Living on the outskirts of empathy.
Is our heart made to hold pain other than our own? Maybe not, but it does it anyway.
Being a highly empathetic person has been the sweetest blessing and the most bitter curse of my lifetime. At its best, it helps me understand and feel connected to people near and far, real or fictional, beyond the superficial level that we’re all forced into. It adds meaning to it all, and I crave meaning (even when it hurts).
At it worst…well, let’s just say that when there’s pain to be felt, I take it all.
I don’t even have to know the person I’m empathizing with all that well. It can be a parent or a friend, but it can also be a completely made-up character in a film - it really doesn’t matter.
I’m right there, on the other end of that emotion - good or bad - living it vicariously through the other person. Surely, the closer I feel to the object of my empathy, the harder it hits me.
Until fairly recently, it didn’t even cross my mind that empathy could be a limited resource. That I can actually stop caring — cold turkey style — once I’ve stretched myself too thin. It’s a weird sensation, for sure.
I never pictured myself living on the outskirts of empathy. I always thought I’d be stuck in the middle of it.
But these past few years have been testing my limits. You could say, and you’d probably be right, that I’ve reached my tipping point and become desensitized. I suppose too much exposure to a particular feeling, situation or even a person, can grant you some sort of makeshift immunity.
You might be tempted to assume that I’m relieved. Who wouldn’t want to stop being empathetic to a fault?
Well, it’s not that easy. See, empathy has always been a fundamental part of who I am. So parting ways with it—or seeing it gradually dissolve—might just send me straight into an identity crisis.
Who am I if I’m no longer an empath?
I exaggerate, of course, as it’s my habit. But in the end, empathy might just be the best and worst thing about me.
If I could let go of the black and white line of thinking for a second, I might realize that this is probably my brain’s way of setting up boundaries. To which I say, "About 30 years too late, my friend. But I appreciate the effort."
For now, these moments of low empathy (for lack of a better term) are just that, fleeting moments.
But they keep popping up, gently reminding me that my heart is probably tired of carrying other people’s pain (especially when I have no control over it). It craves meaning and connection, not a never-ending emotional rollercoaster.
I have a feeling it’s gonna keep taxing me every time I overstep my boundaries. That should get me to behave.