“My Relationship with Touch”

It’s rare I see the lunge coming– my problem is that i’m always surprised that someone wants to make contact with this form. With me. But I register the new acquaintance aiming for the kill, and the dance begins. An awkward shuffle, trying not to bonk heads as this new person tries to go in for a hug. Then, once the contact is initiated, and I try to relax in the embrace, my brian starts to race. Too limp, too firm? Don’t cling– but don’t push them away. Soften. Softer. You’re hugging like you hate their smell. Hug nicer. Hug kinder-

Once I start to register the comfort, it’s over.

I met new people this weekend– open, attractive, engaging people, about a decade my senior, though I didn’t realize this until our lunch together. Nothing makes me feel younger than meeting young people so much older than I am. I’m in the corner being an infant, while they’re actually youthful.

I honestly have no idea how these awkward little dances of contact come across to others. My biggest question, in life and hugs, is if the pantomime I’m performing is coming across? Am I performing well? From conversations with ghosts of friendship past give me confusing data. My faked confidence is there, existing enough to come across as the real thing. But frustratingly, my friends know a part of me, or at least perceive a part of me so intangible, so ephemeral that I can’t seem to recreate it. I think if I could figure out what this inner self that seemingly shines out on others, I might be able to walk a little lighter. I think i could have a chance at being a whole person if I could be genuine on purpose.

How much of this sounds like a needy little beast? 

Inconclusive.

Maybe I should explain: my family hugged me plenty. I have fond memories, recent ones, even of all the girls piling on top of eachother like piles of warm laundry, haphazard, comfortable, dangerously heavy. My family touches– Mariah and I have trouble untangling whenever it’s time to leave each other.

It’s beginning to rain in Victoria park– I didn’t bring an umbrella. Two different sugary drinks, half a chocolate bar I’ve already nibbled away, a packet of crisps and vegan gummies, all stowed away in the black backpack– but no umbrella.

I know I’m not eating well. It seems to be a living from day-to-day kind of season. This morning I counted down the days ‘till Christmas– not out of excitement, but to see if I could struggle through until the family leaves on holiday. They invited me to join last minute, something i had no trouble declining. I can either feel alone surrounded by screaming, spitting, hitting children, or watch TV and eat popcorn alone and lonely. Alone, but lonely with gusto. I’d always rather have my breakdowns alone. 

I can’t hug Mariah this Christmas, so I eat; not enough. Just too many sweets. The London House has a strange sense of anti-commercial farming/semi-veganism, so my protein palette is pretty starved.

I have had the best food here. Oozing toasties, about a hundred flat whites, cakes and cookies and frosted pastries. Blue raspberry gummies- every time I see an english blue raspberry sweet, I’m never disappointed.

I write this and realize I haven’t smiled once today. It’s 11:45, and my face feels stiff and foreign to me. I sit in the park and have fantasies of getting run over by a bicycle and falling in love with the cyclist. At the very least, to be held for a moment while someone checks over my bruised and battered body.

Romeo has decided to hate me this week, so the stick toddler hugs that have kept me going are over now. In Wales, after almost three months of living together, Mrs. S realized i might be lonely. I remember her ordering all three kids to pile on top of me, electrocuting me with love. 

Visiting my friend in Rutland, I hugged her mother good-morning, when she left for work, and before bed. We barely knew each other, I was only there for five wonderful days. She thought all the hugging proved my generosity. I’m just good at hiding my starvation.

What does all this mean, besides that I miss my mother and I wish it wasn’t 3 weeks until I see her again?

Someday soon I’m going to address my fantasies– for now I glance at speeding bikes on the walk home with a sort of semi-suicidal longing.