Highly Sensitive People HSP Community Group
The highly sensitive person (or HSP) is someone who cares deeply about everything ... feels emotions with great intensity ... is highly conscientious ... has a rich and complex inner life ... is very intuitive ... is often creative in a variety of ways... is easily overwhelmed and/or overstimulated. A HSP needs lots of quiet time,space, and freedom. If this sounds...
Ellen and the Flowers
This is a piece of fiction.
All of the characters and events are imaginary, but the feelings are real.
This story was written by Sarah … who is also fictitious.
But more on her later.
Ellen was depressed. It was cold and gray outside. She sat alone in her small Manhattan apartment and thought about everything she was missing in life. Ellen was divorced, with no children, no friends and feeling very lonely. She was supposed to take medication for her depression, but it made her feel restless and made it hard for her to sleep.
She hated winter in the city. The noise, the cold, the slush, and the filth just made her more depressed. She preferred spring - at least then she could be outside, and there was so much life to see. She seemed to pay more attention to details than most people. She loved flowers: cultivated and natural. She thought of the buds on the trees. She liked to spend time really looking at the buds as they opened and especially at the small young blossoms on the trees and in the park. They’re all dead now, she thought.
The next day at work, a woman in Ellen’s office received a beautiful bouquet of flowers for her anniversary. She put them on top of a bookcase. It bothered Ellen that she could see them from her cubicle. She felt happy for the woman, but jealous that no one ever brought her flowers.
By the end of the week, many of the flowers had wilted. The woman dumped them into the trash and went home. As Ellen was getting ready to leave she looked down into the trash and saw the bouquet, still with the plastic and a ribbon wrapped around it. Some of them are still fresh, she thought. Cautiously, she looked around. When she was sure that no one was looking, she reached into the waste bin, broke off one of the flowers, and put it into her coat pocket. When she got back to her apartment, she put the flower, now a little bruised, into a water glass in the middle of her kitchen table.
The next day was Saturday and Ellen looked at the flower on her table while eating breakfast. She reached for a pad and pencil and began to sketch it. Not very good, she criticized herself. However, each day over breakfast, for the next week she drew the flower again. After a while the flower was quite decayed. Ellen drew it anyway. Her drawing actually looked like the flower. “Not bad”, she said aloud in her empty apartment.
She threw the flower away, but the next time she was on her way home form work, she stopped by a florist and bought a single white rose. She also bought some sketching pencils and a large pad. Every week she would buy a new flower, and draw it every day. As spring came, she started picking flowers in the park – a new and different one each week.
Ellen didn’t know the names of some of the flowers she drew, so one Sunday she took her sketchpad to the library to look for a book on flowers. She left her pad on a desk by the computer terminal and disappeared into the stacks to search for the book she wanted. When she returned she was shocked to see a man looking through her sketches. She didn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry,” the man said, “I’m a librarian here, and these are quite good … You know, we have a hallway where we exhibit the works of amateur artists. Would you mind if we put some of these on display?”
* * *
Sarah stopped writing.
“Damn,” cried Sarah as she put down her pen. “I’ll never be a writer! And I’ve never even had a flower.” She tore out the page, wadded it up into a tight ball, and threw it into the trash. She put her head down on the table and sobbed. It was cold and gray outside as she sat alone in her small Manhattan apartment.
After work the next day, Sarah stepped out into the dirty, cold, slush and made her way to the subway station. She hated winter. When she got to the stairs of the subway, she stopped. “I’m not going down there!” she exclaimed. The crowd heading for the stairs just walked around her. For some reason, Sarah decided to walk home - 17 blocks to her apartment, through the slush.
At the last intersection before her apartment, she had to wait for a light. She looked up at the sign for the store on the corner. She never noticed that there was a florist across the street from her apartment.
She went inside and bought a flower,
a single white rose.
* * *
All of this was written by a real person - me. I’d like to remain anonymous but I go by the web name of sensci or sensci3. This piece was first presented as part of a discussion on dailystrength.org under the HSP (Highly Sensitive Person) discussion group. It is intended as an example of Writing Fiction as Therapy, as described by sensci on that website. This is my gift to you. If you would like to reproduce this story or send it to friends, please feel free to do so, but please include my web name: sensci. Also, I consent to it being distributed or published so long as it is offered free of charge.
This is a piece of fiction.
All of the characters and events are imaginary, but the feelings are real.
This story was written by Sarah … who is also fictitious.
But more on her later.
