You’re an HSP. In Los Angeles traffic. And you’re losing it.

Message from The Celestial Professor, Day 2 in LA

I’m here! Started to post yesterday, but crashed after a drive back and forth through LA traffic to the Huntington Museum to experience a myriad of gigundo oil paintings (exemplary examples of pomposity and opulence rivaling Versailles (exaggerating, maybe, but still…). Magnificent grounds with floral scents in every direction; hot sun, slow meanderings.

Is it possible for me, an HSP, to feel at home in LA?

I’m with my two BFFs from Massachusetts, “L” and “J”. We met when we were all 13, just at that incredibly awkward age where everything feels insurmountable–or did to me. I’d seen both of my friends at least a few times through the decades, but they hadn’t seen each other for over 30 years. We’re having a three-day look-at-who-and-where-we-are-now reunion. It’s like being back in college: airbeds, bathroom sharing, wine (not boxed anymore) and yummy food (not just cookies and ice cream the way we might have done back then).

The first night one of the airbeds deflated and one of us ended up on the floor. Last night, though, after a trip to one of the big box stores for a new one, we got better sleep . . . snores, sirens, and dogs notwithstanding. Living outside Seattle, in Boston, and in LA, with our various families, jobs, and lives, makes it pretty challenging to time visits, so this is a really special one.

All well and good.

I’m feeling pretty fortunate at the moment because my friend J, who navigates the world—and I mean all its countries all the time, is driving the car, negotiating and navigating the sea of cars, all the while commenting on the different makes and brands, listening to her map app, and telling stories about her life with the aplomb and comfort of a happy ant going about the business of life. I am in the backseat watching the cars and buildings and highways and byways scroll by as if it’s a movie. All I’ve really ever seen of LA before has been in the movies, as a matter of fact, apart from a few trips down I-5 on the way south, so I’m pleased with my removed movie-goer position in the backseat.

Then it all falls apart.

It doesn’t take long, before that flowing, streaming sea of cars turns into a mass of scary, angry, swarming bees. Not for my friends, who are quietly conversing and such, but for me. I stop looking out the window. I focus on the floor mat. I tell myself to breathe. All the energies of all those people doing all that crazy driving at high speeds on the biggest highway system in the universe.

Meanwhile, J and L are gabbing away. J is switching lanes with great calm and finesse. L, whose eyesight is extremely poor, is coaching J since this is L’s town. It could be J’s town, too, for all her relaxed attitude.

I can’t believe how Zen they are. I also can’t believe how, in the twinkle of an eye, I’ve morphed back into the old Heidi, the one of crippling anxiety and heart-pounding trepidation. I feel as if I’ve disappointed myself.

Time for a good old-fashioned talking-to.

I take a drink of water and close my eyes. “Heidi,” I say sternly in my head, “everything is perfect. You are not driving. J is a fantastic driver who works in the auto industry doing research into traffic patterns and such. You are in good hands. Your psychic octopus is so far out it’s reached Oregon in one direction and Mexico in the other. Don’t you think it’s time to walk the old talk, to utilize all the tools you know and love so well?”

Slowly, slowly, I concentrate on my breathing and then focus on reeling in my tentacles, one after the other. I can’t believe how good I feel after only a moment or two. It’s like I’ve remember who I really am. Not the “me” of the past who is intent on suffering and “what-if-ing” all the horrible things that might happen (and surely will because they always do, don’t they?), but the me who has internalized and integrated the necessary knowledge and tools for peace, calm, certainty, and resilience.

Gratitude for my HSP-ness

It’s hard to put in words just how grateful I felt in that moment, and how grateful I continue to feel that, while I was having this experiential flashback, I made the conscious choice to change the channel from slasher movie to one on hummingbirds.

We’re back at L’s apartment again now and I’m reliving this as I’m writing it all down for you. My point? I will never not be a bona fide HSP. But now I know how to be it and love it.