Depression is a surfeit of empathy - a killing empathy - that

Host: The evening had folded itself into silence — that strange, aching kind of quiet that feels like it’s listening. Outside, the city was veiled in rain, the kind that doesn’t crash, but whispers. Through the streaked window, a single streetlight flickered, its light fractured by water and glass.

In the dimness of a small apartment, Jack sat slouched in an armchair, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers. The ashtray beside him was full — ghosts of thoughts that never quite became words. Jeeny sat across from him, cross-legged on the floor, her voice barely above the hum of the rain.

Jeeny: “Michael Redhill once wrote, ‘Depression is a surfeit of empathy — a killing empathy — that makes depressives great friends to everyone but themselves. Having a self is a rough business, and depressives can empathize with others who have to deal with it, but not with themselves.’”

Jack: “A killing empathy… yeah, that sounds about right. It’s like caring so much you start to disappear.”

Host: His voice was heavy, brittle at the edges — the sound of someone too familiar with the inside of darkness. The smoke curled upward, forming fragile halos that broke apart before they reached the ceiling.

Jeeny: “I’ve always thought empathy was light — something that connects people. But Redhill’s right. When you turn it inward, it can devour you.”

Jack: “Because empathy needs boundaries. When you feel everything, you stop knowing where you end and others begin. Depression isn’t emptiness — it’s drowning in everyone else’s pain.”

Jeeny: “And still, people call it selfish. They look at you and say, ‘Why can’t you just be happy?’ They never realize that sometimes, sadness isn’t isolation — it’s absorption.”

Jack: “Exactly. You carry the weight of a hundred hearts that aren’t yours, and the worst part? No one notices. Because on the outside, you look like the strong one — the listener, the shoulder, the friend.”

Host: The lamp in the corner flickered, its light dimming, as if it too were tired. Jeeny’s eyes glistened, reflecting that faint, trembling glow.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why depressives are such good friends. They can feel your suffering before you even name it. They recognize it like an old song.”

Jack: “Yeah. But they never play it for themselves. You can’t empathize with yourself when your own pain feels indulgent compared to the world’s.”

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? We call depression selfish, but it’s actually selfless to the point of erasure.”

Jack: “Because it’s easier to save others than to save yourself. You can look at someone else and see worth. But when you look inward, the reflection feels counterfeit.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier — not angry, just relentless, steady as breath. Jack’s cigarette burned low, the tip a dull, trembling ember.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Redhill meant by ‘having a self is a rough business.’ To live is to negotiate with yourself every day — to accept that you deserve space inside your own empathy.”

Jack: “That’s the hardest negotiation of all. The mind of a depressive is a courtroom where they’re always the defendant and never the judge.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the healing begins when you switch roles — when you decide to forgive yourself.”

Jack: “Forgiveness? That sounds like arrogance when you don’t believe you’ve earned it.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the point. Forgiveness isn’t about deserving; it’s about survival.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full — of tension, of breath, of unshed truth. Jack leaned back, exhaled, his eyes lost somewhere in the ceiling’s cracks.

Jack: “You know, people talk about depression like it’s sadness. It’s not sadness. It’s empathy turned venomous. You feel the suffering of the world so sharply that your own joy feels like betrayal.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Depression is when compassion forgets its direction — when it stops reaching outward and turns on the one who carries it.”

Jack: “It’s compassion without self-preservation. You bleed for others but never clot for yourself.”

Jeeny: “That’s why depressives are the gentlest people I’ve ever met. They’ve been through hell but still stop to hold the door open for others.”

Jack: “Because they know what hell feels like. They can’t bear to let someone else walk there alone.”

Host: The rain softened again, tapering into a hush. The room seemed to breathe — a slow, weary rhythm that matched the quiet thrum of the city outside.

Jeeny: “Do you think empathy can ever heal itself? Can someone that open ever learn to close a little, without losing who they are?”

Jack: “Maybe not close — just balance. Empathy isn’t poison. It just needs a home. You can’t carry everyone’s ghosts and expect to sleep.”

Jeeny: “But some people are born as open doors. They can’t help it.”

Jack: “Then maybe they need to learn to knock before letting others in.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, faintly, the kind of smile that belongs to people who’ve cried long enough to find gentleness again.

Jeeny: “I think that’s what self-compassion really is — knocking on your own heart and asking, ‘Can I come in?’”

Jack: “And hoping the answer’s yes.”

Host: The light from the window flickered as a car passed below, its headlights momentarily painting the room in gold. For that brief moment, both of them looked less like two wounded souls and more like survivors of the same war — veterans of invisible battles.

Jack: “You know, Redhill was right. Depression makes you a great friend to everyone else. You see their pain so clearly because you’ve memorized your own.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s also the cure — realizing that the empathy that kills can also save, if you finally aim it inward.”

Jack: “To feel for yourself what you so easily give to others.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To stop treating yourself as an exception to the kindness you believe in.”

Host: The lamp dimmed again, then steadied. Jack stubbed out his last cigarette, the ash falling softly into the tray like snow. He looked at Jeeny — really looked — and something fragile but alive flickered behind his eyes.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? Talking about it doesn’t fix it… but it feels like a hand on the shoulder in a dark room.”

Jeeny: “That’s all empathy ever is, Jack. It doesn’t fix — it witnesses.”

Jack: “Then maybe witnessing yourself is where healing begins.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To sit with your own shadow without flinching.”

Host: The rain stopped. The air was still, clean, and quiet — the kind of quiet that feels earned. The city outside held its breath, as if giving space for this fragile truce between pain and understanding.

Jeeny stood, walked to the window, and opened it slightly. The cool air rushed in, brushing her hair against her face.

Jack: “You really think empathy can be reborn like that?”

Jeeny: “I think empathy never dies. It just waits — for permission to include you.”

Host: Jack nodded, slowly, as if the thought had weight. The two of them sat in that fragile silence, between exhaustion and hope, as the city beyond them began to wake again — one light, one breath, one heartbeat at a time.

And in that small, dim room, the truth of Redhill’s words lingered — that empathy, like love, becomes its own salvation only when it learns to look both ways.

The lamp glowed softly. The world outside was still wet with memory. And somewhere in the quiet, the first act of forgiveness — silent, invisible — finally began.