‘I don’t want to get hurt again.’
‘Okay, I hear you. But you do realize that the alternative to trying and having your heart broken is not trying and feeling heartbroken anyway, right?’
Recently, I have found myself on both sides of this conversation. The optimistic, hopelessly romantic side of me says, ‘The joy in the middle negates the pain that may come at the end–don’t let it stop you.’
The scared, skeptical side of me says, ‘What if the pain comes too quickly? I’m in a state of recovery and I feel delicate.’
And so, the cyclical internal dialogue begins.
Dr. Judith Orloff describes empaths as ‘emotional sponges’. As someone who considers myself an empath, I would say this analogy is pretty accurate. I absorb the energy of whatever is around me–good or bad. I don’t have an innate capacity to filter these stimuli, and so I am left vulnerable to my environment.
The world is in a state of great distress, and for good reason. A global pandemic pulled the rug out from under us, and we are now being forced to confront the issues we have been sweeping under that rug for decades. There is nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. Our societal flaws are centre stage and we are faced with two options: close our eyes and pretend everything is fine or open up wide, take it in and work to change it.
As someone who considers herself an empath, the current state of the world feels increasingly overwhelming to me. When I open up Instagram, Facebook, or walk through the grocery store, I feel bombarded by the feelings of other people. They emit stressful, sad and lonely energy, and I absorb a lot of it. By the end of each day I feel exhausted–either from my conscious attempts to filter those energies or because I have succumbed to them altogether. Regardless, it leaves me very little emotional capacity to experience my own feelings. My own feelings of stress, sadness and loneliness in conjunction with this ‘empathy hangover’ has led me to re-build walls that I haven’t had in a long time.
These walls never really served me in the way that I hoped they would. While somewhat shielding me from external sources of pain, they made connection impossible, and disconnection breeds internal pain. I spent at least ten years of my life living behind these walls, and over four years working to dismantle them. Now, here I am, after years of therapy, constant self-examination and loads of hard work… right back to my seventeen-year-old self. It’s a tough pill to swallow. It is scary to realize that, even after years of working to consciously practice authenticity and vulnerability, guarded is still my default state. Because that’s what it is. It is not that I am distant, pre-occupied or emotionally unavailable–it is that I am keenly aware that I am the opposite of those things. I am deeply caring, attentive and intensely emotional, but I have convinced myself that I am not ready to experience the unavoidable pain that comes as a consequence of these attributes.
One of the problems with avoiding pain is that in doing so, I am also avoiding joy. Because what I am really doing when I am avoiding things that may cause me pain is avoiding things that may bring me joy, things that I may love, things that I could lose. It is the loss of these things that I truly fear, not the acquisition.
I say ‘things’, but what I really mean is people and the relationships that I develop with those people. I know a lot of individuals who are perfectly content with surface level interactions; I am not one of those people. I crave depth, authenticity and vulnerability. While at one time I gave trust freely, I now need those three things in order to feel safe. This is where it gets kind of sticky. Many people crave depth, authenticity and vulnerability, but they don’t want to be the first ones to demonstrate those characteristics. In doing so, they put themselves at risk of rejection; at risk of being hurt. I very strongly identify with that feeling, I do not want to get hurt. Somewhat counterintuitively, then, I walk around seeking deep, authentic and vulnerable relationships while being unwilling to embody those qualities myself. I walk around hoping that someone will be brave enough to take the first step–to show themselves so that I can feel safe showing myself. As I write and re-read this, I understand that what I am asking of the people around me is unrealistic.
Personally, I have always believed that pain is a great opportunity for personal growth. When we experience pain, specifically of the emotional kind, we become cognizant of what we care about most. Unfortunately, the experience of pain is typically rooted in the loss (or potential loss) of something that we care about. The opportunity, then, is using this insight in future situations to prioritize the people and things we care about most. When we avoid pain, however, we reduce it to its evolutionary purpose–to avoid causing further damage to ourselves. This obviously still has its place, especially in the realm of physical pain. There is a reason we don’t spend the majority of our adult lives touching hot stoves or putting ourselves into physically dangerous situations. Learning these avoidant tendencies help us survive, but I want to grow.
So, the question stands: how do I grow? If I could do anything, I would manipulate my environment in a way that made me feel safe. I would surround myself with people who were already open and vulnerable, and would therefore feel comfortable also being open and vulnerable. However, this is unrealistic for two reasons: 1) the vast majority of my environment is not within my control, and 2) the world is full of pain and suffering, and consequently, most people walk around as guarded as I do.
I am left with only one answer–I must ‘dare greatly’. I cannot expect other people to be the ones to take the first step. If I want depth, authenticity and vulnerability I must embody these qualities in my day-to-day. By doing so, I risk rejection, loss and pain. But by withholding these intrinsic qualities I face a much bigger risk–living a life that lacks connection. I am terrified at the thought of being hurt again, and I am not sure if I am ready to feel that level of pain. I’ll probably never be ‘ready’, but I can find solace in the fact that I have been through so much worse. Glennon Doyle said it best:
‘I can do hard things.’