Confessions of an Empath

The birds are chirping, and the sun is shining in a cloudless July sky. The vibrancy promises a beautiful day, but the cooing of the Mourning Dove perched on the powerlines seems to be more fitting than the lively songs of the robin flitting through the trees. The melancholic calls of the dove cloak the world in a sadness that hangs like tattered drapes.

The tattered drapes fell earlier this week. July, and the beginning of the second half of the year, has not started off well.

I sit here staring out the window, unable to move from my desk. I tell myself I am going to enjoy the weather today. I am going to sit outside and appreciate a perfect summer day. Yet, I am rooted in my chair, overwhelmed and frozen.

With my mind numbed and my nerves stripped, my muscles slacken against the leather seat. My eyes glaze over, the computer screen in front of me too bright for the darkness that has crept into the corners like grasping shadows. I try my best to shake those shadows away, preventing them from binding me like a hostage. Productivity eludes me as an unrelenting force poisons my veins. The caffeine does its best to slap me awake and coax me to focus, but only ends up fraying whatever resolve I have left.

I mindlessly float through another day, going through the motions of a seemingly normal work week would it not be for the hushed hallway conversations, the shaking of heads, and lingering shock of a tragic loss. My body hovers as I move, as if I am suspended by strings like a puppet at the mercy of some unknown master. Whispered words worm their way in, wrapping themselves around unwanted memories long stored away and dragging them back out through the mud.

At night, I collapse onto the couch, crawling under the fleece blanket despite the humidity and the heat. There is comfort in being covered and hidden, not exposed to the invisible threats hanging in the air. I grab a book and throw myself into the words, hoping to get lost in something other than my own spiraling thoughts and the emotions that ripple outwards from others. I plug my ears with headphones and drown myself in the tones of vibrating strings to dislodge any unwelcomed visitors caught in the riptide, willing them to drift away.

I avoid closing my eyes, refusing to give in to the inevitable grip of my subconscious as it pulls me into the abyss of my imagination, forcing me to live fabricated scenes while I sleep. I face each night expecting to be tortured by realistic visions conjured by my own vivid psyche, though sleep does not come easily and does not stay for long. Sleep is meant to be regenerative, but instead it becomes debilitating. I live another life in my dreams, a life of worst-case scenarios and emotional distress.

Is this what it will always feel like?

To sense the shockwaves of tragedy on the surface of my skin. To feel the echoes and reverberations of grief. To involuntarily take on the worry and the pain. To be drawn into the depths of despair. To carry the emotional burden too heavy for others to bear on their own. To ask all the questions but never truly understand why. To be plagued by invading thoughts and ruminations. To feel the sadness seep into the tiny pores of my bones. To be emotionally charged yet simultaneously depleted. To start and end the day with exhaustion, energy never fully restored.

A mind and body never completely settled.

Always feeling everything, all at once.