Please don’t touch me

Now I know why mimes put their hands in front of them, suggesting a glass box surrounding their bodies. They may be concerned with breaking the glass and getting out of that box. But I am concerned with building mine piece by piece.

In a mime’s silence, screams are heard. Makeup accentuates the facial expressions that need no words. Articulate, exaggerated movements suggest the story behind their absent speech.

Something about clowns makes them super scary. They don’t speak either. But they mock loudly. Mimic. Threaten. Bully.

I can put on a great act. Dressed like a flamenco dancer, red lips, glittered eyes and a big purple flower in my hair…my chest lifts. Chin follows. The mascara is doing it’s job…making my eyes bold, piercing, focused. There is no evidence of fear.

Thick black heeled shoes stomp sharply into the wood below. Making music on their own, pounding out the statements of a woman’s smiling fury. A symphony in line with the beat of my heart. Proud. Tall. Strong. I will kick your face in.

How will I find my voice when I need it most? When the room is silent, and the walls have closed in?

I put my hands in front of me. Guarding the space. I close my eyes. Leaving the body. I’m vacillating in and out of consciousness.

Where have I gone?

My EMDR therapist has me mimic these gestures in slow motion. Expressive hands say more than worried lips and therefore must be used to make new stories until the sound of a voice can be heard.

She made me keep my eyes open in our last session. It was almost impossible. But I could feel the point. When my eyes close, I tumble backwards, into a different land of darkness and hushed voices. It feels as though someone has tied 20 pound dumbbells to my eyelashes. Go away. Come here. Down here. Stay present. Be here. No, no, back here. Don’t look. Be quiet.

What am I trying not to remember?

I’m stomping out the notes on the hardwood of my mind. Telling a strong choreographed story. But it’s the little girl who suddenly finds her feet have shrunken and the clothes of the dancer are too big. She shuffles across the floor, looking for her vanilla lip gloss.

What am I doing here?

She looks down at her hands and studies ten fingers. Veins. Knuckles. Skin. Are these the same hands I have had all along? I sometimes can’t grasp that these feet, these hands, are the same ones I’ve had forever. No more running but she’ll dance to her grave.

“Push into me” says the floor, says the wall, says the girl, says the teacher.

Let go.

It’s okay to say no.

How is that so?


Copyright © 2019 Kissing The Cockroach® All Rights Reserved.

~ by Kissing The Cockroach® on January 11, 2018.

6 Responses to “Please don’t touch me”

  1. I often hate being touched or even having people too close to me–my personal space comfort zone is much bigger than other people’s. The main downtown street where I live has narrow sidewalks and lots of pedestrians, and I often realize I’m walking around doing karate/kung fu blocks.

    I think you’re really onto something with dissociation being another way of creating space between ourselves and others. Brilliant insight.

    • I’m going to practice karate chopping moves as I walk around other humans. (That is why I am afraid of going to New York, but must conquer it some day!) Even if they are just chops on the inside it will make me smile and think of you.

      • What I catch myself doing is blocks, not strikes–I even have trouble throwing strikes when sparring with ample protection gear because I’m so averse to hurting anyone. What I find myself doing is usually a down block (right hand up blocking the face beside the ear and left arm blocking across the torso and down the right thigh) or an outside center block (arms cross over the torso, then one hand goes to the hip and the other comes up to block at shoulder height). I know it’s a ridiculous thing to do, but it’s usually an unconscious thing.

      • I think that is totally amazing. It made me smile when I read “I’m so averse to hurting anyone.” Smile because at least I’m not alone. I have a less graceful way of blocking…involving pointing my elbows outward and swinging them left and right. OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY. With a smile. Of course.

      • PS…I hope you sleep tonight!!!

  2. I love the pic of the duck … scrambling feet under the water, yet smooth and floating above the water … looking calm, relaxed without trouble … while his little waders are running like the devil … as if the devil is behind him. I sense that. I’m planning to post your bit on Anti-Rant today … but i’m not nearly done and i have to sketch and pull that piece together. For your approval, btw, i’m going to also include my feelings about how i can’t be friends with bulimia. BUT that i had to see B as my protector during HELL. Now, i’m can live my life with the hell, and NEVER again with bulimia.

    THIS IS NOT GOING to contradict what you say, because i think it is SPOT ON. I’ve re-iterated that here over and over. I would have killed myself, maybe someone else if i had to live in that cold, clammy, sick, sexually twisted house without protection. People couldn’t be depended on, so Illness took over, BUT GOOD.

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