Good evening, friends!

    I hope this finds all of you well and warm. I've been itching to write since the semester ended but wasn't sure what I wanted to write about.  Lately I've also been thinking a lot about being connected to others via physical touch and thinking through my experiences with this. In order to try to organize my thoughts, I wrote briefly about three different experiences I've had that make me think more about physical touch and connection. So, here we are. Hope this resonates with you. As always, thanks for reading. <3

  Because of the drugs I was unable to fully open my eyes and because of the pain plus the drugs I was unable to move. I'd been in this ER in pain for hours, I still didn't know what was wrong, and I was alone. I was trying to be a good patient. I didn't complain about my pain even though it had not improved after two IV doses of meds. When I threw up it was quietly and in the trashcan. I did not make a mess or cause a scene. But I couldn't be quiet anymore, it hurt so bad and now I was feeling all of the effects of the drugs except for pain relief. Defeated and in excruciating pain, I laid on the hospital stretcher and sobbed. I heard someone crying loudly and thought "someone is crying really loud." And after another second I realized it was me crying really loud. In my head I thought I was just whimpering but after hearing it I knew I was wailing. A figure in navy scrubs came in my "room."  I couldn't make out her face but saw a brunette silhouette. "Shhhh, shhhh, shhhh" she said. It wasn't like an old, mean librarian shushing the loud patron, it was like a caregiver shushing a fussy baby. I felt her hand touch  my wrist and hold it gently. Instantly I felt a little calmer. She continued to shush and she maybe even softly said something? "Everything's going to be okay." I don't know? I can't really remember. And I felt her thumb move across the inside of my forearm. I felt myself get quieter and my breathing slow and deepen. I laid very still just feeling her hand on my wrist, her thumb on my forearm. This connection, to this person who I can't even see their face, soothes me and I relax. I feel the pain in my abdomen ease slightly, and I find myself hoping this mystery comfort person won't leave me. Eventually, I nod off. 

   "Hang in there, take care of yourself," My therapist said to me as I was exiting her office at the end of our session. "Ouch," I thought to myself. She tells me to "hang in there" whenever she knows I'm depressed but adding "take care of yourself" means she thinks I'm in bad shape. She's not wrong. The weight of how I'm going to survive the next four months and then get a job where I'm the therapist is crushing me to the point that my shame for how inadequate I feel prevents me from wanting to ever leave my apartment. The hopelessness is so real and so strong. I feel it in my chest sitting on my heart as I exit the building and walk to my car. My face is still wet from the session and the tears are still coming. Noticing my crying makes me wonder if I'll see one of my best friends, Leslie, in the parking lot today. We have the same therapist and sometimes our appointments are back to back and we say hi in the parking lot or leave notes on each other's car's. I love Leslie but I don't want to see her today because I am still crying. I look up and see her car parked right next to mine. I see that she's inside but when she didn't get out I took this opportunity to get in my car. I turn on the car, buckle up, and wipe my eyes. She still hasn't gotten out of her car. Do I want to see her? Or do I just want to go? I can't decide. Instinctively I reach for my phone. She's already texted me. 

 We text back forth, as you can see, for a few minutes. Even in my misery and embarrassment the idea of our cars being right next to each other with each of us in our own texting each other is almost comical to me. I realize Leslie is respecting my space. She won't force herself on me even though I assume she's concerned, but she will sit in her car right by my car and text me. After realizing this  I decide I do want to see her and I ask for a hug. When I see her she has this look on her face that says "come here, everything's going to be okay." We embrace and I lightly sob into her shoulder for a few seconds. I feel like I should let go of her because we are well past the time that is socially acceptable to hug. But it feels good, and I don't want to. I feel her thumb moving gently on my back. She holds me tight and I just cry. After a few seconds everything in my body slows. I'm crying a little less and my hear is not beating quite so fast. I can feel her arms around me and can feel her shoulders between my arms. Again it occurs to me that I should let go but I hold it still, I don't want to, this feels good. After a few more seconds I let go. I think I said thank you? I tell her I'm not going to buy new shoes and we laugh together. We say goodbye and I get in my car for good this time. As I'm driving I realize I feel better. The hug really helped. 

   "Find a partner and sit on the ground facing away from each other," the facilitator instructs. The translator repeats the instructions in Kiswahili. Inside myself I feel a pang of shame for whoever has to be my partner. A college-age man who is shorter than I am but has nice eyes makes eye contact with me. We smile at each other and this seals our fate as partners. This is the best we can do since neither of us are fluent in both english and Kiswahili. As we sit my eyes wander out the window to look at the ocean. The coast of Tanzania is beautiful, and though we've been here for days it's still surreal to me that I'm even here. Immediate anxiety pulls me away from the sea and back into the room. We are to sit facing away from each other with our backs touching. I immediately feel so sorry for my partner, I'm so gross today. And I'm sweating because it's hot. I feel sorry that he doesn't have a better partner. The facilitators walk us through a series of exercises where we breathe deeply with our backs touching. I can feel his warm back pressed against mine. I have no way of asking him if he is okay, if he is comfortable, if I'm hurting him. We breathe together and through my back I can feel his breath go down his spine and deep into his core. We do this for several minutes in addition to some other exercises, our backs touching all the while. I try to be connected to this moment, to him, to the room but it's so hard to breathe deeper than my anxiety. I'm ashamed that he has to touch me, uncomfortable that I can't check-in with him to make sure he's okay, and anxious to be touching someone and not know how they are. I want to sit out on this activity, but if I do I'll leave him without a partner. Plus I can't tell him I want to sit out and I don't want to hurt his feelings by just getting up and disappearing. The exercise ends and we separate. During the processing time he raises his hand to share and I'm immediately embarrassed. While he is sharing people look at me. I don't know what he's saying. I imagine it's something like "My partner was terrible. She's gross, she did it wrong. I'm disappointed and it would have been better if I could be with someone else." As he finishes I look to the translator who says "He says that it was very interesting to feel some one else's breath. I felt such connection and calm." I am astounded at his comments, and then saddened that my shame and anxiety kept me from ore fully connecting with him. He wasn't hating me like I thought, he was reaching for me by being genuinely engaged and present during our time together. I missed being connected because I was being critical, that seems kind of tragic somehow, right?