Stop Touching My Body
Personal space is a big deal for me. It takes me quite awhile to build enough comfort with someone to have them physically near me. Lots of people want to hug or touch me (or my hair), and it’s intolerable to me. This issue has only become more prevalent since I had children. There are little hands touching me all the time.
PTSD complicates my dislike of touch. I was born highly sensitive and easily overstimulated. I was called “Shawna No” for the first portion of my life because of how much I hated contact. The mere suggestion elicited a strong response in me.
When my kids want my attention, they know to talk to me and look at my face. I’ve taught all three to walk in my right side except when that exposes them to a road. My left side is a no-fly zone for whatever reason. Movement or presence on that side of my quickly triggers panic.
Today, my 5 year old did not want to listen. She wanted to shout and tantrum in the library. As I was trying to redirect her she began hanging from my body is various contortions. Her hands were up and down my arms. I told her to stop, but she only touched me more. She knew it bothered me. She touched me until I leaned over and whispered in her ear that I was about to have a panic attack and she needed to stop or I wouldn’t bring her back to the library next week.
It is very hard to move around public spaces with or without my kids. Last night was this same child’s first play. I sat in the audience stimming tensely until all attention was drawn toward Kindergarteners delivering lines with many adorable errors. My husband began to cover my hands because I was tapping my middle fingers arbyithmically against my palms, but withdrew when he realized it was making the stim worse.
That left side. To my left last night was a woman I did not know who seemed to be just as quirky as I am. I would have much preferred to have my husband on my left. He’s the only person I can tolerate there. Behind me was another two rows of people. We were packed in, their breath rustling my hair. It was horrible, and were all the kids not so cute, I would have bolted.
Touch and proximity are such intense frustration points. I want to touch and be touched, to be with people without feeling anxiety and deep fear, but I have a history of being touched harshly plus, well, I was born disliking this type of connection.
At the moment I am locked in our downstairs bathroom safely out of reach. I wanted to write something with autonomy. My children have finally stopped banging on the door. My body is relaxing. I’m enjoying a moment of relative physical freedom.