Yet, I’m a ‘touchy’ person. If I’m talking with someone, I will frequently touch them. Shoulders, head, whatever. I hug.
Humans need to touch each other. It’s basic to who we are. It’s part of love.
Partner touch. Friend touch. Parent touch. That’s what I’m missing – parent touch. The first and most important touch of all. Where I would have learned healthy, loving, wonderful touch. How to touch someone in all situations and make it good. How to choose who, how, when and why to touch someone. That’s what I imagine, anyway.
When I was growing up, touch was terror. It was to be avoided. If a parent touched you, it meant that you had lost the lottery.
Later, when I was a child and into my teens, we had to hold hands during dinner prayer. It was never a circle – just a line from my step-father to mother to brother to me. I did not reach across the table and hold his hand.
In adulthood, I struggled with partner touch. It was amazing, wonderful stuff, but there was always a shadow of fear, anger and guilt. Now, I know that it’s a miracle. It feels like one, anyway.
I can hold the hand of a friend.
I cannot even consider how to touch my mother. Frankly, I’m relieved that she lives a couple thousand miles away.
Huge creds to my sister.
Susan Scot Fry
Update… This was one of those posts that wrote itself. It was an aha post. And a sigh of relief post.
Physical contact. I remember yearning for it with every fibre. And being utterly incapacitated.
I remember being bewildered and overjoyed. From touch.
We’re solo beings of a single organism. We spend our lives trying to re-join.
Especially with our moms.