A Lack Of Empathy
Seven, eight, nine sneezes in a row. It's becoming painfully orgasmic and the woman sitting next to her just got up and shifted seats, throwing Connie the most withering stare.
It's the chocolate.
Really good dark chocolate makes her sneeze. Repeatedly.
Generally not this uncontrollably- three seems to be the magic number- so now she's wondering what the hell was in the bag of leftover chocolate chips she bought from the bulk store because this is insane.
Peter used to make fun of her, taunting her with incredible hand poured organic chocolate squares that he'd flaunt in front of her like a carrot on a stick.
His idea of foreplay.
Get her all worked up then giggle wildly when she was tearing up and sneezing a fit.
Painfully uncomfortable.
Connie never understood Peter's sense of humour and that was a major nail in their relationship's coffin.
You're too sensitive, he'd say; so dramatic, so intense.
His detached, emotionally disengaged observations, thinly couched in an observational and curious tone would inflame her.
Deeply self absorbed, oblivious to her vulnerability.
It was like a punch to her solar plexus, knocking the wind out of her while her head swelled with panic and hurt.
So much veiled anger and passive aggressiveness between them.
He'd ignite an increasingly shrinking fuse which would inevitably blow up with Peter informing Connie that he is not responsible for her feelings; his words are just words, not judgements.
Words have no power, he'd say.
Her interpretation, her response is hers alone, resolutely absolving himself of any accountability in their increasingly toxic dynamic.
They were triggers for Connie, little grenades he'd launch with casual aplomb.
Sara tells Connie she feels a moral responsiblity with other people's hearts.
Something Peter doesn't.
He calls himself an empath.
Too sensitive, he feels everything, too much.
He's overwhelmed by the world.
A raw, wide open vessel sensitive to the consuming suffering and beauty.
He can barely stand it so he purposefully controls his public persona.
She doesn't know, he tells her.
She says she's not the public, she's his lover.
Connie has to laugh in disbelief for his complete lack of empathy towards her is baffling.
Somehow he's the victim here and she's pathologized as the one who created this mess on an emotional whim.
As if this depth of dysfunction has any whimsy in it.
Somewhere along the line he brought his mother into the room and all his disgust and distaste for weakness in women.
He'd torture her with chocolate, make her sneeze til she cried then laugh at her pain, telling her to relax.
She's amazed she still enjoys the taste of chocolate at all.
It's the chocolate.
Really good dark chocolate makes her sneeze. Repeatedly.
Generally not this uncontrollably- three seems to be the magic number- so now she's wondering what the hell was in the bag of leftover chocolate chips she bought from the bulk store because this is insane.
Peter used to make fun of her, taunting her with incredible hand poured organic chocolate squares that he'd flaunt in front of her like a carrot on a stick.
His idea of foreplay.
Get her all worked up then giggle wildly when she was tearing up and sneezing a fit.
Painfully uncomfortable.
Connie never understood Peter's sense of humour and that was a major nail in their relationship's coffin.
You're too sensitive, he'd say; so dramatic, so intense.
His detached, emotionally disengaged observations, thinly couched in an observational and curious tone would inflame her.
Deeply self absorbed, oblivious to her vulnerability.
It was like a punch to her solar plexus, knocking the wind out of her while her head swelled with panic and hurt.
So much veiled anger and passive aggressiveness between them.
He'd ignite an increasingly shrinking fuse which would inevitably blow up with Peter informing Connie that he is not responsible for her feelings; his words are just words, not judgements.
Words have no power, he'd say.
Her interpretation, her response is hers alone, resolutely absolving himself of any accountability in their increasingly toxic dynamic.
They were triggers for Connie, little grenades he'd launch with casual aplomb.
Sara tells Connie she feels a moral responsiblity with other people's hearts.
Something Peter doesn't.
He calls himself an empath.
Too sensitive, he feels everything, too much.
He's overwhelmed by the world.
A raw, wide open vessel sensitive to the consuming suffering and beauty.
He can barely stand it so he purposefully controls his public persona.
She doesn't know, he tells her.
She says she's not the public, she's his lover.
Connie has to laugh in disbelief for his complete lack of empathy towards her is baffling.
Somehow he's the victim here and she's pathologized as the one who created this mess on an emotional whim.
As if this depth of dysfunction has any whimsy in it.
Somewhere along the line he brought his mother into the room and all his disgust and distaste for weakness in women.
He'd torture her with chocolate, make her sneeze til she cried then laugh at her pain, telling her to relax.
She's amazed she still enjoys the taste of chocolate at all.
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