An unexpected side to my diagnosis: my sex life made sense to me. Being as sensitive as a shelled prawn, it naturally takes me ages to trust someone enough to let them touch me. As I once told a friend, the reason why I don’t have casual sex is this: there is nothing, for me, between “This feels amazing lets do it again and forever” and “Ugh, get off”. There is no middle ground. Either physical contact feels amazingly natural or it feels truly terrible, like I should be being paid. And it doesn’t feel natural very often. Now, I know I wasn’t just being prudish or weird or scared – I was being me.
And, although I often wish I could “turn down the volume on my feelings”, there are obvious upsides to being this sensitive. I get more pleasure from music than anyone else I know – when it’s right, music transports me, reverberates into my soul, changes my mood and thoughts in an instant. The same goes with the beauty of light and the deliciousness of human touch. Sensory pleasure more than makes up for the bruises. I wouldn’t change being dyspraxic for the world. But I’m really glad I know what to call it.