Becoming Restoried Reflections
#11 | All Along
On the morning of October 7, 2023, I sat on a wooden lakeside bench, underdressed for the sudden surge of cold weather, with a hot hazelnut coffee and freshly baked shortbread cookie in hand. I’d just wandered my town’s farmer’s market and, of all the benches lining our charming lakefront, I happened to choose the one dedicated by my county’s Suicide Council. I didn’t know until I’d stood to leave.
Because this is Canada, Thanksgiving weekend is the last for our outdoor market, celebrated with spooky live music, blow-up and real pumpkins, and wheat stalks climbing lamp posts. Tables brimmed with soaps, candles, produce, bakery pop-ups, steaming food, and hand-crafted accessories. It had been pouring rain all morning as I read my books in bed, and just as the clock clicked over to 9:00 am — market opening — the sun splashed through my window, dissolving the clouds. It was one of those moments where you don’t need to think much; I grabbed my keys.
As I wove between partners, families, and children, cuddled and clustered around each vendor’s tent along the chilly street, I noticed their intimacy — hugs, kisses, snuggles, laced fingers, and breathing into cupped hands for warmth. These aren’t unusual moments to witness, especially on a weekend that typically brings people together, but I caught myself doing something I’m not sure if I’ve ever done before: I noticed physical touch, not with discomfort, but with sentiment and wistfulness.
My mind crunched on this new clarity as I made my way to the lakeshore, compassed with a trail so full of wildlife that when I run it (often), I have to be careful not to stomp on the real-life Chip & Dale. I thought of my favourite runner—someone I’ve followed for years now — who inspires me to tears nearly every day (Tommy Rivers Puzey — I highly recommend looking up his story). I thought, if I were ever to meet Tommy, my first instinct would be to ask him for a hug (respecting his right to say no, of course).
As we explored reconciliation throughout the past few weeks, Michael reminded us that in order to reconcile, we must tell the truth. Here it goes.
I’ve never written and/or spoken about my relationship with physical intimacy before. Truthfully, I’m embarrassed about it because the forlorn, rigid reality is that I flinch at any physical touch — hugs, let alone anything else, make me deeply uncomfortable. A few years ago, I completed one of those love language tests and scored a big empty zero on physical touch.
One of the choking vines of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), for me, is the repeated thought that bodies — and everything associated with them — are dirty. As a result, physical touch isn’t something I’ve ever welcomed from friends, family, or anyone romantically/sexually. I’m nearly 26 years old.
The message of being ‘incomplete without a partner’ is branded onto us. I know this. And I don’t feel I need someone to complete me — I never have. Rather, it occurred to me, very recently, that perhaps my brain has felt more comfortable believing that any form of touch is out of reach due to mental illness, and as a result, shielded grief with a belief: that not wanting it is part of my identity and personality.*
There is ample research on how healthy safe physical touch is, and I see now that I’ve allowed my brain to hardwire a story that although intended to keep me safe, kept me from well-being.
In order to reconcile, we must tell the truth.
Perhaps I’ve scratched the surface of reconciling my relationship with touch, despite my reflex to protect myself from contamination.
Though equipped with Michael’s helpful terminology (in bold) around reconciliation, I wrestle with it in the context of mental illness. Though I’ve always had insight, I didn’t actually have that rupture and recoil when the story was formed. I followed it because it felt safe. I haven’t ever tried to engage, let alone re-engage. I digested this narrative, and because we are what we eat, it became me: how I lived, interacted, and introduced myself as someone uninterested in physical closeness, when the truth is that I’ve longed for it all along, not knowing how to crack the foundation of my mind’s dysfunctional beliefs about contamination. But perhaps this is reconciliation, too. I’m reconsidering and recalibrating. I’m risking this story by putting it on paper, and I wouldn’t work through the vulnerable discomfort of exposing it if it weren’t the truth. Perhaps each risk will pry off another sheet of shield every time I take one. Stay tuned, I suppose. :)
*I’m mindful of the fact that these are my personal experiences & feelings. Many people struggle with physical touch for other reasons, such as past/present abuse & trauma. The experiences and identities of the LGBTQ+ community, such as asexual & demisexual folks in this instance, are also 100% valid and should never be questioned.
Before you leave…
I’d like to note that this post was written as a reflection of Thanksgiving in Canada (October 7–9, 2023), where families came together as others were violently torn apart in Palestine and Israel. My writing explored our need for safe, healthy physical touch—something that should be a universal human right, not a privilege.
Michael’s family has been travelling to Palestine and Israel since 1967, including his 14 personal visits over the past 23 years (with multi-month stays). He has taught the history for the last ten years, along with having published content and studied it in college and grad school.
This Wednesday, October 18th, at 5:30p, Pacific/6:30 Mountain/7:30 Central/8:30 Eastern (TODAY), Michael will be hosting a FREE 90-minute Zoom Webinar to discuss key moments and history throughout the last century, as well as basic terms and geography. He will share resources and respond to as many specific questions as possible.
You can register here:Â REGISTER
Please feel free to share this with any interested people.
You can take Becoming Restoried’s What Story Are You Living assessment, or join one of their ongoing free virtual workshops.