As a very small child, I returned from a weekend in Cromer with not only a collection of sea shells and a new bucket and spade, but an exceptionally broad Norfolk accent. At first, everyone found this highly amusing, but it was less funny when I was still talking that way several weeks later. My mother tells me a similar thing happened when they took me to Wales. And North Yorkshire. Because, like a sponge, I soaked up whichever accent I was exposed to. It wasn’t just accents, either. As a five-year-old, during a particularly boisterous garden game with a friend, I ran into the kitchen sobbing hysterically and clutching my hand. ‘“Whatever have you done to yourself?” my mother said. “It’s not me!” I frantically rubbed my wrist. “It’s Susan! She’s fallen over!” Because Susan’s pain was my pain and I felt it just as keenly as if I’d done the damage to myself. Back then, we didn’t have a name for this subconscious appropriation of other people’s emotions (and accents), but now it’s fashionably referred to as being an empath. Or in some cases, a hyper-empath.
Relating to someone else’s pain is a natural human response; we’re all empaths to a degree. But hyper-empaths are different. Do you sob when people win a large amount of money on a quizshow? Do you start to feel queasy if someone says they feel sick? Hyper-empaths take everything on (noise, colour, conversation), so often find crowds overwhelming.
