One of my favorite things about humans is that we use our most sensitive parts to survive. Our lips and fingertips and ears leave us vulnerable to despair, and hope.
The epitome of compassion fatigue is our cultures use of the word sensitivity. It’s used as an insult. Something to be avoided. Better to be strong and silent? Fuck that. It’s ill. Makes me ill. That’s called bystander syndrome, or burn out. It develops from compassion fatigue. Wiki that shit if your losing your humanity, so you understand a potential reason why.
I see my friends ask the same question all the time. Why do so many of us stand aside and let the world go to shit? Because we’re pummeled with it. It’s like military training. A drill sarge yelling into our souls.
We don’t have the capacity to hold that much sorrow. Our collective consciousness is ragged. The butterfly effect has the potential to turn into a moth. It’s more like a dark angel wearing a jet pack burning up in an epiphany of blinding media light.
So what do I do with this belief? That’s the question I’m asking myself. It certainly helps me to understand why I’m disgusted and lost sometimes. I’m struggling to have compassion for myself, and I know it’s the cause of my discontentment.
It’s so easy to externalize the pain finding ways to blame it on the economy, culture, politics, government, domestication, technology or pollution. Any one of them would do nicely as a culprit.
What it really comes down to for me is human nature, and my sensitivity to it. I love humans, and sometimes it hurts. I’m sensitive to light. Vibrations. Music. Your emotions. Mine, and how they make you feel. Food. Water. Shelter. The smell of the river. Fresh air, or lack of it. Memories. Life. Welcome to my cave. It’s the only sanctuary I’ve got sometimes.
For my birthday I want a tickle. For you, a caress. A nice long one that stills your mind from all the worries. Takes away your thoughts turning you into an animal in pleasure. Ask them to do it till you drool. Till your breath comes deep. Till you’re not sure if it’s fair for them to give you so much. I just want to learn to do that for myself and heal.
I found the start of this article today buried in a file….from when heartbreak and disgust at a betrayal I found on Facebook, gave me the motivation to eliminate my wall. I’m happy to have found it as there were years of writing there, so I’ll be pulling pieces out of the file and plugging them here in glee, even when they aren’t filled with it.:)
Over the last few months I’ve been developing a theory about heartbreak in medicine. Maybe it’s not a theory as much as a bunch of questions I continue to ask myself:
How much of the diagnostics in the western healthcare system from psychology to physical illness, is really just prolonged heartbreak without remedies? When somebody is ill in the head, depressed, and broken inside….is it really just heartbreak, and we want to call it something else? I know for myself, that it keeps coming up. The symptoms are abundant.
On a softer note, I haven’t been depressed this year regardless of the heart breaks, for the first time in as long as I can remember. Not to say that I didn’t develop the symptoms periodically for three or four minutes, just that it wasn’t a pit I fell all the way into. I’d leap away from the ledge, get angry, get grounded, get excited, get grounded, jump in my car spitting gravel, and avoid the whole hell hole of sadness that wants to suck the life out of me. I’m still heartbroken, but I’m finding ways to remedy it, and this process of documenting it on social media is helping me.
I hope that by sharing my thoughts and feelings, by baring my soul to the script of this canvas, that I can inspire more people to be okay with uncontrollable tears. If I laugh and they seep out it’s hard, but I’m getting used to it. If a sob begins to brew, and I start breathing deep to make it go away, you’ll know why I missed the holiday, and it’s fitting, because I wrote the beginning of this before my birthday years ago.
Some sadness doesn’t go away. It lingers under the surface of my face, and hearing your story might bring it to a head like a volcano of grief. Unfortunately it means the heartbroken are attracted to the color in my eyes, or maybe it’s an aura like a hobo mark on my car that says I’ll buy you a meal if you’re starving. I don’t know, but I’m weary of falling in love with people who are miserable. Is that most people?
Do most people have a kid in their heart that grew up in a loss of innocence? An idealistic dreamer that failed or forgot to grow down, at the same time they were growing up? I haven’t done that. I still dream big wishing I could fly, and sometimes I do…when I sleep.