Why my empathy has limits

“All my life, I have fought for my right to be soft”, I tell my witch as we sit in the garden and watch our strawberries grow. “But now, I’ve found out that my empathy has limits.”
And recently, these limits were reached.

I recently had to work with a difficult colleague. I assisted a woman in her fourties with a project, and instead of letting me work, she constantly used me to vent about her mental health, and wanted to trick me into admitting feelings as well. The problem was just that I was happy with my job. So, she kept on crying to me, and while doing so constantly bought the wrong supplies to make my job impossible, and when I told her, she cried and screamed, and went through the offices of other colleagues crying to get one hug after another. I met her a few months later, and she still does that. When new tasks are ahead, she starts to cry, gets a hug by everyone, and no one dares to tell her if something needs to be done differently.

I’ve had people scold me for not showing empathy.
But I truly felt as if my tendency to be soft and understanding was being abused here.

I remember what it’s like to be disoriented in life. I struggled a lot when I was younger, feeling as if I had no time to grow up but was rather thrown into this world without guidance. When I was 16, my orchestra played a concert in Italy, and I was the only one surprised by seeing a real palm tree for the very first time. I was so inexperienced with the world, but I kind a managed to keep the spark of surprise and joy inside of me.
When I was in my 20s and in university for the first time, I struggled with anxiety, with eating and sleeping, and had the wildest mood swings as a stress response. I would fall into holes and feel so wrong about myself that I often withdrew from things I loved. I can’t be a musician, I can’t be a writer, and I’m not good enough to study science. I would like to work in a museum, but will probably end up unemployed.

It took all my strength to get out of these holes and do the things that I love.

I know what it’s like to feel weak enough to wishing to never wake up again, to just fall into this endless grey inside, feeling close to death. So, I am also happily enjoying things not being like that right now. If I don’t have a reason to complain, I won’t.

I have a friend who loves to complain to me. It starts with muscle tension, then continues with all the foods she cannot eat. Lactose intolerance is a thing, so I grant her that. But then her cramps continue. She can’t eat sour things, earthy things, bread is evil, sugar is death, and caffeine is avoided. We even had to discuss about having a beer in the evening, and I really wasn’t open for the “you can have fun without alcohol” discussion. Yes, I also can have alcohol without fun, so what?! Then of course taking long walks is not possible due to muscle tension, but the tube is too loud, the restaurant is too crowded … Listening to that friend, I start to feel overstimulated, and I shut down. I am not nice and understanding anymore, and I become rude.

It’s like hearing all of these thoughts again which I had fought hard to shut out.

I remember what it’s like fearing how my stomach feels from eating the wrong things, but in my case, it was all in my head. I know now that I don’t have any problem with food (except for one allergy), but rather was anxious of sensing my own body, due to trauma. I remember what it’s like having a panic attack on the train, at a lift, escaping a crowded restaurant with a cheap excuse.
When doing these things, I wished they would stop. I wished to just have a relaxing meal with colleagues, spontaneously take a tram somewhere for fun, travel alone with my backpack on. I wanted to shut these anxieties up to badly.
With enough experiences through the years, I managed to do the things I dreamed of doing, and it gives me strength in tough situations. I learned to shut-up my head and just do it.

When I told my complicated friend about these helpful experiences, she shook her head and deemed them not worth it. “Travelling alone is too expensive.” “Wine is unhealthy.” “I get tired by 9.30 PM.”

I like to think that money comes back. Since I am going to die eventually, I need to have a bit of comfort food occasionally. And I’d rather be tired and happy than rested and bored. These thoughts are my protection from severe trauma-related anxiety and depression, and I can’t stand people undermining them.

“I need to shut these people out of my head to not fall into the next hole”, I tell my witch. “And sadly, that makes me appear not super empathic.”

I don’t feel better than others for not having their struggles anymore. I still have friends with the exact same problems that I occasionally have wine nights and sleepovers with, but I think there is a certain thing that I need from someone. And that is self-responsibility. If we sit together for a relaxing coffee, you can tell me all the fucked-up things going on with you, I just can’t babysit you. You cannot travel with me, that’s fine. You order food you can digest without anxiety, that’s also fine. You want to do things your way? Go ahead, I’ll meet you there.

But yes, my empathy has limits. I have fought hard to still be alive, and I cannot deal with people who drag me back into all the traps in my head.