Living Behind Walls of My Own Making
Before all this happened, my emotions and feelings were locked away behind boxes, walls, and dams. For thirty years, I had a hypnotist help me avoid feeling anything. I built fortresses around my heart and mind, creating a safe distance between myself and the overwhelming world around me.
I didn't know I was different. I didn't have a name for why I could feel the pain of others on my skin or sense emotions that weren't mine. I just knew I needed to protect myself, to hide away from a world that felt too much.
It wasn't until I turned 51 that I discovered what I'd been experiencing my entire life had a name: mirror-touch synesthesia.
What Is Mirror-Touch Synesthesia?
Mirror-touch synesthesia is a rare neurological condition where individuals physically experience sensations they observe in others. When I see someone being touched, I feel that same touch on my own body. When someone experiences pain, I feel it too. There's no off switch, no way to filter these sensations – they come unbidden and intense.
According to neurological research, this condition may be caused by a hyperactive mirror neuron system. While everyone has mirror neurons that help us understand and empathize with others, in people with mirror-touch synesthesia, these systems exceed the normal threshold for conscious perception. What most people process subconsciously, I feel physically.
The Walls Come Down
It wasn't always this way. Thirty years ago, overwhelmed by the constant onslaught of others' sensations, I sought help from a hypnotist. Together, we built mental barriers, emotional dams that helped me function without drowning in the feelings of others. For decades, these walls held.
But recently, everything changed. As people around me began releasing their own demons, my carefully constructed barriers started to crumble. All those boxes came undone. Now, I feel everything, and it's often easier to keep my distance from others. I'm in a process of rediscovery, trying to understand who I am beneath all these borrowed sensations.
For the past five days, I've isolated myself, avoiding live sessions and my party room. Instead, I've been writing music all on my own – beautiful, authentic compositions that come from a place of genuine self-discovery. I enjoy what I do, and in this solitude, I'm finding my own voice.
The Overwhelming Reality of Connection
Being in the music scene means constant connection with others. When I go live, I usually have around 125 people in my sessions, plus those watching from other platforms, totaling up to 500. That's 500 emotional states, 500 sets of feelings, all washing over me at once. Most people only handle a few emotions at a time; I'm processing hundreds.
The experiences can be bizarre and unexpected. Recently, I felt a baby moving in someone's stomach without knowing she was pregnant. When I joined a friend's live stream, I sensed something in my stomach moving around and felt a kick. I thought, "Did somebody just kick me?" She later messaged me to confirm that she was indeed pregnant and wanted to see if I could feel it. I did.
It's remarkable and terrifying all at once. It doesn't matter if a man sends a message to his wife expressing desire; if I pass them in the grocery store, I can feel their attraction. There's no filter, no way to shut it off – just a constant flow of emotions and sensations.
The Cost of Feeling Everything
For 12 years of my life, I experienced abuse at the hands of more than five different people. Throughout that time, my mirror-touch synesthesia meant I didn't just endure my own pain – I felt the pleasure of my attackers. I carried both sides of that trauma, something I didn't understand until much later.
This condition has shaped every aspect of my life. It's why I often prefer isolation. It's why crowded places can become unbearable. It's why watching violence on TV can cause me physical pain. It's also why I can connect so deeply with my audience when I perform, why my music resonates with others in ways I never fully understood before.
For 12 years of my life, I experienced abuse at the hands of more than five different people. Throughout that time, my mirror-touch synesthesia meant I didn't just endure my own pain – I felt the pleasure of my attackers. I carried both sides of that trauma, something I didn't understand until much later.
This condition has shaped every aspect of my life. It's why I often prefer isolation. It's why crowded places can become unbearable. It's why watching violence on TV can cause me physical pain. It's also why I can connect so deeply with my audience when I perform, why my music resonates with others in ways I never fully understood before.
Finding My Rhythm in Solitude
I've come to understand that isolation isn't just hiding – it's healing. In solitude, I can finally distinguish which feelings are mine and which belong to others. I can create without interference, feel without overwhelm, and discover who I am beneath all these borrowed sensations.
This understanding has inspired a new composition, one that captures the bittersweet nature of my condition:
"Isolation Melody"(Verse 1)
Behind the walls, I used to hide,
Emotions locked, washed down with pride.
Thirty years, a silent scream,
But now the tide bursts at the seam.(Pre-Chorus)
I feel the weight of every heart,
Every whisper pulls me apart.
Each soul I cross, I know their pain,
In this flood of feelings, I remain.(Chorus)
Isolation, my sweet retreat,
From the noise, I find my beat.
With every note, I break the chains,
In my music, I'm free from the strains.
This song represents my journey – from hiding behind emotional barriers to embracing my true nature, finding peace in music and solitude while learning to navigate a world I feel too deeply.
Learning to Live with Mirror-Touch Synesthesia
Since discovering the name for my condition just weeks ago, I've been on a journey of self-discovery and acceptance. I'm learning techniques to manage overwhelming sensations, to distinguish between what's mine and what belongs to others.
I'm also embracing the gifts this condition brings. My mirror-touch synesthesia enhances my music, allowing me to create compositions that resonate on multiple sensory levels. It deepens my connections with those who truly understand me. It's made me more compassionate, more aware, more human.
I'm not saying that I want to stop communicating with people. I value connection, even as it overwhelms me. But I'm learning to balance – to give myself permission to retreat when needed, to create boundaries that protect my sensory experience, to honor both my need for connection and my need for peace.
A New Understanding
For 51 years, I didn't have a name for what made me different. Now that I do, I'm discovering there are others like me – people who feel the world too deeply, who experience life through a heightened lens of sensation and emotion.
If you're reading this and something resonates, if you've ever felt emotions that seemed borrowed from others or experienced sensations that weren't your own, know that you're not alone. Mirror-touch synesthesia is rare, but those of us who have it share a unique way of experiencing the world.
Before all this happened – before I knew what I was, before the walls came down, before I embraced both the burden and the gift of feeling everything – I was lost in a flood of unnamed sensations. Now, I'm finding my way, one note at a time, through music that translates my experience into something beautiful that others can share.
In isolation, I've found my melody. In understanding, I've found my peace.
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