Cold-hearted empath
How to build a concrete wall in the middle of your soul to protect you from, ahem, feelings.
It seemed like another Saturday. Breakfast with our son, walking our dog, tidying up our home. But the previous night, my husband had shared some thoughts with me. “I feel like you’re detached from your emotions, you’re cold, avoidant. It’s been like this for a few weeks.” And those thoughts didn’t sit well with me.
I went to bed with an imaginary pain in my chest. As I closed my eyes, an unknown weight pushed my lungs. I jumped, short of breath, and no clues pointing to any explanation. Deep in my sleep, it came to me: a concrete wall had been erected right below my breasts. The cement had laid its roots around my ribcage, allowing little room for my lungs to expand.
Like I said. It seemed like another Saturday. Oatmeal, a stroll around our neighborhood, folding blankets. But the previous night, I had found a thick layer of permafrost under my heart.
We decided to go somewhere. A small bookstore in the Design District. Between photography zines and paintings, there was a dog named Billy. My son chased Billy around. After a few failed attempts, he got to touch his tail. The dog let out a squeak. Then another one. And another one. “Is he okay?” I asked the owner. “Yeah, he’s fine. It’s just that he has a heart condition. His heart is too big and when he gets excited, the heart presses against his lungs and he makes these noises. But he’s totally fine,” the owner said to me, as she caressed Billy’s head.
Some books were bought and some other words were exchanged with the owners of the place -and the dog-, but I couldn’t shake it off: His heart is too big.