So Much Of The Human Experience Is Defined By How We React To Things, Even If We Don't Consciously Think

So much of the human experience is defined by how we react to things, even if we don't consciously think about it.

People like to define "humanity" as the emotions/empathy/sympathy/love you feel. Anhedonia and apathy combined with alexithymia is considered inhuman. No ordinary person would know this terminology, but when they see it in people, they consider it a "wrong" or "strange" or "inhuman" way to exist.

People might just assume you're depressed if you're not enjoying anything you're doing, or if you're unresponsive in a social situation. But when it comes to something dramatic, like a societal tragedy or a relationship issue or a death or something similar, if you don't react in the way you're expected to, you're judged.

These judgements could be in good faith, maybe they assume that you're in shock and you don't know how to react. But others will assume you're heartless and don't care at all. It depends on who you're with and how you navigate the situation overall, how your reaction will impact their reactions.

Beyond the surface level, it's also the little things, how you react to birthdays, holidays, marriages, pregnancies, medical events, children, elders, etc. We are a society highly defined by interaction with other people. When you don't interact as expected within your respective culture, you're looked at like something other.

I know what it's like to feel things, at least, I have some sort of memory of enjoying things and feeling strong emotions, but they feel so much like a distant memory far beneath the ocean's surface—muffled, colorless, far away, unreachable. Thinking back on memories don't trigger emotions for me anymore. Despite this, there's still things I don't like talking about, but that I can remember without triggering those traumatic feelings.

I'm sure the change seems drastic to people who've known me since I was a child. Or they didn't notice, which seems to be about right. I became so good at keeping things internal that there's so many things I haven't described even to my mother about my childhood, where she thought I was doing perfectly fine in the messes that were going on.

I started feeling like I was dying at the start of high school and that feeling never left. I feel like I've decayed and I've become something inhuman.

So Much Of The Human Experience Is Defined By How We React To Things, Even If We Don't Consciously Think

(Photo from the other night.)

Imagery like this was always something I connected with even as a child. Dark hallways, bare tree branches twisting up into the sky like twisted little things, dark churches (which I owe to having grandparents working at a historical church), dead forests, cemeteries, and other gothic imagery.

Now, it portrays the things inside of me that are difficult to verbalize. I do it in my artwork, I do it in my writing.

Even though my novellas are all very different stories, they contain very similar details, relating to an often cynical and unlikable protagonist, themes of bodily identity, neglect of self care, and how we appear to others. As for my art, I don't really like explaining it, especially my art that's unrelated to any of my stories. Writing artist statements for gallery showings and suchlike things has always been dreadful. I'd rather it just speak for itself.

So in the end, I consider myself something inhuman. It is not something I reject or am ashamed of, for I've lost my ability to feel shame. There's no reason to deny the truth.

Off day

It was a rare thing—you and Dr. Robby both having the day off.

No alarms. No scrubs. No charts. Just the promise of a lazy day and the text he sent the night before:

“Aquarium date tomorrow? I wanna look at jellyfish and hold your hand.”

So that’s how you found yourself the next morning, bundled in one of his hoodies because you claimed it was “scientifically proven” to be warmer than yours (he didn’t argue), standing in line for tickets while he read the informational sign next to the entrance like it was a research paper.

“Did you know cuttlefish have three hearts?” he said, wide-eyed, like he just discovered gold.

You blinked. “Did you know I came here to relax and not learn about tiny squishy marine geniuses?”

He smirked, laced his fingers with yours, and said, “Let’s do both.”

Inside, it was dim and glowing and kind of magical. Blue lights shimmered off every wall, and the water tanks lit up your faces in the prettiest way. Robby was in full dork mode—pointing out fish he recognized, reading facts out loud, whispering things like “That one’s definitely judging me” at the grumpy-looking groupers.

You, of course, were on a different mission.

“Come here. Quick. Stand next to the penguins.”

“For what—?”

“Photos. I need to see who’s cuter.”

He groaned dramatically but leaned in close anyway, letting you snap the photo before whispering, “They win. But only by a beak.”

You laughed so hard a little kid nearby turned around and said, “You guys are loud,” which made you both giggle even more.

And then came the jellyfish room.

You didn’t even have to say anything. The second you stepped inside, Robby’s hand tightened around yours and he whispered, “This is my favorite part.”

You knew that. You remembered him telling you months ago that the jellyfish exhibit calmed him down after rough days. Something about how they moved. How they just existed, floating softly, never rushing.

You watched him more than the jellyfish, honestly.

The way his eyes got quiet. The way his shoulders dropped. The way he leaned his forehead against the glass and exhaled like he hadn’t in weeks.

You slipped your arms around his waist from behind and rested your cheek between his shoulder blades.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Then, softly: “I love it here. But I think I love it more with you.”

Your voice was muffled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You make it feel like home.”

You stood there like that for a long time. Just two nerds in love, glowing under soft blue light, surrounded by floating jellyfish and the hum of tank filters.

Eventually, you dragged him to the gift shop where you bought matching plush octopuses (he tried to talk you into a sea slug but you held firm), and he got you both overpriced dippin’ dots because “it’s tradition now.”

On the way home, he drove with one hand on the wheel and one resting on your thigh, and you leaned your head on his shoulder at every red light.

And just before pulling into your driveway, he glanced at you and smiled that soft, quiet smile that was only for you.

“Let’s do this again.”

“What, the aquarium?”

“No. This,” he said, squeezing your hand. “Us. All of it.”

You squeezed back. “Yeah. Let’s never stop.”