Down − 17 May, 1976
My mother's told me many times that my first word was down.
"Down," she said, "because you didn't like to be held." Although I don't remember anything like that, deep down I suspect that it's true.
I've always had difficulty touching people and I always inwardly cringe whenever strangers touch me or brush up against me. Even with multiple layers of clothing on, it feel like an invasion. So in some ways, I've always felt afraid of other people or at least like I wanted to be insulated from them.
That's only changed somewhat recently. In college, when I forced myself to learn the ways of extroversion, I constantly challenged myself to touch other people. It started slowly at first: a shoulder, an elbow, sometimes a knee. But as I progressed, it became easier and easier.
Although I still loathe being touched by people I don't know (I'm even hesitant to shake hands), when I mentally prepare myself for it, it's much more tolerable. Even nice, sometimes. Just to feel that connection.
Of course, I love touching my wife, friends and family. People I know feel so warm. It's like touching a color: a bright orange, maybe, or soft yellow. I wonder how they deal with all of this heat.
And when I touch these special people, I feel like there's some sort of biological information that flows back and forth between us. I described it to Marja as being like binary: "all ones and zeroes," I said. "No sixes or nines or threes or eights."
She thought it was funny (and geeky, yes) but when I touch her, that what it feels like... as if all of the internal chaos and pain and stress somehow gets ironed out... as if a state of order and regularity is being established. But it's more than that. It feels peaceful; harmonic, even.
It feels like being lifted up. And there's no need for words.
"Down," she said, "because you didn't like to be held." Although I don't remember anything like that, deep down I suspect that it's true.
I've always had difficulty touching people and I always inwardly cringe whenever strangers touch me or brush up against me. Even with multiple layers of clothing on, it feel like an invasion. So in some ways, I've always felt afraid of other people or at least like I wanted to be insulated from them.
That's only changed somewhat recently. In college, when I forced myself to learn the ways of extroversion, I constantly challenged myself to touch other people. It started slowly at first: a shoulder, an elbow, sometimes a knee. But as I progressed, it became easier and easier.
Although I still loathe being touched by people I don't know (I'm even hesitant to shake hands), when I mentally prepare myself for it, it's much more tolerable. Even nice, sometimes. Just to feel that connection.
Of course, I love touching my wife, friends and family. People I know feel so warm. It's like touching a color: a bright orange, maybe, or soft yellow. I wonder how they deal with all of this heat.
And when I touch these special people, I feel like there's some sort of biological information that flows back and forth between us. I described it to Marja as being like binary: "all ones and zeroes," I said. "No sixes or nines or threes or eights."
She thought it was funny (and geeky, yes) but when I touch her, that what it feels like... as if all of the internal chaos and pain and stress somehow gets ironed out... as if a state of order and regularity is being established. But it's more than that. It feels peaceful; harmonic, even.
It feels like being lifted up. And there's no need for words.
