Thoughts on empathy
I have to admit, there are a lot of times when I don't have any idea why I'm alive. If I had cancer, I'd know I was struggling to get past the chemo/radiation, so I could resume my life, but I never really had a life to resume.
I don't have time or energy to socialize, and I know that socializing will do more harm than good. People are only ever my friends if I sneak in my weirdness under their radar; afterward, I can remain good friends only so long as I'm not a bother. It's just better not to allow myself to be a bother in the first place.
I can't read; I can't write; I can't speak; I can't listen. I remember all those years where I was dumbass enough to try to maintain friendships, for when I'd be better, because I thought there was a chance of things getting better. I learned the hard way that trying to maintain friendships just loses them, with people angry that I fooled them into being my friend.
I know part of the problem. I learned my empathy from cats. Cats love to be touched, if they trust you, and, if you're willing to learn what kinds of touch they like. Well, if you're used to stroking a cat to make a cat happy, you know much of what you need to make a woman happy, from the "don't act entitled to attention, or the cat might scratch you," to learning the spots of purr-stimulation. Well, both cats, and people, expect similar behaviors over time. Once I'm too tired, emotions scorched numb, no sense of happiness in anything, I just kind of forget that I enjoy touching, because it becomes too much work.
It's not just touch, of course - it's everything. I come across as someone I'm not, because my brain and emotions say "do good, happymaking things" and my body says "screw you, *with* the horse you rode in on." Well... my body does know its insults, to go with its injuries.
I like happiness, and I think it's because I know how important it is, just like a person in the desert knows the value of water - even when you might have plenty at the moment, you know it's precious and to be protected. I can't have much of it for me, but that's no reason that others shouldn't.
But I can't help make people happy any more, so there's really no *point*. There's just this stupid hope that the chronic fatigue syndrome, which started in my early childhood will sudden get better, now that I'm in my late 50s. Which, let's be honest: it's not likely to happen.
A few days back, I wrote this:
I did something good today, and I finally understand what it was.
It's hard to exercise when one has CFS. It's twisted - you only know if you did too much, when the price tag reveals itself, hours later, or overnight. And if you always feel like shit, you might not even recognize the price tag when it reveals itself. But I'm officially a full blown diabetic now, and that means I must exercise.
So I was walking. Ten minutes, only as fast as my legs wanted to go, and a nice dose of Vitamin D. That was a good thing, but, I mean, of course it was. Walking helps reduce fluid pooling in the lower body, and has a nice clearing effect on acute blood sugar. It helps protect the heart and kidneys.
If anyone ever reads this, and is afraid of diabetes, don't be too afraid. There are now miracle drugs for early stages of diabetes, and they won't mean you can have a big gooey sundae for dessert each night, but they will mean you can eat a realistic diet, with splurges allowed, and still keep your sugars low enough that you avoid being damaged by your blood sugar levels.
But you'll still need to exercise, and exercise doesn't have to be beastly. It can be a few intense minutes on an exercise bicycle, doing interval training; it can be a nice, slow, supremely gentle exercise you do, in your living room, so you can watch TV, not just your iPad/tablet(/PHONE? Say it isn't so!). That method works well for me; my treadmill is in the living room, facing the good TV, and no one argued because:
1) they love me and understand my needs, and
2) technically, I kinda own the house.
Still: owning the house just meant it was there when they *got* here, see? Now, it means they'd either set me up an enviable exercise room, or, keep the treadmill where it is. And I love the idea of the treadmill, because, so long as you don't need to look at your feet, you can walk as slow as you want - 1 mph, if that's your speed. If you can do that for 10 minutes, but you need the distraction of a good TV show, that's ten minutes of walking you'd never get otherwise.
If you *do* need to look down when walking, treadmills should be considered risky until proven safe. Your eyes and legs can't coordinate easily on a treadmill, because they're getting different messages. If you look at your feet, when on a treadmill, your eyes see no forward motion overall, but some backward motion. That's confusing enough. But the feet are insisting you are moving forward. Trust me on this: your legs (and likely the rest of you) are constantly telling your brain things, like, "we're moving forward". In general, "you" have never needed to know that, becuase "it just works."
PS: as you age, treadmills can become suddenly, unexpectedly, dangerous. USE THE DEADMAN CLIP!!! If you fall, most treadmills can sand the ever-living F out of your skin. You don't want that - what if your skin becomes "loppy"? Plastic surgeon can't cure loppy skin, so, don't get the F sanded out of your skin. If you're too arrogant to use the clip-on "emergency brake", I'd urge you to find a good bicycle (try out a recumbent), or an elliptical, if that's reasonably possible. (Remember: no one needs to know you did it out of arrogance :-).)
