When Empathy Felt Heavier Than Hate

The trolls arrived, and finally, I could breathe.

It sounds perverse, twisted even. Let me explain.

A few weeks ago, I reacted to a video clip of a child separated from family. It was visceral, shattering. The audio, raw and dramatic, amplified the horror. I shared it, distraught and admittedly clueless about the viral minefield I was stepping into, hoping to drive attention to the original issue. (Brief Disclaimer: I later learned, confirmed with citations, that gut-wrenching audio wasn't real; it came from the movie 'Amores que Matan'. I should have clarified upfront.)

The initial wave of comments? A flood. A torrent of crying emojis, heartbreak reactions, shared anguish. It was overwhelming in a way I hadn't anticipated. It wasn't the volume; it was the sheer, undiluted weight of that collective grief pressing down on me. For days, the air felt thick, syrupy. My brain struggled, starved for oxygen. Lethargy wrapped around me like a lead blanket. A dense fog settled in my head. It was paralyzing. I felt... responsible for carrying this emotional avalanche triggered by a sound that wasn't even real.

Photo by mali maeder

Then came the correction. The citations. The proof of the movie audio.

And the comments shifted. Dramatically. "Bigly," as someone might say. Now, it's mostly trolls echoing that fact, weaponizing it, laced with predictable insults and accusations. Sure, supportive voices are still there, but the dominant tone is now the familiar snarl of the internet's underbelly.

You want to know the strange part? I don't feel attacked. Not defensive. Not ashamed. Not even foolish, really.

Instead, I feel... relief. A lessening of that suffocating anxiety that the earlier emotional deluge induced. The trolls' vitriol? It brings significantly less discomfort than that ocean of crying faces ever did. I know this terrain. I speak this language. I know how to process them: when to parry, when to ignore, when to strategically starve the flames, when to unleash a counter that turns their own heat against them.

This? This is territory I understand. I know their tactics, their predictable ceremonies, their sociological stench, their weaknesses. I know how to don my armor, how to select the right tool from my infinitely growing arsenal. How to disarm, trap, or reduce them to metaphorical charcoal and ash. I am comfortable here. I am, frankly, good at this.

I was made for this combat.

But that flood of raw emotion? That genuine, shared heartbreak reflected back at me? That was an enemy against which I have no feasible defense. No weapon forged in cynicism or sarcasm can slay it. Armor only traps it inside with me, amplifying the pressure until I crack. Every attempt to strike back at that overwhelming feeling, every match lit to sear its throat, only burns my own heart and lungs from the inside. Every numbing agent poured to drown it only dessicates my own stomach, my liver, my spirit.

Running, hiding, surrendering... These feel like the only options against that tide. And no, for me, it doesn't manifest as physical self-harm. It manifests as this profound exhaustion, this paralysis, this fog that turns my bones to cement and scrapes my nerves raw. Everywhere. All the damn time.

I am too exhausted, and I hurt too deeply, too constantly, to run anymore.

I only hide to hunt... or to quietly observe the beauty that still, stubbornly, persists in corners of the world.

So, I guess...

...here I am.