| About Help Is On Its Way: A Memoir About Growing Up Sensitive |
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Confused by her ability to feel other people's feelings, highly sensitive young Jenna comforts herself by rescuing dead animals and escaping from elementary school. When her parents divorce, her grandmother (misdiagnosed as schizophrenic) moves in and her sensitive uncle commits suicide. After the uncle's funeral, Jenna begins to read the messages coming in through her senses more clearly, as comforting guidance and premonitions about love, life, people and the planet. This is a decade-long journey of sensory highs and emotional lows. Every secret thought and fear of this sensitive child (ages 6-17) is revealed here.
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From Chapter 3
What Goes Up Age 7, Fall 1979 .jpg "Highly Sensitive Child Book") Toni takes a tight hold of my hand, knowing she's the only friend I have, but she eventually has to let go to climb onboard her bus. She takes a seat nearest a window where I can still stand by her from the curb until the bus leaves. My reflection in Toni's bus window looks small and flat. The bus kicks an inch, hinting that it's about to sweep across the city. I wave her goodbye. She waves back at me from her little square window, showing me that my honest actions sometimes do get honest reactions. I like that about my sister. She's almost always reacted to me, proof that I'm not completely invisible.
The yellow bus roars off down the leaf scattered road. Saying goodbye to my sister today gives me an incredible urge to run around my schoolyard and yell "hello" at the top of my lungs, because that's the word I want to be saying, not goodbye. I'd never holler like that, though, because people would know I've gone crazy. Instead I calmly walk past clusters of kids who swarm and hover around the doors of my school.
From Chapter 5
The Ten Minute Difference Age 8
Instead of sleeping, I'm looking up at my Dad's ceiling from his mattress and box spring that are stacked directly on the floorboards. I imagine his bed is really two soft square layers of vanilla cake and his brown sheets are the chocolate icing. The floor is the wooden plate. Toni's asleep on her slice.
Dad's snoring from the couch in the living room. Not me. The red monster is making me restless. This monster comes to me anytime of the day lately, but mostly when I'm by myself. His crimson fur frame vibrates with a madness that stirs up all the bewildered thoughts that have settled down deep in the crevices of my brain. The red monster confirms all my fears. He talks about them when I'm awake and he reminds me again of them in my nightmares. I can feel him coming right now and I don't think I can stop him.
"Your Dad is going to die!" His giant frame shimmies and quakes like a furious fire when he says it. And of course I believe him, because I have already felt this truth in my gut like the strongest, most dreadful hunch. My Dad is definitely going to die.
It makes me fear that maybe I have the power to predict the future through potent feelings that come to me in the night. I don't want any more pictures to come. There's a great fear of what they might tell me about my family's future. From Chapter 7
Secret Thoughts Age 9, Spring 1980 The plan I have in place is to put the brakes on being bullied by Mrs. Root. I have had it with her class time pressures, hassles and harassments. She doesn't realize how badly I need a pouch of security that shelters my raw and overburdened nervous system.
You get worn down after coming face to face with neighborhood predators, red monsters, catatonic relatives, unprepared parents and rotten teachers for years without any guidance to show you what it all means. You start to give up on wanting someone to help you. Instead you begin to need help in almost a desperate way. So you start to help yourself in ways that other people might not approve of.
From Chapter 19
Boomerang Age 15, Fall 1986 I fold my arms defensively.
“Look, every child needs love and protection, Jenna. I’m not denyin’ that. But the fact is you aren’t getting what you need. I know your heart’s starved. All I’m sayin’ is that can be fixed. All ya gotta do is focus on what feeds it. You know, console yourself.” “But why should I have to…” “Because it’s your life. Nobody else is gonna do it for ya, Jenna. Now you don’t have time to waste. Remember. God gave you a destiny in this world. But you won’t ever reach it if you neglect to first find happiness and satisfaction in your own right. You’re old enough now. It’s time ta take full charge of ya life. Set your sights on nothing but all the good you can see and dream.” From Chapter 20
What You Focus On Grows Age 15, Winter 1986 It’s this time of year when the sound of metal and machines ricochets through the naked trees and spindly thicket behind my house, rattling my window pane enough to itch my inner ears. With no leaves on the trees, there’s not even a buffer of green to block the rambling railroad yards and stop the sound of the car engines that roar down the main street adjacent to the tracks. I often look out my bedroom window just to frown at the noise, feeling the need to show the world my disapproval for its deafening bleakness. And then I remember to shift my thoughts, console myself. While tucked tightly into my heavy warm blankets, I make a practice of imagining my perfect future in great detail, jotting down in my journal any thoughts that come to mind. Each night I easily fill dozens of pages with scrawled yearnings, my pencil pulling at an invisible strand of feeling from my insides, craving to be unraveled. Writing with great passion, I spend hundreds of winter evening hours loosening the knots inside my psyche, focusing only on what I want my life to look like, like Frank said to. Every night I stay up to write as much as I can before my body feels absolutely forced to lie down, yielding to gravity and sweet sleep. From Chapter 23
The Light Age 17, Summer 1989 I want to tell whoever is listening that help is on its way. Is my childhood dream still possible, to do good for the world, even if I haven’t yet recovered, even if my own help never came? “You can’t afford to accept any less.” This is the final thing Frank said to me when I saw him last. He was talking about love when he said it. But I think he was also talking about life–suggesting that I could start by helping one single suffering creature, myself, by accepting only what’s best for me. I take a moment to envision myself plucking good experiences like flowers that swing in the wind with wildness, provisions, and beauty. Just imagining it makes my muscles relax, my diaphragm slacken. There’s serenity here at the edge of such an important decision. The sunrise is low and red, a glowing heart on the horizon. I watch it float higher, brightening the rooftops of my neighborhood. Soon the dawn will become full daylight. HOW TO BUY HELP IS ON ITS WAY IN PAPERBACK
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Jenna's Childhood Memoir
"A nostalgic book that will take you back to your own childhood as far as how you felt and how you saw the world around you."
Amazon.com Review
