I can’t stop thinking about my brother saying of course I didn’t like movies because I was two steps ahead of the plot at all times (because of my high sensitivity to people’s emotions). Funnily enough, that’s why I enjoy mystery books–because I know who the perp is halfway into the novel. I usually know why they did it, too, but not always. And, counterintuitively, I like musicals because of how obvious people’s motives are and how theatrical musicals are. There is no way to mistake them for real life, which is nice.
My brother and I were talking about his inability to distinguish more than the base emotions. He can tell if someone is happy or unhappy, for example, but not to what extent or why. He can’t pick up on their emotions if they are masking to any extent, which made the first few years of his real estate career rocky. He wanted me to help him interact with other people better, but it’s not easy to coach someone on it. He’s the type who’s used to doing anything he puts his mind to do. I gave him a few tips and he was like, “Yeah, yeah, can do”, which made me smile in amusement. Ingrained behaviors are difficult to change. It’s not just a matter of putting your mind to it, which my brother soon learned. One thing I told him was that he talks too fast. So do I, but I’m able to slow it down when needed. He’s not. Another is that he never used to show any interest in other people’s emotions. He was my ride to the airport when I needed it, and he never asked me how a trip went when I got back. Until several years after he started in the real estate business. One time, I came home from a trip to visit Ian and my brother actually asked how it went. I was so gobsmacked, I didn’t answer for several seconds. Now, he’s gotten to the point where he will ask how I am on the regs and such. So he has the basics down of social oiling. Er, you know what I mean.
It’s funny because I’m so attuned to other people’s emotions; it’s one reason I don’t like to be in a crowd. I’m better now that I know how to erect an emotional shield and keep it in place. I am better at maneuvering through crowds so I don’t feel like I’m trapped, largely in thanks to Taiji. I’ve been bringing up the Dunning-Kruger study often in the past few days, the lesser-known effect (people who are good at something underestimate how much better they are at it than other people), and I’m bringing it up again because it fits here. I have always been perceptive about other people’s emotions and motivations. I can see through the veneer that people put up 9 times out of time. Hell, I’d say 97 times out of 100.
I’ve known for quite some time that I am more perceptive than other people. The thing is, I didn’t realize how much so until now. Not really and truly. That’s where the Dunning-Kruger lesser known results come into play. I’ve been like this all my life. I don’t know any differently. My mom making me her confidante when I was eleven doesn’t help, but I already leaned that way.
It’s one of the reasons I don’t want to be in a romantic relationship. Along with the fact that my mother pounded in my head that my soul worth was the emotional support I could provide. These two things wedded together means I’m a terrible partner. I don’t know how to set healthy boundaries within a relationship because my mother doesn’t think any boundaries are healthy. She doesn’t think a child should be able to say no to their parent. no, she never said it explicitly, but she made it clear in so many ways. If I see someone in pain, my instinct is to take the pain as my own. I want to fix the problem and if I can’t, I want to cradle the other person until the pain goes away.
Or rather. That’s my impulse. It’s not what I want to do, but it’s what I feel compelled to do. I can’t ignore someone else’s pain. Again, it’s in my nature, but it was exacerbated by my mother’s narcissistic dependency upon me as her dumping grounds for her emotional distress. Any time I try to set boundaries, she makes things very unpleasant. I know that’s on me and I stand firm–some of the time. But other times, it’s just easier to give in to shut her the fuck up. I know that’s brutal and sounds very uncaring–it is. But it’s from decades of being used and emotionally drained by her.
I cannot tell you how angry I am about the bullshit she and my father pulled during their last visit here. How I was the one who died and came back twice, and yet, my father’s feelings (and my mother’s by extension) were constantly and unstintingly centered. Here’s the thing about being extra-compassionate/empathetic/etc. Once I reach the end of my empathy, that is it. There is no more give. There is no just a little bit more. My last therapist pointed out to me that it wasn’t a good thing (to give and give, until you break, and then stopping completely). I never said it was, but I knew it was how I operated.
This is one reason I prefer being alone. I am always aware of the feelings of others in the room, no matter how many shields I try to erect. It’s not even in a bad way, necessarily. I just can’t block them out. So it was hell when my parents were here for three months. I could pick up on all the negativity even if it wasn’t spoken out loud. I remember one time my father was clearly mad about something. I didn’t know what, but I could tell when the switch happened. When my mother brought it up because of course she would, she said that when she asked him about it, he refused to say anything. He told her to ask me (sigh) because I was there and I knew.
My mother presented all this in an incredulous tone of voice. I said I knew when he got angry because I saw it happen. She said in a vaguely accusatory voice, “Oh, so you did know. What was he angry about?” I said I didn’t know that part of it–I just knew when he got mad. More to the point, I didn’t really care why he was angry because it could have been anything. This was at the breakfast table. So it could have been the food was too hot or not enough. Or the wrong food. Or too much food. Or not enough. Who knows? My instinct would have been to ignore it because I don’t believe in rewarding bad behavior. But, no. My mother couldn’t do that because of course she couldn’t. So she kept pestering him about it. Which, yeah, that’s going to make him feel better. It turned out that he was mad because….
Ok, look. This is going to sound stupid because it is. One of his job is doing the dishes. Badly. He basically runs the dish under the water and considers it done. And he forgets to turn off the water. Once in awhile, he’ll take a rag and swipe the table with it, but only his place setting or maybe my mom’s once in a great while. He does mine maybe one in ten times. If you want to use the things he’s “washed”, you have to wash them again. But, it makes him feel like he’s contributing so I have to pretend that, yes, he’s doing a great job doing the dishes (my mom will thank him for doing them). Anyway, the day in question, my mom apparently cleaned her place at the table a half hour or so after my father swiped a rag over it. this to him meant that she did not respect his job and that she was trying to demean him.
Stupid, right? Very stupid. But my mom falls for it every time. She had to try to explain to him why she wasn’t demeaning him, blah, blah, blah. And I had no idea that was why he was angry because I hadn’t seen it happen. If I had, I could probably have guessed that was why he was mad at her, but I still would have found it stupid. My empathy does not extend to him because he’s a deep maw of endless suck (for validation, approval, and respect) that can never be filled. I know this. My brother knows this. My mom knows this, but she refuses to accept it. And my empathy for her has dried up as well. She betrayed me in order to appease my father’s raging ego the last time they were here (and, let me repeat, I was recovering from a life-changing medical trauma), and that was the last straw.
I know why she did it. I know why she keeps expecting me (and my brother) to bend to his whims. I know that she’s as damaged as he is and that some of it is HER pathology (as she likes to keep saying about my father). I know that she can’t help the rut she’s in, at least not without a shit-ton of therapy, which she won’t get, and I know that living with my father has ruined her, perhaps forever. But I’m done. Almost forty years of being her emotional support only to be topped off by her irrevocably putting him before me broke me. I can no longer afford to give her any benefit of the doubt.