American Jellyfish 
by Taylor Harrison 

          It is accepted, I read, that approximately 5% of the ocean has been explored. I type into Google the same question, this time, about the universe: 

          how much universe explored 

          A Big Think article appears at the top of the page noting that 95% of the universe remains a mystery. I place my iPhone into my pocket as the milky sand fills my shoes, the ocean clear and infinite. Nature’s cerulean swimming pool beckons to me, come in, as the tide recedes and reveals the amalgamation of crushed abalone, assorted food wrappers, and the corpses of sea creatures that have been churned up and spat out for millennia.  

          I walk toward a rock formation and sit, removing my shoes and placing them next to a gelatinous blob—a deceased jellyfish. I imagine what it would be like to wade into the water and pick up this alien by the underside of its bell, no brain, heart or bones, but reactive, venomous, living. These beings, they’re alive, but how? I have felt dead for so long, perhaps by fault of my faulty brain, obsessive-compulsive disorder fueling endless rumination, or maybe my heart, which my doctor told me could eventually fail if I continue acting on my penchant for fried food. I sigh, staring at the jellyfish, considering how similar renditions of extraterrestrial life look to these creatures. A jellyfish knows what it’s like to be an alien on planet Earth—perhaps this group of animals wishes that they were part of the 95% of the sea that has yet to be discovered. Maybe some species are.  

          What would happen if I turned into a jellyfish one day? It isn’t as though I don’t already feel alien in social situations, an unwavering smile etched into my face. My voice inexplicably rises several octaves when I meet new people, and if I’m forced to dine with them, the food goes cold on my plate. We’ll work on eating in front of people next, my exposure and response prevention therapist told me after our last meeting, prompting me to set a reminder to cancel our future sessions. 

          I pull my phone out of my pocket. How to be a jellyfish reddit, I Google. I see that they are also called jellies, which reminds me of how my British husband refers to Jell-O, as well as the shoes I wore as a child and later as an adult when they came back into fashion. How sweet, to share a name with a congealed dessert, sometimes with a surprise inside, or a pair of glittery translucent sandals worn on the beach. These are invariably happy associations, nostalgic objects detached from any singular traumatic event.  

          I look at the next search result. An r/ChronicPain post asks if others have ever dreamt of becoming a jellyfish. I scroll through the responses, a stranger arguing that jellyfish might still feel pain through their “nerve net,” but a quick fact check reveals that they don’t have the capacity to feel pain as we understand it. A post found on the r/Autism subreddit yearns to transmogrify into a jellyfish. No heart, no brain. No blood. To become a jellyfish is to lack the capacity to experience both emotional and physical discomfort, I surmise, and I realize I am kindred to these anonymous netizens.  

          During my search, I learn about the “immortal jellyfish,” or Turritopsis dohrnii, which is able to reverse its lifecycle, or, in other words, revert to a younger stage, when the medusa of this species undergoes stress or physical damage. At the beginning of each summer, I put on my swimsuit and look in the mirror, a 29-year-old woman faced with the image of the girl who, twenty summers ago, was called fat by her father and ugly and weird by her peers. I catch her sometimes, even out of season—in the reflection of office windows, when I use the hand-raising feature in the small rectangle of my Zoom video, and in puddles after rain, when the mud soaks through the hems of my jeans. In this way, I too am prone to reversion, soft and pudgy and eager to please, a living reincarnation of the past.  

          I read that immortal jellyfish are preyed on most commonly by other jellyfish, not dissimilar from how humans compete against one another for attention, status, or wealth—it’s a dog-eat-dog world, I hear regularly in my corporate environment, but maybe it’s jellyfish-eat-jellyfish. We do what we can for survival, especially when resources appear scarce. I think of all the betrayals I have experienced, and how many times I was the one to commit the act. How many people found themselves catapulted by the riptide into my waiting embrace, the venomous tentacles seemingly passive but lying in wait. The guilt never leaves, it only softens into regret.  

          I stand up from the rock and walk toward the sea with my shoes in my hand, my tote bag digging into my smarting sunburn. Above me, the setting sun cleaves through the clouds, the sky tangerine and vermilion. I’ve always considered the similarities between the ocean and universe, and how their status as mostly uncharted territories in a society built on exploration and colonization is the only reason they still manage to retain some agency over human intervention—and the creatures, both seen and unseen, who are alien to us, too strange for this world. We think they’re living without feeling, but perhaps they’re experiencing feeling in a way that’s beyond our anthropocentric comprehension. Maybe we’re more similar than we think. 

          I consider myself a control freak, but like a jellyfish, most of the time, I am at the mercy of the tide. I wade into the sea, my legs disappearing beneath the cloudy water, then floating, becoming translucent, iridescent. My limbs extend before me, four frilly oral arms, and I close my eyes, the fleshy red curtain reminding me of my humanity. But I am kindred to my fellow online jellyfish-wannabes, and the jellyfish themselves, drifting along, alien on this planet. Catching or becoming prey. And maybe I will sting, one day.