The Loss of Touch

I never used to like being touched. Growing up, I was very selective in who could touch me – I’d shy away from the hugs of strangers and family members alike. I didn’t like my space invaded and I only liked touch if I initiated it – I wasn’t ok with people just touching me because they could.

After I moved out of home, I realised how much touch kept me going. The small touches of family life – a hug there, a kiss on the head, a squish of a cat. Living with a friend and then alone relegated all touch to family visits for Sunday lunch and the brush of strangers in overcrowded trains.

For the first time I realised how much I need, crave touch. Hips were made to be held. The small of your back to be pushed, tugged closer. Heads held while kisses are planted on lips. Shoulders to be traced with finger tips and the back of your neck caressed.

Being single and living alone has brought a whole new level of ache to my bones. Touch is something that’s rare. I read somewhere that humans need touch to survive – and even more touch to thrive. We’re not made to be alone, we’re made for packs, we crave the attention and affection of others.

Perhaps the electricity of touch, of my own yearning for filling up the empty spaces, is what draws me to the TV characters I love. Elana and Damon. Olivia and Fitz. Hannah and Caleb. Kat and Vincent. There’s touch, and then there’s the electric touch that sets your nerves on fire, lights up your skin and tugs your soul out for fresh air.

I’m addicted to skin and I’m 12 months clean.

Image:Β The Vampire Diaries

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