I believe we will draw tomorrow’s new business leaders.”

It is clear that humanity is calling for a different way of being, and a redefinition of power. In today’s world, people yearn to be led by empathy, rather than force. Even in the most ego-driven corporate space, we hear people saying things like “trust your gut instinct,” “follow your intuition,” or “watch the energy in the room.” Sensitivity, emotional intensity, deep empathy—what were previously thought as weaknesses—are now much-valued qualities that make you stand out.

We are in a time where the previously highly sensitive and empathic misfits rise to become the leaders. Therefore, embracing your gift of sensitivity is not just something you do for yourself, but also those around you. If you can summon the courage to stand out as a sensitive leader, you set a solid example for all others like you. The more you can free yourself from the childlike need to trade “fitting in” for authenticity, the more you can channel your gifts and serve the world.

TRUE BELONGING

For years, you have desperately wanted to “fit in.”

But at times, you hear a tiny whispering voice that champions the truth. It asks:

What if what your inner self needs is to be allowed just to be you, even when it means not fitting in the crowd?

What if what your soul is destined to be different, like many rebels, the artists, and visionaries in history?

What if like all the honourable trailblazers and truth tellers, your seat in this world is indeed on the fringe?

Coming to terms with your authentic place in the world might mean accepting the reality that you will never “fit in” the conventional way.

This is not immediately easy.

After all, you want to belong, to be part of a tribe, to feel like a wider part of humanity.

But once you have released the old idea of what “fitting in” meant, you could make room for a new meaning of belongingness.

In true belongingness, fitting in means something different.

It means you have made a home for yourself.

It means you have committed never to reject yourself, even when the world says otherwise.

It means you have asserted your boundaries, and you honour only the opinions of those who have earned your respect.

It means you drop the task of peacemaking and align with the mission of truth-telling.

It means you stop buying membership with the cost of your true self, but instead create membership by making your mark in the world.

With the courageous acceptance of your authentic place in the world comes both beauty and terror, excitement and fear.

See if you can embrace both, but keep your eyes on the prize.

Soon, your courage will bring you what your deepest self have longed a lifetime for—a true sense of belonging.

(Original Post)

Source, N;