Feeling Our Way Through a Haze of Bullets

Wow, you really feel things, don’t you?

Yes, I do.

Are you, like, an empath?

I used to feel pride when I was in conversations like this. Yes! Yes! I am a deeply feeling person. Isn’t that great?

But now, not so much. These days I say to myself something to the effect of, “Yes, I am. Aren’t you?”

I was talking with a friend this week about being an empath (she’s one, too) and she expressed anger at the term.

“I’m so sick of that label,” she said.

I hadn’t thought of it that way, but it gave me pause. Intellectually, I understand that not everyone can be an empath. Otherwise it wouldn’t be a thing.

But truly, if I’m fighting not to gorge myself on a pizza when a grocery store is shot up in Buffalo or I’m hearing stories of parents giving DNA so they can identify little shattered bodies in Texas, isn’t that somewhere in the realm of healthy reaction? Because for those of us who stress eat or stress drink or stress freak out in any way, what is more stressful than living in the United States of America right now? Especially if you’re an empath.

Jesus, have mercy.

Let’s review the last handful of years. The cult of Trump has done irreparable harm to…