Empathy

They say that we rarely remember anything from our infancy and I cannot recall if this, “gift”, has been with me that long. I do, however, remember when I first felt it. My mother sat, soaking her palms with her tears and I could not have been more than four years old. I watched in her despair, after witnessing my father leave bruises upon her face. My stomach felt tight, churning in preparation to expel the juice I had been drinking. My face felt hot and stung to the touch. I could feel as she felt in that moment, urging me to wrap my tiny arms around her sobbing figure. I promised her that I would not turn out to be the kind of man my father was. So far, I haven’t.

It became a feeling I would have to prepare for. I had developed a breathing technique, much like that of someone suffering from anxiety. I would take a long deep breath, hold it for a few seconds, and then slowly release. When someone near me was hurting, whether it be physically or emotionally the feeling would come. A pit would form in my stomach, tears would well up behind my eyes, and my body would quiver. My breathing quickened, heart raced and darkness clouded my vision. I have honestly lost count of how many times I have passed out.

The main reason I am writing this now is the problem has become more severe. About a month ago a friend of mine accidently cut herself while dicing carrots. I was in the next room, scanning through selections of Netflix, when I heard the scream. I jumped from the couch and rushed in to find her clutching her finger with a hand-towel. The cloth stained red quickly and I felt the unease gurgle in my stomach. My hand began to ache and despite how much I wanted to assist my friend I dove for the bathroom. As soon as the door shut I was heaving over the toilet, my dinner falling in clumps within the bowl. When my stomach settled enough for me to pick myself up I noticed blood upon my pants leg. Trailing my body I noticed the rather large gash in my finger, almost identical to my friend’s.

Ever since then I have tried my best to avoid painful situations of any kind. Something as simple as a visit from someone who had recently been ill could land me in the hospital. I have had three broken bones, two kidney stones, and a veritable smorgasbord of bruises in every place imaginable. My life has become a constant state of avoidance of pain, mine or anyone else. The more severe the injury I witness the more pronounced the symptoms. Just imagine hyperventilating, passing out, only to wake up with blood spatter across your leg and an exposed tibia. The only good thing that came from it was eight months off work to heal.

My true fear is not knowing how far this will go. My mother is currently battling lung cancer and I feel like I am dying myself after every visit. Her doctor has told me that the treatments aren’t working anymore and they only give her a few more months to live. Even when he told me I could only think one thing, “What happens to me when someone I care about dies?”