When my parents named me Maria, I don’t think they realised just how fitting it would be. I was named for my great grandmother on my mother’s side, though I’ve grown up to have more in common with a certain classic musical heroine.
My family would sing the lyrics to that song of hers whenever my symptoms might show themselves.
My father shakes his head. “Maria,” he tuts. “You care too much.” As if I can help it.
“You feel far too deeply.” My mother says with a worried frown. As if I can make it stop.
My best friend Effie, on the other hand, calls it endearing. And sweet, like the way I always want to run around and take care of everyone else. How it seems to physically hurt when someone important to me is in pain and struggling. Like the time I cried a river when Effie’s grandmother died when I’d never even met the woman. Or maybe I’d been crying in response to Effie’s pain. Either way, that’s just me. It always has been, and I have no idea how to be any other way, which leaves me with a burning question.
Is it really a problem? How? Why? And who on Earth gets to decide? Yes, there are physical symptoms associated with it. Similar to with a panic attack, it can feel like my heart is being squeezed to within an inch of its life sometimes, other times it feels like it’s crying. But how and why does that make it a pathological problem? I don’t feel like there’s anything wrong with me. I don’t feel like I’m diseased. I’m a bleeding heart and damn well proud of it. It’s something about me, like my mousey brown hair and blue eyes. Why does there have to be something ‘wrong’ with it? It’s not affecting anyone. If it is, it’s for the good. Doing good makes me happy. There can’t possibly be a problem with that. Surely.
Take it from me, Effie would say, having someone like you who cares so
much… I’ve never had a friend quite like you. A friend who would hold me and
cry with me about my Grandma. A friend
who would do anything for me.
I remember that day. It had been one of those heart squeezing occasions. Oh wait. I think I might get it now. It’s the physical sensations, isn’t it? That’s why it’s been pathologised and labelled a syndrome. And, I suppose they are annoying, but it feels relatively minor. Like a tiny price to pay for what I get in return. For the chance to share, live and laugh with some really amazing people. For the privilege of being loved and cared about by them.
So let me ask you now, do you see a
problem? Am I really ill? Am I really a problem in need of solving? Or am I
just a bleeding heart?
