If there’s one thing I both love and hate about myself, it is my emotionality.
I haven’t cried so hard in a long time. I was literally bawling. It was during my usual weekly fix of CSI, when Warrick Brown was shot, that I started to cry. For so many years, I have been following the show. I was with them from the time they solved their first case, to watching their characters grow and thrive. I have learnt to recognize the techniques they use to pick up fingerprints and test DNA and check for gunpowder residue. It is almost as if I grew up with the team. I’m practically part of them. So when Warrick died, I was crying with Grissom and Catherine and Nick and Sara and Greg and Brass. For we had lost one of our colleague, our friend, our family.
It happens when I am reading too, whether it’s about real people or made-up people. When Uncle Tom died in “Uncle Tom’s Cabin”, I cried. And I cry every time I read that, no matter how many times I have read it. The same happens when I get to the part where George pulls the trigger on Lennie in “Of Mice and Men”, the tears just come rolling down.
Empathy comes to me naturally, like breathing or blinking my eyes.