Monday, May 10, 2010
Originally uploaded by slaterspeed
This afternoon I arranged to get a massage. I tend to do this on a regular basis. At least one time a month. It has become my drug of choice. In between massages I drift through this world, untouched by human hands. I'm a touch junkie.
I'm thinking of starting a new support group. Untouchables Anonymous. We will gather is church basements, sit in folding chairs formed into a circle, and speak of our longing for skin on skin connection. There will be ground rules for the meetings. No touching of course. The purpose of these meetings will not be to find that touch, but to discuss our needs for it. We will share when we last had the touch we desired, and what was the significant event that put us in our predicament. We will discuss the ways we seek this intimate connection. We will try to describe what this touch does for us.
There are many reasons why people find themselves in physical isolation. I don't mean like some agoraphobic, who lacks touch due to never leaving their home, although if they can make it the meeting, they too are welcome. We come to this place for many reasons. It is not my place to try and figure out each person's reason for the lack of touch, only to learn from their stories.
I of course am a member of this group due to the death of my husband. He died September 13, 2009. That is my date of reference. It happened in the early morning of that new day. I had spent the prior night holding him, stroking his face, trying to soothe his difficult breathing. He could no longer communicate with me, but I could sense his acceptance of my sensual touch. Our skin had a history together. The coming together of his and mine was life giving. It created comfort and warmth. Our skin had a memory, and it could be found to instantly relax when joined in close proximity.
At times our skin had electricity. How does a substance change like that? Like the synapse within our nervous system, our skin could intensify our emotions. Where there was once pure gentle familiarity, at times became almost painful ecstasy. When Michael was near, the hair on my neck would stand on end. Each follicle would rise, and become a conductor for this heightened electricity. This process was like a fix, and I was powerless to it.
In my situation, I knew of Michael's impending death. So I suppose I could have cut started cutting down on the skin to skin contact. I could have planned out this intimate isolation, slowly weaning myself instead of going cold turkey. I wonder if there are withdrawal centers available where we to get that touch, then slowly decrease it until the lack of it does not create such a strong longing. We could learn to live without it, living a life of physical sobriety. For now, I will have to follow my risk reduction model, scoring a nice massage when I can scrape up the money.
Hi, my name is Dan, and I am one of the untouched.