a human & a science experiment

the second I entered the hospital on February 12 2023, I felt a different kind of stare. the kind that pries away at your humanness and demotes you to the object of a medical study. I was the antichrist to the trail of neurotypical humans in scrubs surrounding me. everything about me was to become magnified under observation.

I remember I couldn’t swallow the strict social division between the staff and the patients in the psych ward. we were the “others” cast away from direct eyesight in case of airborne contraction of our brain bugs. needless to say, even the hairs on my back knew they couldn’t stand upright without the close examination of a doctor nearby. my existence was a diagnosis waiting to be treated and my sanity would determine the humanity I deserved.

“what’s the fine line?

which one am i?”

flash forward to months later, one suicide attempt, a psychiatric hospitalization and a handful of life-threatening symptoms. im back in a hospital, this time on partial attendance. I am once again the patient to be treated.

but this time, the lines blur even further. i’ve learned their language now—the diagnostic codes, the sterile small talk, the rehearsed empathy that sounds just a touch too polished. i’ve memorized the acronyms that reduce the intricacies of my pain into digestible bites for their charts: MDD, GAD, PTSD. to them, i am a collection of letters, symptoms, and history notes.

there’s a curious paradox in being so deeply observed yet utterly unseen. they lean in to measure my pulse, my oxygen, my weight—but not my silence. they take copious notes on my “mood congruence” but never ask about the storm brewing behind my downcast eyes. i am studied, but never known.

and yet, in this hollow performance of care, i catch glimpses of humanity. the nurse who hesitates before closing the door, just long enough for me to feel less like a prisoner. the janitor who doesn’t flinch when i’m crying in the hallway but instead hands me a tissue. the psychiatrist who pauses after asking how i’m doing, like they’re willing to hear an answer beyond “okay.”

still, the fine line remains. it’s in the fluorescent lights that hum above us, in the sharp smell of antiseptic that lingers in the air. it’s in the clipboard held too close to the chest, a barrier between us and them. i feel it every time i’m asked to recount my symptoms, like reciting a monologue for an audience already plotting the next act.

but here’s the thing they don’t tell you: when you spend enough time being reduced to an experiment, you start to find your own humanity in the cracks. you learn to anchor yourself in the small rebellions—laughing too loudly, crying too openly, telling the unvarnished truth when they’re expecting a sanitized version. you remember that your story isn’t just data for their spreadsheets; it’s yours.

and maybe, just maybe, you start to rewrite the narrative. not for them, but for you. because if there’s one thing i’ve learned in walking this fine line, it’s this: humanity isn’t something they give you. it’s something you claim for yourself.

so here i am, somewhere between the human and the experiment, choosing every day to lean toward the human. choosing to believe that even in the harshest light of scrutiny, i am still whole. choosing to take back my story, piece by piece, until it belongs entirely to me again.