skin hunger

My Postmates driver touched my hand a week ago and I can’t stop thinking about it. He had on a glove, but the way his covered hand made mine tingle continues to replay over and over and over. It’s been 43 days since I’ve touched someone with meaning. 43 days of no physical contact from anyone in my life.

They call what I’m experiencing skin hunger. I’ve read all about it. The studies. The reasons why my body feels like it’s constantly on edge. Skin Hunger (n): It’s a deep longing and aching desire for physical contact with another person. Touch is considered the first sense we acquire and our skin is our largest sensory organ.

Is that why my body feels so broken lately? So on edge? Small? Itchy? Fidgety? I can’t sit still. I feel my body craving touch more than anything in the world. At night I wake up, realizing my arms are wrapped around myself, knees up to my chest as if I’m a small child reaching out for a hug and only finding my own arms for a tight embrace. It’s as if my body is trying to remember what it once felt like to be close to someone. As if it’s trying to recall and remember life itself.

I miss the smell of other people. What it’s like to have their scent on your skin as a reminder you were in their presence that day. I forgot what it feels to have someone squeeze your shoulder, hand, knee. The feel of reassurance that everything is going to be okay. I don’t know if it’s going to be okay anymore.

I have missed the feel of a head on a shoulder, throwing an arm around someone, holding hands, but, most importantly, dancing in the silliest of ways. Dancing to the point where your friend can’t breathe from laughing so hard that they reach out so they don’t fall. You’re there to support them. That’s the best touch.

My skin misses hugs. Those long hugs where you’re holding onto each other so tightly that you’re one another’s anchor. Who is helping who? You’ll never know really. Those short hugs, where you’re so thrilled to see them but mainly want to see their face. So you hold onto their arms with your own outstretched ones, searching their face for any differences from the last time you’ve seen them. The short hugs to say “hello,” “goodbye,” or “it was so nice to meet you!”

I miss the touch of comfort. A thumb rubbing back and forth on a wrist, feet draped over a lap, hands running through hair, a small nudge to get you to pay attention, a caress of a cheek, lips pressing gently on a neck, hands rubbing up and down against your arms.

I have missed reaching out and wrapping my arms around my mom when she is on the phone. Hearing her voice hum against my ear and her patting my hands — her signal of “yes, sis, I love you too but this is quite enough. I have things to do.”

I miss the ghostly fingertips of a hand helping zip you into your dress, against your spine as they ease your hair away from your neck.

I miss high fiving, holding my hand up against someone else’s to prove how massive mine are. I miss pinky promises, elbowing someone in the ribs, bumping my shoulder against someone else’s, having a friend braid my hair, accidentally brushing my hand against someone else’s and loudly proclaiming “are you wanting to hold my hand or something?!” before defiantly grabbing their hands in an ironclad grip and holding it against my chest.

I miss drumming my fingertips against someone’s body, making their body and my body an instrument. A hollow drum sound here, a soft low tempo across their arms there, a crash of a cymbal across their chest, and a guitar solo playing on in the empty space between us.

I miss the hand off of a gift. The excitement of the present wrapped up with your own hands, and your fingertips brushing against each other during the exchange.

I miss accidental touches when you realize your foot is invading someone’s space and you quickly sit up and move your feet back. I miss playing the dance of being in someone’s way and you both go the same way at the same time, until one of you holds out a hand against the other and says, “after you” while your cheeks redden from embarrassment.

I miss the touch of someone’s hand quickly covering your mouth to prevent you from saying something they don’t want someone else to hear. Stop being so loud. Shhh. Quiet! Before slowly releasing you to see if you’re going to shout once more.

I miss the feel of someone’s skin against my skin. The way they pull you against them, flush against their own body. When goosebumps break out all over and their fingertips skim every inch of you. I miss the feel of them behind you, on top of you, inside you. Rough, gentle, soft, firm.

I miss the softness of others, of being able to rely on them to hold you up when all you want to do is fall down. The gentle arms wrapped around you, as a reminder that they’re there. You’re safe. You’re not alone.

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