• 08 Dec, 2025 *

I think this is going to be one of those more visceral entries, where I lay bare a part of myself for whoever wants to read and understand. It’s perhaps one of the most sensitive things I’ve consciously shared so far. And I don’t feel ashamed about it; I haven’t felt that at any point. Rather, I’ve been cautious because I’m not sure what conclusions others might draw about me. No more, no less. And, of course, it has to do with my hiatus.

Without further preamble, now more than ever I’ve become aware of how much I’ve acted according to other people’s expectations about when and how I should react. And I’m not pointing to those “others” as being at fault; what I mean is that I’ve been influenced. It’s something instinctive, both on my part and on theirs. Natural.

It’s been like this since I became aware of my place in society or, at least, within an environment. If others felt joy about something, if something made them angry or disgusted, I conditioned myself to “feel” the same. Until I believed it.

I remember my first boyfriend in school. All my friends liked a boy, and when I had the chance, I got one of my own. We had barely spoken, and that didn’t change during the “relationship.” I knew he was the artistic type, like me, and that was the justification for everything. But deep down, being honest and looking back, I wasn’t in love with him, just with the idea of being in love, because in the end, I left him as if it were nothing. No tears, no resentment, no reason. Maybe it’s not the best example, since kids (I was around ten or eleven) are said to be insensitive. But I see it as a precedent of this influence I’m talking about.

I’ve tried to look within myself at all the times I’ve acted like that, and there are many. There are so many things I don’t care about at all. And I think not understanding this has affected my performance in general.

For example, like many people, I thought motivation was necessary to keep going. So when I sat down to study, I tried to imagine how sad and disappointed I would feel if I failed, the shame it would bring to those who believed in me. I also tried the opposite: imagining the joy of being praised, of not having to worry about making up a grade, of even being better than my classmates. But I don’t think any of that sparked anything in me. All those times I’ve failed, like recently during my first year of university, what I’ve felt wasn’t sadness or despair, it was frustration. Annoyance at all the reactions and actions I had to take, and at all the emotions I had to feel to satisfy others. That was one of the reasons my energy was drained and why I felt even more distant from people.

I haven’t written more about my first job (you can check the two previous posts) because I don’t know how to describe my experience working with my first two bodies, since I didn’t feel anything exceptional. It was almost ordinary, except for how eager I was to finally put into practice what I had learned, and to have someone kind and skilled by my side to learn from. That’s it. I didn’t feel fear or repulsion, nothing. Not when I touched them and felt them stiff and cold, not even when I passed a needle through the skin for the first time. Still nothing. I really expected to feel something. After all the reactions I had seen from people when I told them what I was going to start working on, after the reactions in movies and anecdotes… On the first day, I ate lightly just in case I threw up. But all I achieved was having my stomach growl embarrassingly while I worked with my partner on the body.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m enjoying my job. It’s entertaining, my coworkers are nice, funny, and understanding, and I’m grateful for the experience and the opportunity.

Some might think I’m insensitive, and I know that because once, during an emergency visit to a psychiatrist, he wrote in his report that I was, along with other things I didn’t bother to remember. But I don’t think so. It’s just that some things that are supposed to make me feel something simply don’t. But there are others that do. There are songs that make me reach the sky again and again. Buildings that make me want to drop to my knees before their grandeur. The first time I saw a performance of Swan Lake, I almost burst into tears. I cried when I watched my dog fall asleep forever in my arms. I can feel, but not always when others expect me to.

Am I a bad person for this? Am I defective because I can live without many things others can’t? Because I’m capable of abandoning a dream if I lose interest? If I don’t regret it? If I’m not satisfied? It makes me curious, but it doesn’t keep me up at night, I can promise that much.

And I also wonder if this could affect my intention to become a writer, or pursue any artistic endeavor, because if I’m not feeling things the way others do, what kind of people could be interested in what I try to write or share? Has anyone notices this pattern on my writings? I would love to know.