The world, it seems, does not forgive over-sensitivity. Nor does it recognize a person's need to be heard, or rather the needs of a person that need to be heard coming from his/her mouth.
You're quietly walking along on one of life's little paths when you're grasped by the shoulders hard and shaken up. You protest that it's not what you want, not what you need, not how you can be treated. But you are told that your fragility is your problem.
You delve into words you've said and words you've written and try to trace patterns back to your heart. Try.
You look back at holes you mended and then created again and suddenly there are thick, dark rainclouds over your head. You try to beat the oppression, and then make yourself realize you have to lose to win. Or perhaps just lose. Maybe that will bring peace. Or an end.