The first step was recognizing that I’m hypersensitive to the emotions of others. The next step involved figuring out a way to keep my compassion from destroying me.
I envied my best friend growing up. She lived in a big house in the country, with a swimming pool and a barn full of horses. There were lots of dogs, too, the big, scary kind. She had her own horse and a big bedroom and two parents. Her mother didn’t have to work and played a lot of bridge. I remember my friend wore pretty flowered shirts from L.L. Bean and corduroys, which were in fashion back then.
It was just my Mom and me; my Dad and my brother lived a thousand miles away. We had a small apartment in the city and I had very few clothes. I had no pets, not even a fish or a gerbil. Mom worked long hours to support us and I was alone much of the time. I was so shy I couldn’t bring myself to answer the telephone. Mom had to let it ring about twenty times before I’d realize only she would let it ring that long and I’d pick up.
Even though I envied my friend’s life I still thought of how terrible it was to be less fortunate than either one of us. I wrote long, flowing essays in school about ending poverty and hunger and making the world a better place to live.
My friend and I applied to room together in college. By this time I had developed a debilitating depression and would skip class and bury myself under the covers all day. I had decorated my side of the room in dirty blues and grays whereas her side was a cheerful yellow. My friend was more outgoing, she had so many more friends than I did, and seemed to be excelling in her classes. Out of the fog of my sadness I did notice something odd. Instead of washing her dirty underwear, my friend would throw it under her bed and buy new ones. Her other laundry piled up as well to the point that it was taking over the room. So I just decided to do it for her myself. This seemed to make her happy, which in turn made me feel happy.