Where was I? Right, I saw a woman, seemed elderly, and she was having a lot more trouble walking than me. I passed to her side (I didn't want to startle her) and asked if everything was okay, and when she said yes, I said "glad to hear it." But I did want to be sure. She was going a long distance, for someone struggling as she was.
That said: who the heck am *I* to judge whether someone walking, while struggling, is struggling too much?
I was going to continue on my way, but, damn it, my brain served up the right scenario for me. Once she was getting across the street I was on, I kept my distance, and just asked, "You'd let me know if I could help, right?" and she laughed and said she was fine. Then my brain threw in a bit that would help, if she was like me.
"Okay; I was just worried, it's getting warm, and wow, what a bright sun!" Then I waved and walked away. If she was self conscious about how she walked, I just gave us a face saving out, I was only checking because of extreme circumstances. It was a white lie; it was about 78 degrees at the time, but it lets us both feel confident it was just me being neighborly. I wasn't saying she shouldn't struggle so much, and yet, if the struggle is too much right now, I'll help. Because something something sunny day.
(end quoted)
Twenty-four hours later, I realized the above was composed during a period in which I risked slipping into hypomania, due to poor sleep, due to pain. When I feel really good about stuff like this, it means I could be going crazy, acting with a tinge of irrationality, but not so much irrationality that it seems impossible.
I can't keep it up, and so, sooner or later, I stop being fun, and I might even present a burden, and then my ass gets kicked to the curb, usually with a sense that they're angry I hid the awful truth about myself from them. It's true - I pretended my life wasn't a living hell, because no one wants to deal with that. Then, when my life *being* a living hell interacts with our relationship, well, fuck, you don't think people fight to hold on to me, do you? No, if I want to retain the friendship, I must ignore the pain they've caused, and prepare to swallow more in the future.
Thankfully, I've learned from Pat that I don't need friends, so, no worries. Friendship is far too dangerous for me. It's not that I was an idiot for believing in some of the stuff Spider Robinson talks about - he writes good fiction for normal people. I was just an idiot for believing it would work for me, while I'm still damaged goods.
Maybe someday.
I don't have time or energy to socialize, and I know that socializing will do more harm than good. People are only ever my friends if I sneak in my weirdness under their radar; afterward, I can remain good friends only so long as I'm not a bother. It's just better not to allow myself to be a bother in the first place.
I can't read; I can't write; I can't speak; I can't listen. I remember all those years where I was dumbass enough to try to maintain friendships, for when I'd be better, because I thought there was a chance of things getting better. I learned the hard way that trying to maintain friendships just loses them, with people angry that I fooled them into being my friend.
I know part of the problem. I learned my empathy from cats. Cats love to be touched, if they trust you, and, if you're willing to learn what kinds of touch they like. Well, if you're used to stroking a cat to make a cat happy, you know much of what you need to make a woman happy, from the "don't act entitled to attention, or the cat might scratch you," to learning the spots of purr-stimulation. Well, both cats, and people, expect similar behaviors over time. Once I'm too tired, emotions scorched numb, no sense of happiness in anything, I just kind of forget that I enjoy touching, because it becomes too much work.
It's not just touch, of course - it's everything. I come across as someone I'm not, because my brain and emotions say "do good, happymaking things" and my body says "screw you, *with* the horse you rode in on." Well... my body does know its insults, to go with its injuries.
I like happiness, and I think it's because I know how important it is, just like a person in the desert knows the value of water - even when you might have plenty at the moment, you know it's precious and to be protected. I can't have much of it for me, but that's no reason that others shouldn't.
But I can't help make people happy any more, so there's really no *point*. There's just this stupid hope that the chronic fatigue syndrome, which started in my early childhood will sudden get better, now that I'm in my late 50s. Which, let's be honest: it's not likely to happen.
A few days back, I wrote this:
I did something good today, and I finally understand what it was.
It's hard to exercise when one has CFS. It's twisted - you only know if you did too much, when the price tag reveals itself, hours later, or overnight. And if you always feel like shit, you might not even recognize the price tag when it reveals itself. But I'm officially a full blown diabetic now, and that means I must exercise.
