The Erosion of Empathy

​I worry that I will not be worthy if I am not in pain. 

If I am not hurting, how can I be capable of helping?

I used to know the right thing to say. When I sat beside someone tired and trembling from tears, I did not worry about saying something that would cause the sobs to grow louder. When I was met with a person whose face was raging and red with anger, I knew how to scream with them- and I knew what to scream. To create a sense of harmony between myself and someone overcome with emotion was a skill that, at one point, I thought I had. Conceitedly so, maybe- but I would be lying if I said that saying the wrong thing was a common fear of mine. ​

I can feel this ability slipping away. It began slowly, in coffee shops across the table from friends, then in smoky rooms at crowded parties. I had nothing to say, and when I did, it no longer felt right. For the first time, I could feel myself falter every time I spoke. I felt the words swirl around inside of my chest and bang around my brain before coming out. The flow I once felt in conversation had turned into a foreign sensation. All of the right words seemed to have moved into a book that I have not read- that I cannot find- and should I ever be lucky enough to figure out where it is hidden, something tells me that it would be written in a language I do not know. The hope that I can learn, once again, how to make someone feel seen when they speak feels farther away each day. The inconvenience of second-guessing every sentence I form has begun to encase me. It is cutting my tongue. To be mute has suddenly become appealing.

I did not know why I was losing my ability to converse. I still do not know why, really. Though, I am beginning to guess that it has something to do with my own emotional overwhelm- or lack thereof. I have worked hard to develop a sense of inner peace, and to ground the difficult parts of myself that have spent years torturing me. I am proud of this. For the first time, I feel peace in places that have only ever known chaos. I can sit silently, without a feeling coming forth and taking center stage, as it decenters me. I do not hurt as often now. I do not feel so angry anymore. For this, I am grateful. However, I have begun to wonder if the only reason I was ever able to help others in their most difficult moments was because I was, also, experiencing difficulty in that moment.

There is comfort to be found in knowing that someone else feels as strongly as you. There is understanding. I may not have always understood the situation being presented, but I understood the emotional consumption. When I was most hurt, most angry, most overwhelmed with pain or panic- these are the moments I never questioned the things I would say. All the words fell into our space between with ease. They did not strain. They did not stumble or stutter. I knew the right thing to say because I knew what I needed to hear. I could speak to the terrifying intensity of feeling. I was living it.

I feel less overwhelmed nowadays. I have been lucky to avoid the big emotions that tend to disorient and damage, and thankfully so- but I worry that I have forgotten how exactly, and how strongly these feelings feel. Have these emotions left no scar deep enough to remind me of their impact? This cannot be the case. They have stained me, I know it. I feel them in my memories. I feel them when I recall shattering the mirror on my dresser, because there was something inside of me that I could not bear to confront. I feel them when I remember the December morning in my senior year of high school, when I made the hour drive to campus, only to turn around and drive home with blurry vision and a wet face. I can feel them when I close my eyes and remember the scent of my childhood bedroom, or the perfume of my best friend at sixteen. I can feel it all, and at times the sensation is so strong that these moments seem to be resurrecting and living, once again. I remember these moments. I remember their pain. I feel they're hurt- but they do not consume me the same. Instead, they only sting. They are only memories. These feelings are no longer at the forefront. When I need them, I have to look for them. They are no longer sitting on the surface, with the immediate ability to empathize in hand, ready to connect with any person in need of connection.

So, when I now find myself in a moment where I am expected to respond, I pause. I try to look for these feelings, any of them. I search and beg my body to bring out even the slightest semblance of this intensity again, but there is not enough time. There is never enough time. I would have to sift through all of the debris and disarray that comes with living. I would have to find and untie these feelings from the anchors of healing and time. I would have to let them surface. To find the right words, I would have to relive the moment I once needed them most, but there is not enough time. There is never enough time.

So, I say something else instead, and the words never make much sense, and they never feel as right as they once had, and I do not remember how to make the person in front of me feel understood. I am afraid that if I am not in a state of emotional overwhelm myself, then I am of no help to anyone. How can I help others heal if I do not feel what they feel? Leaving pain in the past comes with the loss of instant understanding. I do not know. I know very little right now, other than the fact that I have changed. It has been good, it has been rehabilitating- but with change comes loss. I am mourning many parts of who I have been, recently. This is simply one of those things.

As I re-read this, I feel as though I have said it all wrong. There is no point in re-writing it. I would never find the right words, anyway- but I think that’s okay.



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