Rh negatives feel deeply. When hurt, our voices take on a life of their own.
Sensory processing sensitivity is a temperamental or personality trait involving “an increased sensitivity of the central nervous system and a deeper cognitive processing of physical, social and emotional stimuli”.
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This intrigued me. I’m a natural lyricist lifelong. I almost, almost, made it as a songwriter, though l can’t play one instrument. I can make lyrics on the hoof, meaning instantly, the tune just happens as l do so. I was up to my eyes in babies, and toddlers, times five, with nappies and screams for attention, aged 25, and an violent alcoholic husband. My coping strategy was making up lyrics. One day my my newsagent asked, “What do you ever do Jeanie, besides look after children?” I told him, “l write, stories, songs, and km working in a sci fi novel. He asked to see my songs, 16 of them, just words on old paper, typed in old army typewriter, faded and based like my dreams today. He asked to show them to a ‘friend’ who knew music. I was scared to death he’d keep them, but l let him borrow them. I had no copies, just in my head. Three weeks passed, then he says, “My friend likes your songs, he left a note.” He gave me back my songs, on the back is written, “The songs are very nice, l’ll be down to see you in a few weeks, Carl Denver” yes, he came, he was famous in my youth, wow! A uniformed chauffeur in a black and yellow Rolls Royce, like the movie, knocked my council house front door, “Mr Carl Denver asks if he may come in and talk with you ma’am?” He actually asked me to sing one to him, he wanted it for his new album, soon to be recorded! I did, soooo embarrassed, surrounded by nappies, washing, toys, l sang a song l wrote when my fourth child almost dyed, as l sat by her bed, the words just came out in song, so l wrote them down. My friend assured me l hadn’t dreamed it. He would use my song. But, Carl’s life went down the pan, he was bankrupted and fled the country, and my songs, all 16, are still in my files. More recently, looking for historic documents on my life, in 2014ish, l write and email if backup, with salient points to my target information official. He wrote back enclosing the ancient information. And added, “Reading your email was like reading poetry, very lyrical, very odd, like it was alive!”
I did some drawings… I was working at a pub in the Cotswolds… she was a temporary manager I showed her my drawings… I said they weren’t that good . She took my drawings and I never saw them again unsigned cus I didn’t believe in myself. She left and gave me an envelope with £70 … I’ve not drawn any thing since. Apologies for this . 🤔😊
Apol’s for typos in last entry, l’m hurting, physically, l’ve just filled in my census forms online, and using small mobile keypad with arthritic fingers. You’re email dropped in and caught my attention, bringing memories. Hoping you can translate the errors.
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This intrigued me. I’m a natural lyricist lifelong. I almost, almost, made it as a songwriter, though l can’t play one instrument. I can make lyrics on the hoof, meaning instantly, the tune just happens as l do so. I was up to my eyes in babies, and toddlers, times five, with nappies and screams for attention, aged 25, and an violent alcoholic husband. My coping strategy was making up lyrics. One day my my newsagent asked, “What do you ever do Jeanie, besides look after children?” I told him, “l write, stories, songs, and km working in a sci fi novel. He asked to see my songs, 16 of them, just words on old paper, typed in old army typewriter, faded and based like my dreams today. He asked to show them to a ‘friend’ who knew music. I was scared to death he’d keep them, but l let him borrow them. I had no copies, just in my head. Three weeks passed, then he says, “My friend likes your songs, he left a note.” He gave me back my songs, on the back is written, “The songs are very nice, l’ll be down to see you in a few weeks, Carl Denver” yes, he came, he was famous in my youth, wow! A uniformed chauffeur in a black and yellow Rolls Royce, like the movie, knocked my council house front door, “Mr Carl Denver asks if he may come in and talk with you ma’am?” He actually asked me to sing one to him, he wanted it for his new album, soon to be recorded! I did, soooo embarrassed, surrounded by nappies, washing, toys, l sang a song l wrote when my fourth child almost dyed, as l sat by her bed, the words just came out in song, so l wrote them down. My friend assured me l hadn’t dreamed it. He would use my song. But, Carl’s life went down the pan, he was bankrupted and fled the country, and my songs, all 16, are still in my files. More recently, looking for historic documents on my life, in 2014ish, l write and email if backup, with salient points to my target information official. He wrote back enclosing the ancient information. And added, “Reading your email was like reading poetry, very lyrical, very odd, like it was alive!”
I am the exact same way. I will send you some of what I have done.
Look forward to reading what you have written Mike.
I did some drawings… I was working at a pub in the Cotswolds… she was a temporary manager I showed her my drawings… I said they weren’t that good . She took my drawings and I never saw them again unsigned cus I didn’t believe in myself. She left and gave me an envelope with £70 … I’ve not drawn any thing since. Apologies for this . 🤔😊
Apol’s for typos in last entry, l’m hurting, physically, l’ve just filled in my census forms online, and using small mobile keypad with arthritic fingers. You’re email dropped in and caught my attention, bringing memories. Hoping you can translate the errors.