Empathy

A few nights ago, I heard a couple rough-housing on the lawn outside my open window. The young man, eager to show off his power and to put his hands where they are not usually allowed, was tossing and flipping his girlfriend to her giggling delight. I tuned it out and continued replying to the urgent emails congregating in my inbox.
In a single instant, tension replaced the light mood outside; the reverberation snapped me out of my reverie. Something had happened, and the young woman was hurt.
"Ow!" she exclaimed; then, slightly petulant, she added, "That hurt!"
Her boyfriend had two options: he could have offered a short, humble apology, something like, "I'm sorry I hurt you.", given her a hug, sat beside her on the grass, and the whole situation, and probably the hurt as well, would have been over in an instant. This particular young man chose to take offense at the implication that he, with all his strength and skill, could have made a mistake. "Oh, come on," he snapped, trying to dodge the conflict he saw speeding towards him like a wayward bus, "you weren't holding yourself right. Again!" At which point, he must have picked her up, because she shrieked.
"I don't want to do it again," she insisted, "I'm hurt."
"No, you're not," as if his will made it so. The young man then spent the next ten minutes calling his girlfriend a wimp, baby, liar, wuss, chicken, and every other insult commonly exchanged between 13-year-old boys in swim trunks faced with a rope, a river, and a dangerously high rock outcropping until I, whose latent nausea had already been excited that day by particularly graphic footage of a suicide bombing, clapped my hands over my ears so that I might not vomit on my laptop. Not only did the boyfriend refuse to acknowledge his mistake, he refused to acknowledge his girlfriend's pain.

After I experienced a mild sample this week, I am resolved to never discount another's pain. I cannot see the red eyelids through the painted face, or the chewed-up inner lip behind the smile, or the throat swelling as it draws tears away from the surface, yet pain may be there.

Silent pain runs far deeper than vocalized pain. Each complaint compounds its antecedent until the pain is unbearable; sufferers of the very deepest pain cannot finish the first two words of the sentence "I am in pain" without dissolving into a sobbing, writhing wretch on the floor.

I am not the only person who ever hurt, nor will I ever be. I only wish I knew an infinite well of love, or charity, or kindness, or whatever spirit-balm soothes a soul when its body is pained. I see so many who require it, and my reserves are dry.

Illegal Premature Beginning to My NaNoWriMo Novel

At 4:53 a.m., June fifth peered through the Vagrihaven haze and considered its pale reflection on the sweeping Myrthe Alfons Complex and the needlelike Qadir Tower. Georgie Sanchez, resident meterologist for Channel 1 Morning News whose real name is Linette Gouldensteiner, added "Looks like another cool, partly-sunny day!☺" to her Teleprompted script.
At 4:54 a.m., Hope Lécuyer, lowliest clerk of the Vagrihaven Civic Records Department by day and top student of VCSU Law School by night, jogged past the break in the trees of Heritage Park which afforded her a brief glimpse of the forest-green Bridge to Success reflected in the sparkling Campbell River.
At 4:55 a.m., Tobias Rask, former ward of the state whose application for a janitorial position at City Hall was approved just yesterday, threw himself off the Bridge to Success and experienced a brief high before the air pressure rendered him senseless.
At 5:01 a.m., Hope jogged up the steps of her apartment complex only to be knocked down them again by its explosion.
At 5:02 a.m., Tobias woke with his face in mud at the bottom of the river and knew he was right about Heaven.

Confessions of a Mormon Mystic

I am a Saint because I do not sin as
I am a sow because I do not fly.

Sonnet #3

Hold thou, Eidolon! half-flesh, half-dreamt man,
That I may hold thee, and to altar go;
With holy rite join us this sage chaplain
And I, thy rib, my maiden veil o'rthrow.
O'rpass me not, that thou may'st break thy spell
Bestown without thought and fed without care.
Twain bosom Momi we were, then I fell
'Neath fancy; thy verity is th' elixir.

Sonnet #2

Should sacred pain beauty excite in thee,
Cherish thou the oft-forgotten season;
Whereas Spring the blighted Earth doth quicken,
Autumn hosts the glittering jubilee.
Standeth the raw colt with quivering knee
Above his muscled sire? Nor doth suckling green
Best mellifluous clouds which e'ens darken,
Nor do sowers approach harvesters' glee.

Though nubile Helen commandeth a fleet,
On Cytherea's throne we sacrifice.
So, genesis of Joy were ne'er as sweet
As Eve's ultimate tang of Paradise.
Ere by Northern bonechill our vale is bound,
With golden farewell her heavens are crown'd.

© Bethylene, 2006

Before Samuel Coleridge, we couldn't be selfless.

I have a selfish desire to make myself feel good by selflessly caring for another person.

I'm lost without someone to worry about. I've tried worrying about random people in Sudan and Utahn air quality and several of my roommates, but it's not the same as taking care of my brother. What are my ears for if not to listen for the sounds of him giggling when he's happy or screaming when he's hurt himself? What is my nose for if not to smell when he's set something on fire? What are my arms and hands for if not to pin him down when he attacks my sister or hug him when he's sorry? What am I for if nobody needs me?

Thinking about myself too much gets really depressing.

Perhaps this is all just because I'm reading Rebecca…

Marital intimacy frightens me.

I don't mean physical intimacy, either. I mean my silly triumphs, stupid fantasies, strange compulsions, and secret terrors lying naked in front of some other person. I mean letting someone inside me—deep inside the parts of my psyche where I rarely admit myself.

Why doesn't this seem to scare some of the marriage-hungry students I rub shoulders with every day? Is my brain really more twisted than other girls'? Or, am I overestimating the marital relationship? Maybe husbands and wives do have parts they hide from each other. Maybe marriages last into the eternities with each partner holding back the a few little hurtful or humiliating thoughts.

I fear that if I did not tell him consciously, I would betray myself while I dreamed.