Empathy Can Kill You

The crack has opened up again in the corner of her mouth. It comes out of nowhere, swells up and puffs out, splitting slightly every time she stretches her mouth wide, a nervous tic acquired as of late, a way to move the tension out of her face and head. Sela makes a face like a lion, or an oversized ventriloquist's dummy, mouth wide open, tongue protruding down her chin, eyes wild. Her tongue darts in and out of the crack, flicking at it, rolling back and forth over the swollen nub in the right corner, unconsiously, involuntarily like an iguana catching flies. It's stress, she knows this. Her body sends her warning signals then full on alarms. Can't sleep, can't eat, hair starts to fall out in clumps. It starts with her lips, though. This time she catches it early. Mainlines the vitamin C and zinc, magnesium to calm her nerves. Nag Champa burning in the living room. She shuts off her computer, turns off her phone. If she doesn't engage she can control her reaction, that's what her therapist tells her. Focus on not owning it, on building up a wall, thickening her skin. So much bad news, every day a new disaster. Bombings and killings, famine and war, the neverending war and suffering. Horror all around her. Sela feels every word, every image with her entire being, a wide open raw sucking wound. Emapthy is killing her. She tongues her lip one more time, picks up the remote and hits the power button. Stretches her face, sticks out her tongue, opens her eyes. Again and again, like a lion who's lost her roar.

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