Ellen was depressed. It was cold and gray outside. She sat alone in her small Manhattan apartment and thought about everything she was missing in life. Ellen was divorced, with no children, no friends and feeling very lonely. She was supposed to take medication for her depression, but it made her feel restless and made it hard for her to sleep.
She hated winter in the city. The noise, the cold, the slush, and the filth just made her more depressed. She preferred spring - at least then she could be outside, and there was so much life to see. She seemed to pay more attention to details than most people. She loved flowers: cultivated and natural. She thought of the buds on the trees. She liked to spend time really looking at the buds as they opened and especially at the small young blossoms on the trees and in the park. They’re all dead now, she thought.
The next day at work, a woman in Ellen’s office received a beautiful bouquet of flowers for her anniversary. She put them on top of a bookcase. It bothered Ellen that she could see them from her cubicle. She felt happy for the woman, but jealous that no one ever brought her flowers.
By the end of the week, many of the flowers had wilted. The woman dumped them into the trash and went home. As Ellen was getting ready to leave she looked down into the trash and saw the bouquet, still with the plastic and a ribbon wrapped around it. Some of them are still fresh, she thought. Cautiously, she looked around. When she was sure that no one was looking, she reached into the waste bin, broke off one of the flowers, and put it into her coat pocket. When she got back to her apartment, she put the flower, now a little bruised, into a water glass in the middle of her kitchen table.
The next day was Saturday and Ellen looked at the flower on her table while eating breakfast. She reached for a pad and pencil and began to sketch it. Not very good, she criticized herself. However, each day over breakfast, for the next week she drew the flower again. After a while the flower was quite decayed. Ellen drew it anyway. Her drawing actually looked like the flower. “Not bad”, she said aloud in her empty apartment.
She threw the flower away, but the next time she was on her way home form work, she stopped by a florist and bought a single white rose. She also bought some sketching pencils and a large pad. Every week she would buy a new flower, and draw it every day. As spring came, she started picking flowers in the park – a new and different one each week.
Ellen didn’t know the names of some of the flowers she drew, so one Sunday she took her sketchpad to the library to look for a book on flowers. She left her pad on a desk by the computer terminal and disappeared into the stacks to search for the book she wanted. When she returned she was shocked to see a man looking through her sketches. She didn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry,” the man said, “I’m a librarian here, and these are quite good … You know, we have a hallway where we exhibit the works of amateur artists. Would you mind if we put some of these on display?”
* * *
Sarah stopped writing.
“Damn,” cried Sarah as she put down her pen. “I’ll never be a writer! And I’ve never even had a flower.” She tore out the page, wadded it up into a tight ball, and threw it into the trash. She put her head down on the table and sobbed. It was cold and gray outside as she sat alone in her small Manhattan apartment.
After work the next day, Sarah stepped out into the dirty, cold, slush and made her way to the subway station. She hated winter. When she got to the stairs of the subway, she stopped. “I’m not going down there!” she exclaimed. The crowd heading for the stairs just walked around her. For some reason, Sarah decided to walk home - 17 blocks to her apartment, through the slush.
At the last intersection before her apartment, she had to wait for a light. She looked up at the sign for the store on the corner. She never noticed that there was a florist across the street from her apartment.
She went inside and bought a flower,
a single white rose.
* * *
All of this was written by a real person - me. I’d like to remain anonymous but I go by the web name of sensci or sensci3. This piece was first presented as part of a discussion on dailystrength.org under the HSP (Highly Sensitive Person) discussion group. It is intended as an example of Writing Fiction as Therapy, as described by sensci on that website. This is my gift to you. If you would like to reproduce this story or send it to friends, please feel free to do so, but please include my web name: sensci. Also, I consent to it being distributed or published so long as it is offered free of charge.
Inspirational and encouraging. Thanks for sharing.
Secondly, I see it as a reminder to myself to find the beauty in what may appear to be "trash." To focus on the positive, (that week's worth of life left in the flower) and concentrating on it so much that you actually take time to write it down, or draw it, for a few minutes each day. Then I noticed how her putting out all those positive vibes drew something else positive into her life...the librarian noticing her art and offering to display it. Who knows where that could lead? Someone may see it and want to hire her for her art, or maybe another male artist would see it and be intrigued and want to meet her... If nothing else, what a boost to Ellen's self-esteem, which only further strengthens the positive vibrations she is emitting into the universe (which then continues to attract more positivity towards her).
Obviously, Sarah is doing the same thing, attracting things into her life, by the fact that she now spotted the flower shop which she had previously never noticed.
Yeah, it's pretty obvious that I've been studying the Law of Attraction recently, eh? lol