Viewing the picture on this article from “New York” magazine, posted on the renowned writer and journalist Connie Schultz’s Facebook page this morning, somehow instantaneously brought me back in time to my childhood. Seeing the photo of the little girl dolefully cradling her wounded baby doll called to mind the myriad of times in my childhood when I would be playing pretend and my playtime would end in tears. All too frequently, as a child, I would get lost in my own unbridled reverie to the point where it seemed real. For example, my imagination was so vivid that sometimes, for one agonizing moment, I would find myself in the perspective of a mother whose child was deathly ill, causing me to momentarily forget that I was just a little girl, with an active imagination, playing with a baby doll. My poor mother, both frustrated and bewildered by these sudden, erratic displays of emotion, would usually say to me, “Daniella, why are you crying?! You made up the story yourself! Just stop playing!” Then, she would always add, perhaps as an afterthought, “THIS IS NOT REAL!!”
Whereas I couldn’t blame my mother in the slightest for reacting this way, I realized even then that I couldn’t have expected her to grasp the true source of my tears. You see, as a small child, I understood completely that when I played pretend, I was merely reenacting a fictitious narrative that I myself had fabricated; however, these moments of playtime caused me to realize that although this horrific scenario was not a reality for me, it was a reality for countless other people. After all, even though I was not really a mother nursing a terminally ill child, who knows how many women, at this same point in time, were experiencing this hellish reality? At this age, I couldn’t accurately articulate this to my mother, so I didn’t try, but nonetheless, the thought continued to cause me great pain.
Similarly, seeing movies or television programs or even reading stories where a character was undergoing some degree of turmoil would often engender the same reaction in me. I always laugh when I think back to how every year at Christmas time, I would experience the same outpour of emotion while watching the movie Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Even what was meant to be a light-hearted yuletide tale had the power to reduce me to tears when I considered the plight of poor Rudolph who was ostracized by his peers for a simple physical anomaly. Whenever, as the story goes, the other reindeer excluded Rudolph from playing their games, I would shout at the television saying, “YOU’D BETTER LET HIM PLAY! JUST WAIT UNTIL CHRISTMAS EVE! THEN YOU’RE GOING TO BE SORRY! YOU’LL SEE! YOU'LL ALL SEE!!”
As usual, my poor mother, at this point becoming rather used to my eccentricities, would respond, “Daniella, it’s just a movie, and you know how it ends!” As always, in trying to reassure me, she would conclude with the phrase, “THIS IS NOT REAL!” I realized that my mother only had the best of intentions in telling me this, but yet again, I understood that she could not comprehend what was at the heart of these emotions. As usual, I was fully cognizant that what I was watching was just a fictional story and the product of someone else’s imagination. I couldn’t help but think, however, that although this particular story wasn’t real, I would never know how many individuals found themselves shunned by others because of their physicality, and that thought in itself was the source of great sympathy for me.
Looking back at these incidents from my childhood, I believe that these may have been some of the first indications of the overwhelming, sometimes crippling, amount of empathy with which I would struggle my entire life. I think that is why reading this article from “New York” magazine this morning had such a profound effect on me. So often when I attempt to explain the exhausting and, at times, debilitating nature of my empathy, others will good-naturedly assure me that compassion is a wonderful quality to possess. I don’t disagree with this, but I realize when they make these comments that people are largely unaware of the all-consuming power of my level of empathy. They are unaware of the many, many times that I am unable to truly experience the simple joys of my own life because my mind is incessantly ruminating on the suffering of others. They will never know the self-imposed anguish I experience with my overwhelming need to try on everyone else’s shoes in often excruciating detail.
When I think of just how heavy and draining this burden of caring can be, I need only to think of an incident that occurred the morning of November 9, 2016. On this particular day, I had a student approach me after class. (I will not give her name; however, she gave me permission to write about her story.) She is a Muslim who had recently moved here with her mother from the Middle East in search of opportunities that she never had access to back home, but also to flee from a highly abusive father. Indeed, she has made excellent use of her newfound opportunities, for she has learned English exceptionally quickly and is extremely intelligent and well-spoken. On approaching me, she immediately broke down in tears. She told me that while she had been very content with the new life that she and her mother had provided for themselves, she had woken up that morning terrified about their future. To exacerbate her fear, a very pernicious man on her morning bus ride had taunted her, warning that she would be soon deported. Moreover, she told me that she had other family members back home that she and her mother had hoped to help bring to seek asylum in the United States and that now, this dream seemed unlikely at best. I wanted so badly to be able to tell her that here, she would be safe, that her fears were groundless, and that this is not how things are done in this country, but on that morning, I couldn’t tell her any of those things with any degree of certainty. In that moment, I felt completely, utterly helpless. I broke down and began to cry as well. I don’t believe that it was good for her morale to see my reaction, and I hate myself for having responded this way, but in that moment, I couldn’t do otherwise.
Of course, this incident began to consume me day and night, haunting my thoughts to the point where I found it difficult to concentrate on other things. I began to replay the conversation that we had over and over on a continuous loop, but each time, I could never find a solution or more appropriate response to this young woman’s plight. I prayed, I reflected, and I dwelled on it so much that it began to weigh on my disposition. As usual, my very intuitive mother, noticing a change in me, asked me what was troubling me. When I told her what had happened with the student, she responded with her usual level of compassion as she tried to reassure me: “Daniella, it will all be alright. You’ll see. It will work out, but you have to stop this. You can’t get so involved in other people’s lives that you ruin your own. You need to concentrate on yourself.” Then, perhaps without even thinking, she reiterated those words that she had so often said during my childhood: “THIS IS NOT REAL.” These words that I had heard so frequently growing up left such an impression on me in this moment, for this time, they were not true. Whereas I appreciated my mother attempting to comfort me once again, this time, the situation was real, and I had seen the victim with my own eyes and heard the fear and uncertainty in her trembling voice. While this horrible situation was not a reality for me, it certainly was for my student, and no amount of comforting words or good intentions could change that.
Throughout much of my childhood, I would have this reoccurring nightmare that would continue well into my teenage years. In this dream, I was somehow always forced to carry around this gigantic boulder. As time went on, I swear that this boulder would become larger and larger. I can still feel myself stumbling and being crushed by the overwhelming weight of the humongous rock. When I would awaken from this dream, I always felt grateful to be relieved of this horrible burden, and I would reflect morosely that many other people are not so fortunate to be able to put their burdens down. So often in life, I believed that if I could somehow carry the weight of the world, it would lessen the burdens that others are carrying. However, I believe that, much like the writer of this article, I have to, for my own sake, come to the conclusion that this is the "wrong way to do empathy." If I try to empathize with another to the point that I am carrying his/her enormous burden in life, it will not make this person's load any lighter; it may, however, cause myself to capsize under its tremendous weight.
-- Daniella Rossi
-- Daniella Rossi
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