We reach, fingertips
ridged to mark
each you and
me unique, seeking in
this chasm of zeroes
and ones, minuscule
squares by the millions,
hiding in plain sight, a late night
spark, in the dark
revealing our most
secret selves, tessering past
small talk; feeling our
hurt, feeding our hope.
How do your experiences shape your response to physical contact?
What does it mean to you to give or receive physical/emotional touch?
What kinds of touch are comforting for you?
As I’ve said before, sometimes what emerges catches me by surprise. I figured this prompt would lead me to ruminate on being hypersensitized (a word I prefer to “hypersensitive”) to physical contact of any sort (I can feel my clothes and I kind of want to scream right now), the way my central nervous system finally just broke on me a year or so ago, the floodgates of primal fear stuck open, my brain attempting to protect me from everything and nothing at all.
But a different idea took hold. Maybe it’s because of an exchange I had a few weeks back, where I was discussing the format of these weekly prompts with someone else in the survivor community, and he shared a piece of writing on this exact word.
Maybe it’s because of the work with RAINN, where as a volunteer on the National Sexual Assault Hotline, I’ve been trained to support people struggling with sexual violence, to connect and reassure and offer hope and help (if you live in/near the Washington, DC area and want to learn more about how you can get involved, please get in touch).
Maybe it’s because while I’ve had to slow down my pace here, all of you still continue to let me know you’re with me, to reach out and share yourselves, to ask questions, to provide support when I’m struggling, to seek it for yourselves, to let me know that I’M not alone, either.
Touch doesn’t have to be physical to be real, or to make a difference. And I really, really love that.
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