I have been touched my whole life. I have been touched in ways that have made me scared of being touched. Scared of what I’ll feel when someone touches me. What I’m used to feeling are a variety of unpleasant experiences. A slap on the hand from my mom, a pinch from a sibling, a needle in my leg during church for being sleepy, being randomly slapped on my bare leg by my mom, a rubber band hitting my face from a siblings aim, a finger jabbing into my chest from anger, being choked by a sibling, hair pulling, unwanted and unrelenting tickles, random slaps across my butt from my stepdad, awkward and unloving hugs from my mom, having my nipples twisted by a sibling in a “game” of ‘titty twister,’ being pinned to the floor with my hands held above my head by my stepdad, “disciplinary” beatings across my butt and hamstrings using a variety of items, having an unwanted penis put in my mouth at a very young age multiple times by a young boy or multiple boys who I can’t remember. These examples of the way my body was treated in my own child hood home are what make up the wall of resistance I carry with me everywhere I go and in every situation where I’m being touched. The pause, the frozen chill of tension that crashes through my nervous system and zaps my brain is my first association with touch. When I look outside of my immediate family for safe and comforting touch memories, I can find some. My Grannie gave the best hugs. Being hugged by her felt like being loved by her. It was a blanket of safety and I’m eternally grateful for the impact her hugs left on me. Once when I was in middle school, I think it was middle school-we moved so often I can't always remember accurately, the whole class was laying on the gym floor watching a movie or something and a boy tucked a bit of hair that had fallen into my face behind my ear. I had never experienced anything like that before. It was so amazing I tried to see if he would do it again by letting the hair fall back into my face. I was obsessed with that gentle touch. It woke something up inside me. A craving for gentle sweet touches. At a school dance I remember slow dancing with a boy to a song by Shaggy called Angel and being in shock. I was touching a boy and nothing bad was happening. I actually felt like I was on fire-in a good way.
Fast forward to today, I have a loving partner and an adorably sweet son. They both are incredibly respectful about touches and I can feel the love in their touch. I still have that moment of bracing myself for a touch though. I’m still plagued by the feeling of holding my breath for something unpleasant. I’m sick of it. I want it to dissolve. I need it to dissolve. It is limiting my ability to embrace the feelings of being touched lovingly and even passionately. So, my goal in writing this is to be more honest with myself about my relationship with touch. I don't like to be touched because of the whirlwind of emotions that electrocute my nervous system that arrive upon touch. I don’t like to be touched-but I want to.
