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.
(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.
