Squint and shield

This morning, I wrote that my eyes are very sensitive. I don’t mind the contacts; in fact, I like them a great deal. I enjoy the full range of vision, of not seeing the frames of glasses out the corner of my eye and being stupidly startled into thinking something menacing is very near my face. I wear disposable lenses, and don’t often notice them at all. But the light – it’s always a problem.

I sigh pleasantly over cloudy days when I don’t have to keep track of at least 2 pairs of sunglasses. I always try to have an extra in case of loss or failure of the primary shaded lenses. In their absence, I often close my left eye completely, squinting only through the right one just enough to make out shapes.

I sat in the doctor’s office in undergrad, having suffered a cold for about a month and yielding to Mom’s repeated requests to get checked out. There was a resident visiting the family practice, and Real Doctor asked if I would mind letting Learning Doctor perform the initial exam. Learning was charming and very cute, so I deigned to allow him to view my stuffy, draining head.

I first enjoyed the closeness when I he shined the light in my eyes. But he wouldn’t stop. He drew the penlight away once, frowned, stared fixedly at my pupils. Then he shined the light at me again. I returned his frown, but forced my eyes to stay wide for his perusal. Again, he took the light away; brought it back up once more. This time I closed my eyes before he switched it on again.

“Is there a reason we keep doing this?” I asked, at least slightly politely. “It’s starting to hurt my eyes.”

“Are you on anything?” He asked quietly.

“I have a cough drop.” I said, obediently sticking out my tongue where an almost finished Halls sat dissolving in the center.

“What else?” He asked, putting a hand on my arm, gazing at me compassionately.

I raised one eyebrow. Had med school driven him crazy? “Nothing else. I think I took Nyquil a few nights ago. But nothing else. Why? Is something wrong?”

“I’ll be right back with Real Doctor.” I waited impatiently, trying to blink the spots from my eyes.

I was still blinking when Real came in with Learning following closely behind. He turned down the lights.

“Again with the eyes?” I asked, exasperated. For crying out loud, I thought. No more students. Light-happy suckers.

“Just for a second.” Real Doctor said. He checked them both quickly and told Learning they were fine.

“They don’t constrict!” Learning exclaimed. I continued to look at Real.

“They don’t constrict as much as normal, but they do get a bit smaller. She’s fine.” Then, sensing I was about to turn my growing glare on Learning, he added, “I’ll go ahead and finish up on my own.”

As he had me cough, looked up my nose and in my ears, assuring me that I’d be better soon. Then he smiled a bit.

“Your pupils don’t constrict much at all. Does light hurt your eyes?”

“Very much.”

“Can you see in the dark?”

“Yep.”

“He thought you were on drugs.”

“I’m not. Never. You gave me a pamphlet when I was 12. It changed my life.”

We giggled together.

“Real Doctor? I’m really not taking drugs. I wouldn’t.”

“I know. You just have abnormally sensitive eyes.”

I sometimes wonder if my heart matches them. Things hurt me, sometimes events leave glancing blows, other times there are deep wounds. But events, statements, people often leave me rubbing at bruises while others emerge untouched.

I try to protect myself. Like the cloudy days I favor, I avoid situations that may sting. Sad movies – won’t see them unless tricked. Mom took me to see Stepmom (“It’s funny! With Julia Roberts!”) and had to drive home a sobbing mass of pre-Post-doc lying in the backseat, sick with a headache from soaking through 2 purse packets of tissues.

Tragic novels – refuse to touch them unless assigned. Then I’ll quickly block them out. Name anything you’re sure I’ve read from my years of education. Can’t remember what it’s about. Give me a title and author of any of my 1000+ (yep, that’s 1000, not 100) romance novels, and I can tell you character names, background, basic plotlines, and my evaluation of the work.

I’m currently working my way through Wicked on my commutes. It hurts me. I feel a tug at my heart for every moment of affection I have for Elphaba. I know she meets a bad end, and I anticipate my grief for her. It makes me want to quit listening, to forget her story, and try to make up a sunnier ending in my head. I’m always seeking the happy, sometimes missing that the tough times are often the most critical. Pain usually occurs for some reason, and can elicit a great deal of growth.

I’m all or nothing. If we’re close, I’ll love you. Give you every bit of caring, compassion and help you’d ask for. I’ll worry over you, and pray for you. Thrilled to be in your presence, I’ll make every effort to make you feel special and loved. But it sucks energy straight from my soul. Losing people, watching them go through horrific life events – I can handle it. If it’s the occasional cost of loving people, I’m in.

But for pretend? To watch movies, listen to songs, read books? Why suffer? I prefer to let my heart rest, to pretend that people, all of us, are inherently good. To save strength for real events that require my anger or tears.

The problem is I find myself unprepared. Reeling from unexpected blows I haven’t practiced blocking. I cope, but always feeling raw, alone and afraid.

This afternoon found me seated in a padded leather chair in a small office. Rather than the cleaning supply smell I recall from my own days in junior high, this building smelled like too many bodies had been crammed there. I wrinkled my nose and settled it into my binder, checking over my tutoring plan one last time before the students arrived.

I’ll love them – I decided today amidst the pleas for quiet, the requests for more gum, and pre-teen demands to listen for their many stories. I’ll try to teach, though my talent is iffy at best. I’ll endeavor to encourage, because knowing the pride my parents felt in every good test score fed my desire to do better, to learn more. I’ll weigh my words carefully, terrified that I’ll accidentally hurt feelings or scar someone else’s tender heart.

But when a small girl entered the conference room first, stared wide eyed at me while I told her my first name, she broke my heart. Dark hair and eyes, pale skin, loose t-shirt and old jeans – she reminded me of myself – hesitant, shy, unsure. She’ll be fine, I told myself, easing the tug I felt at her unease.

“Are you my new caseworker?” She whispered, placing herself across the table from me, but not sitting down.

I’m so sorry, sweet girl. I hate that you need a caseworker. I’m angry that you seem frightened of someone who should be here to help you. I’m crying inside, already completely emotionally involved, and knowing I’ll only grow more so in knowing you.

“No.” I said softly, shaking my head gently. “I’m just here to help you with math.”

I can do this. It probably won’t be enough. I’ll probably leave feeling sick for being inadequate. But it’s better than nothing – it has to be.

But my sensitive heart? It’s already squinting, searching desperately for even a broken piece of sunglasses to shield itself.

I trust that it’ll open completely though – it always does.