LJ Idol Season 8, Week 30, Closer
I walk through a crowd and I am jostled about as I get too close to other people, or as they don’t see me and walk into me. They shout out hurried apologies, or rush passed saying nothing. I am easily over stimulated and try to hold my breath. I attempt to find a way out of the crowd, a quiet corner, or a wall to stand near.
I stand at some distance from her, claiming my space but she reaches out to touch me and pats me on the shoulder. She is telling me not to worry about what I have just said; her fingers on my shoulder are like punctuation to her words. I feel as though something is crawling under my skin. Little vibrations travel down my arm and I want to slap her hand away and step back, or push her backward and away from me.
We are in my office. I sit facing him. He is telling me a story and I’m doing my job, listening to him. Then he reaches out and suddenly touches my knee, his hand resting there while he makes a point. I look up at him. I think he is trying to connect us, or something. I am not quite sure. My eyes try to tell him there is no connection. I want to roll my chair backward.
I am at a family gathering. I don’t know the woman well, she is a distant cousin. She hugs me lightly and I feel as though a sheet of something nasty has been draped around me. I do not know why she had to hug me. Perhaps it was obligation, or friendliness, but it was one of those light, fake hugs, that you want to take your hands and brush off after it happens.
I often wonder why people have to be so close to me. Why do they have to touch me to communicate? I don’t understand. Is it my Asperger’s Syndrome that makes my brain want to escape the above scenarios? They are situations that get my blood pumping, my heart racing, and my breath coming quick. I feel like I am not in control and like everyone has infringed on my need for space, my need for keeping my nerves calm
I will shake hands when it is expected of me, and I have been taught a firm handshake and the proper motions to carry out, but if I can avoid it, I will. My therapist says I need to practice voluntarily touching other people. I know she is right, but I cringe at the idea.
How can intimate relationships be possible when touching is such an issue for me? I can’t answer that. I hide in the comfort of not knowing. Part of me wants to know though.
There is a part of me, deep inside, that craves touching in the form of hugging. Not the light half ass hugs of one feeling obligated, but the full, squeezing hugs of someone who likes to hug as a hobby. Sometimes, when I am hugged, I stand stiffly, not hugging back. It often takes my brain time to respond to the hug. I need time to adjust to being touched, time to realize it’s okay and that I like it, and time to recognize that I should hug the person back. The patient huggers will hold on long enough to give me enough time to reciprocate. They are the people who understand me.
Sometimes I crave that pressure that is the master of all hugs. I curl up, under my weighted blanket, and let it calm me instead. I won’t ask for a hug, especially from some unsuspecting person who probably doesn’t know how to do it right in the first place. Mostly though, I hate to be touched, stroked, patted, or kissed. It’s all horrible. Maybe someday I’ll adapt, but for now, please don’t come any closer. I’m trying to process a lot of things that are going on in the world, and touch sometimes puts me over the edge. I’m working on it though, and I’m trying to adjust, but my brain is wired a little differently so I need a bit more time before some things will be okay.
I am crossing the street and a police officer grabs my arm tightly and tries to help steer me through the construction site. I ask him to please not touch me and inform him that my guide dog will guide me safely. I am please that I have found my voice.
A friend steps beside me and drapes an arm over my shoulders. I squirm away, creating a comfortable space between us.
Someone is complimenting me on the fabric and look of my shirt, stroking her hand down my sleeve. I pull my arm away and offer part of the shirt by pulling the bottom hem away from my body so that the others present can feel the fabric without touching me.
On the crowded bus his thigh presses against mine. I move away as far as possible and hope he doesn’t follow by scooting closer to me.
I have learned to adapt, yet please don’t touch me without asking first. It’s the custom in my world. A world that I sometimes feel is apart from what others experience and live in on a daily basis.
I stand at some distance from her, claiming my space but she reaches out to touch me and pats me on the shoulder. She is telling me not to worry about what I have just said; her fingers on my shoulder are like punctuation to her words. I feel as though something is crawling under my skin. Little vibrations travel down my arm and I want to slap her hand away and step back, or push her backward and away from me.
We are in my office. I sit facing him. He is telling me a story and I’m doing my job, listening to him. Then he reaches out and suddenly touches my knee, his hand resting there while he makes a point. I look up at him. I think he is trying to connect us, or something. I am not quite sure. My eyes try to tell him there is no connection. I want to roll my chair backward.
I am at a family gathering. I don’t know the woman well, she is a distant cousin. She hugs me lightly and I feel as though a sheet of something nasty has been draped around me. I do not know why she had to hug me. Perhaps it was obligation, or friendliness, but it was one of those light, fake hugs, that you want to take your hands and brush off after it happens.
I often wonder why people have to be so close to me. Why do they have to touch me to communicate? I don’t understand. Is it my Asperger’s Syndrome that makes my brain want to escape the above scenarios? They are situations that get my blood pumping, my heart racing, and my breath coming quick. I feel like I am not in control and like everyone has infringed on my need for space, my need for keeping my nerves calm
I will shake hands when it is expected of me, and I have been taught a firm handshake and the proper motions to carry out, but if I can avoid it, I will. My therapist says I need to practice voluntarily touching other people. I know she is right, but I cringe at the idea.
How can intimate relationships be possible when touching is such an issue for me? I can’t answer that. I hide in the comfort of not knowing. Part of me wants to know though.
There is a part of me, deep inside, that craves touching in the form of hugging. Not the light half ass hugs of one feeling obligated, but the full, squeezing hugs of someone who likes to hug as a hobby. Sometimes, when I am hugged, I stand stiffly, not hugging back. It often takes my brain time to respond to the hug. I need time to adjust to being touched, time to realize it’s okay and that I like it, and time to recognize that I should hug the person back. The patient huggers will hold on long enough to give me enough time to reciprocate. They are the people who understand me.
Sometimes I crave that pressure that is the master of all hugs. I curl up, under my weighted blanket, and let it calm me instead. I won’t ask for a hug, especially from some unsuspecting person who probably doesn’t know how to do it right in the first place. Mostly though, I hate to be touched, stroked, patted, or kissed. It’s all horrible. Maybe someday I’ll adapt, but for now, please don’t come any closer. I’m trying to process a lot of things that are going on in the world, and touch sometimes puts me over the edge. I’m working on it though, and I’m trying to adjust, but my brain is wired a little differently so I need a bit more time before some things will be okay.
I am crossing the street and a police officer grabs my arm tightly and tries to help steer me through the construction site. I ask him to please not touch me and inform him that my guide dog will guide me safely. I am please that I have found my voice.
A friend steps beside me and drapes an arm over my shoulders. I squirm away, creating a comfortable space between us.
Someone is complimenting me on the fabric and look of my shirt, stroking her hand down my sleeve. I pull my arm away and offer part of the shirt by pulling the bottom hem away from my body so that the others present can feel the fabric without touching me.
On the crowded bus his thigh presses against mine. I move away as far as possible and hope he doesn’t follow by scooting closer to me.
I have learned to adapt, yet please don’t touch me without asking first. It’s the custom in my world. A world that I sometimes feel is apart from what others experience and live in on a daily basis.