I didn’t know what an empath was until I was in my 30s.

Before then, I would wonder why I’d physically hurt when I watched a senior citizen fall, or when a character in a TV show got embarrassed or humiliated. I’d wonder why I felt so cranky when I didn’t get a hug.

I care too much. Or, better put, I have a physiological reaction to mistreatment and suffering.

I’m writing out what’s in my head, particularly right now, because there a ton of people like me, but there are a lot of people who are going through a thing called “skin hunger”. It’s an actual thing.

Basically, without human touch, we become…not human. We need affirmation, and declarations that we exist and matter, and without that, we get angry and sullen and not quite our full selves. I learned that the hard way.

Three years ago today, my stepdad died. And my mother went…into, well, shock. And when I talked to her yesterday, she offhandedly mentioned that today would be hard for her. My mother, while not the model of stoic, can deal 364 days, but that 365th is a bad day.

The fact that I cannot hug my mother, and say I understand, and that I loved him too, and sit and talk stories and laugh about my Air Force dad, who believed everything had its place, and could eat Cheetos without getting orange dust on his hands (MAGIC! SORCERY!) could be lauded and toasted, but, as it is, that can’t happen.

I want to hug my mother. And I can’t. And that physically pains me.