• My life is an out-of-body experience, perhaps not scientifically, or in the literal sense, but spiritually to say the least. My perspective of the world is not seen through my actual eyes, but through the eyes of another, who takes on neither a physical nor a metaphysical form. It is simply I, watching myself from a distance. I observe, categorize, and learn about the world that encompasses my body, which continues a daily routine of brushing its teeth and singing loudly to the car radio on its way to school. To make this experience understandable, I say I am merely a first-person narrator trapped in a third-person’s subjective domain.

    Over the years, these two forms have learned to work together and communicate, allowing me to function to my potential. This is not to say, however, that I know and understand everything I see, but that I have the ability to comprehend and acknowledge the actions and emotions of many of the characters that surround me.

    In short, I am aware, or sensitive, as they called it in the third grade. Strangely, I had an extreme dislike of receiving the “Sensitivity Award” every year of my elementary school career, and I still remember the look of utter disbelief on my teacher’s face when I told her I felt I didn’t deserve it. Sadly, as a child, I was unable to convey why exactly I didn’t want the award, perhaps because it wasn’t an accomplishment, but merely the way I saw my universe. It has become a way of life for me, as I don’t just focus on the enclosed space around my body, but the stage that evolves from the patch of dirt where my feet are set. But that’s the bane and the beauty of it: I can separate myself from my body, but then… I separate myself from my body.

    Sometimes I have a feeling of detachment; I feel emptiness like that of depression. Because I so yearn to view the rest of my scene, I, fade into the background. Overcoming such detachment has never been an easy task, and although I go long periods without being plagued by this, when it returns, it does so with increasing intensity. I have come to accept it as a cycle, and have found healthy methods of controlling it such as writing poetry on the bottom of my shoe, singing in my room, and even letting out the occasional high-pitched scream in the comfort of my car going 65 miles per hour.

    And when the balance between my body and myself is at equilibrium, I feel that I can accomplish anything, to the benefit of those around me, as well as myself. It almost feels like I’m cheating, as I am able to identify others in relation to my body. I note how they walk, speak, hold themselves, even the little details such as the minor twitches that dance around their lips and eyes or how their shoulders barely become rigid when we make eye contact. Having observed these details, my actual self immediately works to figure out the best and most encouraging ways to greet them. Of course, I’m not always correct in my impressions of the emotions of others, but there is no doubt in my mind that this unique quality is the reason behind my knack for empathy.

    This gives me confidence, verging on cockiness, that I can react appropriately in a myriad of situations, and it is comforting to know that I can live with an understanding of myself, while simultaneously working to make life just a little more agreeable for those around me. That, I’ve discovered, is the true benefit of my awareness.