{"id":96259,"date":"2016-03-30T15:58:39","date_gmt":"2016-03-30T19:58:39","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=96259"},"modified":"2016-03-30T16:51:35","modified_gmt":"2016-03-30T20:51:35","slug":"morbid-sensitivity","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/03\/30\/morbid-sensitivity\/","title":{"rendered":"Morbid Sensitivity"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Saul Bass\u2019s poster design for Bonjour Tristesse<\/i>, 1958.<\/p><\/div>\n

\n

And why is it, thought Lara, that my fate is to see everything and take it all so much to heart?
\u2014Doctor Zhivago<\/em><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

I\u2019ve always liked the term morbid sensitivity<\/em>, which seems to suggest not just something unhealthy but actually dangerous. To be morbidly sensitive is to wallow, to dwell unwholesomely on slights real and perceived\u2014to ping-pong between solipsism and a feeling for others\u2019 pain that results in a Saint Bartholomew\u2013like sensation of emotional exposure.\u00a0<\/p>\n

The term is usually used as a descriptor, an observation, but I think that those of us who suffer from the condition, even occasionally, know full well when we\u2019re being MS. The knowledge does not change the feeling, which is one of the most frustrating human conditions.\u00a0<\/p>\n

The other evening, I felt very strongly that someone had been unkind to me: deliberately snubbed me and given me a cool and appraising look. Whether or not this was true\u2014I was perfectly capable of acknowledging it might not be\u2014it\u00a0felt<\/em>\u00a0true, and the awfulness was so pervasive, so physically real, that I had to leave at once and cry and go over the moment again and again in my head. What had I done? Had we met before, and I didn\u2019t remember? Had I somehow wronged her? Had I been cool or rude first? Had my look been unfriendly? Did she think that my dress was so ridiculous that I deserved a public put-down for my sartorial presumption? In the moment, I regret to inform you, this seemed not only plausible but likely. The only thing that I could\u00a0not<\/em>\u00a0consider was getting over it.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have to learn to brush things off,\u201d my dad would tell me again and again when I emerged from some trifling incident white-faced and shaking. \u201cYou\u2019re like an open wound.\u201d People say skin can thicken over the years; I\u2019m not so sure. When I worked on the Internet\u2014which is to say, at the mercy of commenters\u2014I would cry every day. And while that didn\u2019t feel healthy, I also don\u2019t know that we should ever have to learn to deal with abuse from others\u2014to feel that this is a desirable adaptation.\u00a0<\/p>\n

None of which is to say that morbid sensitivity is healthy. It feels unhealthy. It feels horrible. It\u2019s hard to know what biological or spiritual purpose it might serve, either.\u00a0And it only occurs to me now that a part of the morbid sensitivity is a terrifying loss of control over situations: you cannot, after all, control how other people feel, how you are perceived, horrible things in the world. And this is, of course, an existential threat, and as such, very much worth getting upset over.<\/p>\n

Sadie Stein is contributing editor of <\/em>The Paris Review, and the <\/em>Daily\u2019s correspondent.<\/em>\u00a0<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

And why is it, thought Lara, that my fate is to see everything and take it all so much to heart?\u2014Doctor Zhivago I\u2019ve always liked the term morbid sensitivity, which seems to suggest not just something unhealthy but actually dangerous. 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