So I was walking. Ten minutes, only as fast as my legs wanted to go, and a nice dose of Vitamin D. That was a good thing, but, I mean, of course it was. Walking helps reduce fluid pooling in the lower body, and has a nice clearing effect on acute blood sugar. It helps protect the heart and kidneys.
If anyone ever reads this, and is afraid of diabetes, don't be too afraid. There are now miracle drugs for early stages of diabetes, and they won't mean you can have a big gooey sundae for dessert each night, but they will mean you can eat a realistic diet, with splurges allowed, and still keep your sugars low enough that you avoid being damaged by your blood sugar levels.
But you'll still need to exercise, and exercise doesn't have to be beastly. It can be a few intense minutes on an exercise bicycle, doing interval training; it can be a nice, slow, supremely gentle exercise you do, in your living room, so you can watch TV, not just your iPad/tablet(/PHONE? Say it isn't so!). That method works well for me; my treadmill is in the living room, facing the good TV, and no one argued because:
1) they love me and understand my needs, and
2) technically, I kinda own the house.
Still: owning the house just meant it was there when they *got* here, see? Now, it means they'd either set me up an enviable exercise room, or, keep the treadmill where it is. And I love the idea of the treadmill, because, so long as you don't need to look at your feet, you can walk as slow as you want - 1 mph, if that's your speed. If you can do that for 10 minutes, but you need the distraction of a good TV show, that's ten minutes of walking you'd never get otherwise.
If you *do* need to look down when walking, treadmills should be considered risky until proven safe. Your eyes and legs can't coordinate easily on a treadmill, because they're getting different messages. If you look at your feet, when on a treadmill, your eyes see no forward motion overall, but some backward motion. That's confusing enough. But the feet are insisting you are moving forward. Trust me on this: your legs (and likely the rest of you) are constantly telling your brain things, like, "we're moving forward". In general, "you" have never needed to know that, becuase "it just works."
PS: as you age, treadmills can become suddenly, unexpectedly, dangerous. USE THE DEADMAN CLIP!!! If you fall, most treadmills can sand the ever-living F out of your skin. You don't want that - what if your skin becomes "loppy"? Plastic surgeon can't cure loppy skin, so, don't get the F sanded out of your skin. If you're too arrogant to use the clip-on "emergency brake", I'd urge you to find a good bicycle (try out a recumbent), or an elliptical, if that's reasonably possible. (Remember: no one needs to know you did it out of arrogance :-).)
Where was I? Right, I saw a woman, seemed elderly, and she was having a lot more trouble walking than me. I passed to her side (I didn't want to startle her) and asked if everything was okay, and when she said yes, I said "glad to hear it." But I did want to be sure. She was going a long distance, for someone struggling as she was.
That said: who the heck am *I* to judge whether someone walking, while struggling, is struggling too much?
I was going to continue on my way, but, damn it, my brain served up the right scenario for me. Once she was getting across the street I was on, I kept my distance, and just asked, "You'd let me know if I could help, right?" and she laughed and said she was fine. Then my brain threw in a bit that would help, if she was like me.
"Okay; I was just worried, it's getting warm, and wow, what a bright sun!" Then I waved and walked away. If she was self conscious about how she walked, I just gave us a face saving out, I was only checking because of extreme circumstances. It was a white lie; it was about 78 degrees at the time, but it lets us both feel confident it was just me being neighborly. I wasn't saying she shouldn't struggle so much, and yet, if the struggle is too much right now, I'll help. Because something something sunny day.
(end quoted)
Twenty-four hours later, I realized the above was composed during a period in which I risked slipping into hypomania, due to poor sleep, due to pain. When I feel really good about stuff like this, it means I could be going crazy, acting with a tinge of irrationality, but not so much irrationality that it seems impossible.
I can't keep it up, and so, sooner or later, I stop being fun, and I might even present a burden, and then my ass gets kicked to the curb, usually with a sense that they're angry I hid the awful truth about myself from them. It's true - I pretended my life wasn't a living hell, because no one wants to deal with that. Then, when my life *being* a living hell interacts with our relationship, well, fuck, you don't think people fight to hold on to me, do you? No, if I want to retain the friendship, I must ignore the pain they've caused, and prepare to swallow more in the future.
Thankfully, I've learned from Pat that I don't need friends, so, no worries. Friendship is far too dangerous for me. It's not that I was an idiot for believing in some of the stuff Spider Robinson talks about - he writes good fiction for normal people. I was just an idiot for believing it would work for me, while I'm still damaged goods.
Maybe someday.