I woke with an alarm this morning. I’m off to get an estimate on my car. I’m hoping the usually inflated estimates will serve me well, because I’m going to pocket the money.
It’s stunning to me how my mind works quickly into worry when I rise. I was having a dream, and was on financial fears within about forty five seconds. Unpleasant. Yet this morning, another thought popped up first.
No one touches me anymore.
My dream was of a young man I knew when I was fifteen. He was a wealthy Mexican, about 22 years old, the heir to a family fortune in soda pop and I’m not sure what else. I used to ride his family’s horses in Northern Mexico, just a few miles south of the US border. My mother had made it clear to him that he in no way was taking me to a bullfight, an idea that he had proposed to her first, observing traditional values. In my dream, I was again a teenager, and knew he would shrink from any of my physical overtures due to my mother’s disapproval. I hugged him, and laughed when he discouraged me.
Then I woke to my alarm.
I think now of a client of mine, long single. She spoke briefly once of her need for physical affection.She’s poor and disabled, a middle aged woman who lives mostly in isolation. She has little opportunity for physical contact; she’s not a mother, and her parents are deceased. She can barely afford to gas up her borrowed car, but tells me it’s important that she pays for a massage once in a while, because otherwise no one will touch her.
She reminded me of my own physical deprivation and need for physical contact. I love to live between my ears. My thoughts both torture and comfort me, but I can also work on interesting ideas and concepts, monkey-minding around. My body can be largely forgotten until it aches from exercise and then too many long hours of sitting at a desk and lengthy commuting. Yet I do strongly believe that the lack of physical attraction to my ex was extremely damaging to both of us. I wanted this affection, but not from him. Sometimes sex worked out rather marginally though, and that was at least okay.
The need for physical contact led one of my friends back into marriage. I am terrified of this road and am not a good candidate for that adventure right now. A male friend, also divorcing, tells me “just go, have fun, don’t get attached.” Contrary to his own advice, he is moving in with his girlfriend shortly. His divorce is no where near completion. “I did have fun for awhile” he said. “I’ve known her nine months”.
Is that a long time?