The Pain Underneath
I'm tired and overwhelmed and becoming numb.
You smiled your big smile and said the usual pleasantries. All seems positive. All seems normal. Then the friendly hug lasts just a few seconds longer and is held slightly tighter. Something told me the lingering touch was not about the friendship we share. It was not something physical. No, it was about the pain underneath.
Again and again, I feel it. In the way you hunch to guard your soul or in the way your eyes widen and dart away when I say something that touches the exposed and sensitive thoughts or the way the tempo of your voice slows when I spark a memory that has been hiding. Hiding and now free to strike and do damage.
Sometimes, after we size each other up and see where the conversation is going to go, your eyes glisten a little or you look down at your clenched hands and you share your pain. You twist the rings on each finger or the fingers themselves if you don’t wear rings as you twist your words, feeling foolish and vulnerable until the declarations rush out so that you can get to the end faster.
And all I can say is I’m sorry you feel this pain. I can’t offer more. I can’t meet your eyes.
You see, I’ve seen and heard so much pain lately.
The old friend who reopened an old wound with acidic comments or who always takes and never gives or the bully who created different wounds that scream to this day.
The spouse who isolates and ignores or betrays or simply doesn’t understand or even see.
The addiction that eats you and the people you care about from the inside out.
The furry companion who passed, leaving a hole far bigger and far deeper than you could have imagined.
The job you hate or the job you can’t find.
The purpose that escapes you.
The abusive words or hands or both that scarred your body and your psyche in ways that will never heal.
The co-worker who has taken advantage of you or used you as their zero-sum target.
The endless hours you spend alone, especially the darkest ones in the middle of the night.
The family member whom you love deeply, who has disengaged or who only engages when they need something.
The father who was gone or the one who was there but didn’t know how to love.
The mother who only knew how to push her own pain onto you with inattention, unrealistic expectations, or blistering criticism.
The fear you feel when you consider trying to connect and you contemplate letting someone in that might turn it all around and use you or hurt you. Or worse, that no one will want to connect.
The countless times you are judged by your skin color or your age or your gender or your accent or your body.
The friend or the lover who physically or emotionally walked away with cruel words. Or worse, with no words.
The mismatch between the life you wanted or the life others project and the life you have.
The inner voice screaming impostor or failure or disappointment.
The likely collapse and failure of the American experiment, and with it, enlightened democracy and compassion.
The physical or emotional rejection delivered one too many times by someone you care about or desire.
The physical aches and mental psychoses of a biological machine with a nervous system that wears and breaks.
So many ways to feel pain.
Early on in my life, I learned that if I listen to your pain and take on that pain, just a little, I can help and make a difference and be valued. I also learned I can avoid and ignore my own pain.
But you should know, if I look away or pull back a little early, it’s because sometimes it gets to be a lot.
Sometimes, it overwhelms and I become numb. I still care, I’m just full.
Eric. Thank you for sharing this deep personal reflection on the double-edged sword of empathy. It is both a bridge that connects us to others in a profound way and a weight that can become too heavy to carry. Occasional withdrawal is not a lack of caring, when in reality, it is a desperate attempt to stay afloat in a sea of shared sorrow.