I am what modern day society is calling ‘the empath.’

All my troubles, pains and woes stem from a previous life and I am suffering because I am experiencing an evolution of consciousness. Nothing that is happening is real or relevant to me now and therefore I don’t need medication or therapy, I just need Reiki and a jolly good prayer now and then.

Yep, the spiritual community, of which I am very much a part of, ridicules me and tells me the trauma I have suffered in this life isn’t important enough to treat but the trauma from medieval me’s lifetime is in desperate need of healing. It’s nothing short of scoffable.

Part of me accepts this; so much so I spend several months doing regression therapy. Both for this life and previous ones. An enlightening experience that has both expanded my mind and collapsed my soul back to me.

But another part of me accepts me, as I am now, has also suffered and is being effected by this lifetime’s cruel and often painful plans. It took me years to understand and tolerate the fact I have suffered, my suffering is valid and I don’t owe anybody shit.

I am an onion. There is layer upon layer of soul and when you cut me open I burn your eyes to tears with my tang. I am more than the skin I have been (mis)placed in and I go far deeper than many can go without getting cut.

Being an empath, I naturally assume everyone else takes on everyone else’s stuff as their own. I assume everyone is triggered by my issues and that I will be the downfall of all humanity if I speak up. For this reason, I have so far, done an expert job on avoiding the big issues in my therapy sessions.

I tackled one once and it rarely plagues me now. But I had to be the poet rather than the patient. I had to mold the tale into a metaphor. I couldn’t just say what needed to be said.

On reflection this is about shame, sharing and good old fashioned fear. I, as the empath, have taken on the shame he should have felt. I don’t want to share because I think this sickening shame is infectious and so I am incubating fear once again.

I am yet to tackle the trend forming here. I am avoiding the mounting pressure and flashbacks that batter me so often. Sometimes I think about just writing it. I am a writer, not a speaker. I don’t have to share it here or with anyone; not even the therapist yet…I don’t do it.

Half of me expects it to blast out one day in a blazing babbling from my brain’s bookshelf, leaving a fiery trail in its wake.

The other half of me expects to sit and simmer slowly until it burns a hole through my skull and slips out anyway.

I want to scream and cry as I write this. I often feel that way. I swallow it, push it, crush it, devour it by any means necessary because screaming and howling is socially unacceptable and I’d hate to be the source of discomfort for every neighboring house on the estate.

I keep promising myself one night I will walk out to the middle of nowhere and let rip but I am somewhat lazy, often to unwell and occasionally still ashamed of what the moon might think of me. THE MOON! Imagine being scared to let a rock in space see you crying! Ludicrous.

I’m not going anywhere with this by the way; I am simply relentlessly rambling in my sad attempt to occupy the rushing in my mind. The new ‘pain meds’ appear to be tricyclic antidepressants also. My GP thought this was an appropriate drug to give someone with an (additional) Cyclotymia diagnosis. Basically it is inducing mild manic symptoms and I am reluctant to continue with it as a result until I see my psychiatrist Monday. I am terrified of a full blown manic, mind muddling, psychotic episode. It’s been a while.

Just a few weeks ago I would, no I did, pray for those wild and whimsy days to return. I was piled in a pit of depression and reminiscing the old me. Now parts of her are surfacing I am not so keen.

My emotive state and body remain depressed. My mind ascends without its keeper.