Robin May Flemingのインスタグラム(robinmay) - 7月3日 08時51分

So I've been learning lately why life is just a little extra exhausting for me. (Okay, a LOT extra exhausting.)
Some of it's due to the instability of my hypermobile joints, which causes my muscles to work harder to compensate (and therefore tire faster and take longer to recover). Some of it's due to autonomic dysfunction, which forces my pulse to race marathon-style in an effort to drag the blood from my extremities....everrrrrry dang time I stand up.
And some of it has absolutely nothing to do at all with a medical diagnosis.
Matt and I were recently driving down one of our back country roads, when I saw a horse standing with its head hanging low, fenced and solitary in a small, empty field. That's not the first time I've seen it there. Nor is it the first time I've wondered why anyone would ever do that to a herd animal. But it's the first time I've paid attention to the sharp lurch of my heart and the slow physical ache radiating outwards from my chest. It's the first time I've considered the toll that empathy takes on the body.
Just a quick drive-by, but the effects lapped at me like waves for the next few miles. They lap at me again now. Imagine how many times that must happen daily?
After I was hit by a bus, I worked with a counsellor to relearn how to confidently cross the street. She taught me techniques for filtering out the distressing stimuli that bombard you after a trauma or concussion, while remaining open enough to look both ways, to spot any potential danger, to remain aware as I stepped off the curb.
And somewhere in there is some wisdom for the Swiss-cheese soul of the empath:
Be energetically permeable. Be your sweet, sensitive self. Feel the tides. Spot the solitary horses. But learn, if you can, when and where to turn down the volume.
I'm still trying.

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