There are times were it is blatantly obvious that something is seriously wrong with me. I can’t be compassionate, I can’t feel concern. I find myself feigning these emotions nearly every day now, because contact with others at this point in my life is unavoidable. I don’t believe it has anything to do with the people and not being close with them, because the truth is, I should be connected to them emotionally, in some way at least. I spend hours and hours with these people, I hear stories of just about everything. We often pass the slower hours cleaning, and much of the time I listen as they tell me about their lives. I know them. I’ve interacted with them in so many situations I feel as though I know more about these individuals than I do about friends I used to have. Something about a high-stress environment makes people feel comfortable with being very candid about their home lives and fears, and all else. And currently, there are about four people who are dealing with very difficult situations.
I zone out more often than not. I nod, though I’ve heard almost nothing. I say “I’m sorry,” but never mean it. I look into their eyes and find myself feeling no sympathy. I want to say to them cruelly at times, “You know nothing of pain. You don’t know what it means to be dead and alive at the very same time.” They talk about depression and manic depression and suicide, and I say nothing, or make some comment that any normal person would because I refuse to be discovered.
I will not share myself, not in that way. Emotionally I am beyond untouchable, and there is only one thing that has been able to draw any kind of benevolent feelings out of me. And what that is, I’m not even going to get in to because I am that afraid of it. Feeling anything causes me pause, I have become so unaccustomed to it. Flat nothingness is basically the full scope of my emotional range. Occasionally, very occasionally, I slip into blind rage, and that is the most I can expect.
Admittedly, there are times I want to laugh bitterly at these stories. What it would be to live a normal life and feel things! You know not what a gift you have been given. Your pain is beautiful to me. It is precious. I envy it, I desire it. I want to feel those things that I once did. I want to hurt because I am sad, not because I am numb and apathetic. I want to be able to cry without crashing waves of self-loathing. I want to know what it is like to care so much for other people that you take their pain onto yourself. I don’t understand such things. The rare times I have felt such feelings, they were unreciprocated. I was never cared for as much in return, and as a result, I cast that part of myself aside. I got rid of it because I couldn’t handle it.
I can’t be normal because I can’t take it. It drives me mad with hatred to care and not be cared for back. And that changed me. I am what I am because I allowed it all to tear me apart inside to the point that whatever loving emotions were present in me could no longer be salvaged.