By intimacy, I mean the kind you have with family and close friends. They are a patient’s support system, sometimes as much or more than a significant other.
My childhood as a patient did me no favors when it comes to being comfortable with letting other people really see me. All of those physical challenges came with mental hits, and I hid everything because head down and focused on survival was the only way to, well, survive. Being judged or hurt or rejected – which did happen – had to take a back seat, so I spared no time to deal with them.
By the time my mom died when I was 24, I was closed tighter than my hermetically sealed apartment windows.
What do I mean by that?
I didn’t like being hugged, or even touched. I have found that this is common among those of us with conditions that involve or have involved pain, as mine did.
And I wasn’t comfortable saying, “I love you.” Even to my dad and my brother. This is less common. I read in a book once that when the last person you told abandons you (in my case, by dying), that just amplifies the effect.
Intellectually, I understood that there was an element of absurdity to how I felt, but my head and my heart have rarely agreed on anything. But I knew I would lose something if I didn’t change. I am an introvert, but not enough to want to be that isolated.
So, I practiced. I said, “I love you,” out loud. To my mirror. In the shower. While I was driving. I consciously started saying it at the end of every phone call with family. I knew I had gotten to where I wanted to be when I was on the phone with my longest standing friend. I was distracted, and I said, “Love you, bye,” as we finished talking. I didn’t even realize I had done it until she paused for a few seconds and replied, “O k a y. Love you, too.”
Her tone said I’m not sure what’s happening right now, but I’m just going to roll with it.
The touch part was harder. The day I earned my Master’s degree, my small program rented the top floor of a club to celebrate. One of my friends had already dragged me to the dance floor. (Literally. My other friend, knowing how I felt, lost a tug of war with me as the rope.) I hadn’t realized we only had it until 10. At 10:01, the dance floor flooded to twice its earlier level of crowdedness.
I froze for a minute, then borrowed cab fare and was out the door in 30 seconds flat. Halfway home, my ride called me to see where I was. I hadn’t even stopped to tell them I was leaving.
That ride was a couple who were some of my favorite people, and they both came from very demonstrative cultures. So, I totally used them as exposure therapy. They would hug me while I just stood there, arms down at my sides, and let them.
It took a long time, but it worked. I’m not “a hugger”, but I’m OK with people who are.
Looking back, these were the first chips in my defensive walls, the first steps toward a life that was more than just surviving.