On being highly sensitive: why I no longer watch the news

I’m going to confess something that no respectable journalist should ever own up to. Here goes... I don’t watch the news.

Nope, never.

I don’t watch news broadcasts on TV, I don’t read the newspapers and I don’t visit news sites (which, to be fair, are dominated by celebrity updates anyway).

It’s because, as a sensitive person, the news makes me feel deeply despondent about the world and about the future. And given the horrors we’ve already witnessed this year – Orlando, Istanbul airport and Brussels, to name a few – my head-in-the-sand stance is more and more important.

As a qualified journalist, avoiding current affairs is somewhat reckless. It’s been drummed into me from my training how important a role the news media play in society – keeping politicians honest, setting the political agenda and keeping the public informed. In short, the media are powerful agents of change. With that in mind, I should absolutely be keeping up with the play about what’s happening in the world (and especially since newspaper circulations are falling – I should be supporting my fellow journos). Except...

I can’t.  

Because watching, for example, reports of shootings, terror attacks, racist diatribes from Trump and any accounts of crime deeply upset me. I’m not talking about just feeling sad or sorry for someone who is suffering, I’m talking about a core emotional response.

That’s kinda the deal when you’re sensitive. You pick up on the energies of others around you, and it’s difficult not to take that on. It’s the same with the media. I feel a smidgen of the victims’ distress and I crumble. I feel distraught and fearful. I feel distrustful of my fellow man/woman. I have a crushing sense of hopelessness. Which is no good to anyone. So I simply don’t watch it. 

I know this means I am uninformed, and I’m fine with it. But I really don’t think there’s any value in me knowing the details of the Orlando gunman’s MO or the Paris terror attack locations, for example.

I’m sure media commentators would condemn me for sticking my head in the sand, and I’m fine with that too. 

Because for me, the toll of reading, watching or discussing these events is too great. 

Sure, it’s important to know that these tragedies have happened, and I get that knowledge from social media and interactions with my peeps. But I don’t delve into those stories, and I’m not afraid to walk away from conversations that linger on them.

Here’s the thing – I do not need to bear witness to people’s suffering to know that these actions are deplorable. I do not honour the victims in any way by raking over the nuances of their pain. I do not value my own life, or my family’s lives, any more fiercely simply by knowing the extent that others have been subjected to unimaginable pain. So I don’t imagine it, at all.

Here’s how I honour people who’ve lost their lives or suffered emotional or physical pain as a result of a big-news tragedy. It’s the same way I make sure that the world is not –  in spite of how news coverage tends to make me feel – hopeless or bleak, and the human race is not intrinsically evil. 

I keep giving love. I keep volunteering my time. I keep sending out messages of positivity and hope on social media. I keep smiling at and acknowledging the people who are overlooked (lonely elderly people on park benches, miserable bus drivers, exhausted cashiers, etc). I keep showing up for my loved ones who need me. (I am not saying I nail this stuff every time, BTW.) Most importantly, I keep focusing on the beauty, the joy and the magic in every day.  

Liz Gilbert says that when confronted with horrifying news stories, instead of upsetting herself by reflecting on the nefarious forces that led to such a tragedy, she looks for the helpers. The people who respond from the most basic level of humanity – that compulsion to love and support each other, which we are all hardwired to do – by assisting those who are affected by a devastating event. The people who queued all day in the Florida heat to donate blood after Orlando. The people who offered to ride public transport with Muslims after the Lindt Cafe siege in Sydney. The people who took around glasses of orange juice after the Boston Marathon bombing. My heart swells just thinking about them. 

I am not suggesting everyone should avoid the news, and I’m certainly not advocating ignoring horrific events completely. It’s true that these tragedies are an opportunity for us to make change in the world – lobbying for gun reform, for example, or rethinking our social attitudes to alcohol. So, yes, there is value in learning more about these tragedies and in starting conversations that may inspire change at a community and even a global level. 

But often, in my experience, what actually happens is we stand around muttering comments like ‘it’s so sad’ and ‘it breaks my heart’ then we go back to talking about Pokemon Go. That’s not a criticism, by the way – if gathering to discuss tragedies, even for a short time, makes you feel better and gives you an emotional outlet, that’s great. For me, it doesn’t – it simply leaves me with a sense of futility and powerlessness. So instead I’ll allow community leaders, reporters and those who feel called to agitate for change to delve into negative news and use that as their fuel for action. I’ll support them where I can, but only from a distance.   

There is nothing I can do to stop these sorts of tragedies from occurring. What I can do, however, is make sure they do not define the human experience for me and for those around me. I don’t need to listen to the news to do that – I just need to listen to my heart. 

RELATED POST: One for the sensitive types - how your weakness can be your strength

I'll sit with you when you're hurting. And I won't try to fix you

A couple of months ago there was a story bouncing around the internet about a woman who’d created a series of greeting cards to send to someone going through cancer. What was unique about Emily McDowell's cards was their raw honesty. Instead of the trite, and frankly unhelpful, standard card messages, they said what someone suffering a life-altering illness really needed to hear. Stuff like: “Please let me be the first person to punch the next person who tells you everything happens for a reason” and “I wish I could take away your pain. Or at least, take away the people who compare it to the time their hampster died.” But my personal favourite was this one: “I'm sorry I haven't been in touch. I didn't know what to say.” I like this because it beautifully captures the helplessness you feel when someone close to you is suffering, and you know there is nothing you can say or do to ease their pain.

I was reminded of this recently when I was spending time with a friend who is healing from a broken heart. Over the course of our conversation she ran the gamut of emotions from rage to disappointment to shame to grief. I wanted so badly to offer some advice or some truism that would help her find peace, even if temporarily, but I had nothing. But that’s not what she needed from me, anyway. It’s not up to me to fix the situation, my job is to be there and listen. Empathy is not a verb, it’s a heart space.

Liz Gilbert wrote a beautiful and moving post a few months ago about the despair she felt after another mass

One of Emily McDowell's beautiful cards.

shooting in the US, and how she attempted to turn that sadness into hope on a micro scale: “When the world starts to feel overwhelming in its sorrows, I always ask myself to look around me – to narrow down my focus – and to notice somebody who is nearby me, who is suffering. I can’t help the millions, but maybe I can help one. Life is hard; there is always someone going through great pain. I tell myself: Go sit with that person today for a while. Don’t try to solve their life, or answer for God [as to why it has happened], or offer dismissive ‘reasons’, or try fix the whole world. Just say, ‘I don’t know. But I will sit with you through this.’ Turn your overflow of sorrow into love.”

When you don’t know what to say or do, it’s tempting to either rush in with solutions or platitudes, or to just back away completely. Don’t do that. Lean in. Sit beside them and listen. That’s how you show love. That’s how you say ‘I hate that you’re suffering and I can’t change that but I will bear witness to your pain and hold your hand when you need me.’ What people need when their world is broken is the warmth of human connection. That is the one thing you CAN do.