I Cried the First Time Someone Touched Me in Five Years

She put her hands on my back, and my chest tightened.

You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe.

Your boys are safe.

You’re safe.

It was six months ago. I had made it through another heart-wrenching step in this grueling process I didn’t ask for. I was desperate for alone time, desperate to try and wrap my head around what was going on. I had a gift card for a massage that I had received as a birthday present for my 30th birthday.

Two and a half years had gone by and I had thought of every single excuse as to why I shouldn’t use it yet. I think I wanted to wait until everything in my life was resolved, that happy ending I dreamed of, all neatly tied up with a pretty bow on top. My hardened and admittedly pessimistic current self laughs at how naive I was.

I knew it was time. So I went online, selected the 80-minute Hot Stone Stress Eliminator Massage, and hit “Book Appointment.” All week long I was counting down the seconds until my escape.

But when I was finally in that room, face down on the massage table, my mouth and nose poking through the pillow hole… my body couldn’t relax. My mind was racing a hundred miles an hour. I felt distracted and uneasy, jumping around in my mind from one stressful part of my life to the next.

What’s going to happen in that meeting?

I wonder if the boys are ok right now?

I forgot to respond to that email.

I need to call them first thing Monday morning.

I was annoyed because I knew that this was supposed to be relaxing. It was supposed to be calming for my nervous system and healing for my body. But I was so damn used to being in a constant state of fight or flight, always on edge, that I couldn’t even enjoy the moment.

I remember it took me thirty entire minutes of telling myself over and over and over again,

you’re safe right now.

Finally, I felt my body start to relax into the table, and my thoughts were calm enough to focus on how good the hot stones were feeling on my tense muscles.

But then, suddenly, a different emotion washed over me. I was confused at first… it wasn’t anger… it wasn’t fear… it wasn’t even anxiety.

It was grief.

It started out small, just a passing moment of, something doesn’t feel right here. But then it started to grow, bigger and bigger, spreading from the top of my head to the tip of my toes.

Then it settled deep in my stomach.

It was the first time that I had been touched… really touched, by another human, in over five years.

Of course, there had been snuggles and hugs with my boys, quick greetings with acquaintances, lingering farewells with best friends.

But this was different. My body knew it was different. I felt a tear drip down my face, watched it drop softly onto the floor beneath me. I felt embarrassed and hoped that the woman massaging me hadn’t noticed.

I lay on that table and I thought of other women that I had befriended in this world of betrayal I had found myself in, navigating a life they didn’t ask for, trying to rebuild from scratch. I could hear the conversations in hushed voices about how their therapists had told them how important it was to get massages regularly. How human beings needed safe touch. How, when they had finally gone, they were shocked by how emotional of an experience it was for them. How they had forgotten what touch felt like. How confusing it had been... something that was supposed to be calming and healing bringing up so many conflicting emotions.

When I was driving to my appointment, I had thought about all of this. I knew it in my head. I had briefly wondered what it would be like, but I had brushed it off, convincing myself that I would be fine.

I was absolutely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, not fine.

I found myself on that massage table, grieving yet another part of my life. Another part that wasn’t supposed to be this way. I’m not supposed to be lying on a massage table, crying silently onto the floor below me, because I haven’t felt the touch of another person in half a decade. I’m not supposed to be crying silently onto the floor below me, because I know now what I didn’t know then… he wasn’t safe.

I never knew a safe touch.

Even in those first few years of our relationship, when I tried to convince myself with every fiber of my being that things were ok… it wasn’t ok. It was never ok. It’s not ok to be in a relationship with someone you never, ever trusted. You are supposed to feel safe, truly safe, because they care about and respect your needs and your boundaries even more than you do.

I never experienced that kind of trust. I never experienced that kind of love. I never experienced that kind of intimacy. Intimacy that goes so far beyond what you see in movies… what society shoves down your throat and tries to convince you is real love… chemistry, physical attraction, youth, beauty…

A true intimacy that comes from being truly seen, truly known, truly cherished… a love that is selfless, and not self-seeking… a love based on honesty and integrity, on doing the hard thing and making the right choices when not a single person is watching.

An intimacy that comes from baring your soul, the deepest parts of who you are, the ones that you keep hidden for fear of being rejected or misunderstood… and you are met with,

I see you.

I love you.

Tell me more.

But I’m lying on that massage table and grieving the knowledge that I never, ever, for even one single day, experienced that kind of love.

Last weekend, I escaped again for another afternoon alone. I booked another massage. And in the back of my head, I wondered how it would go.

This time around, there were no tears.

There was just a deep, deep longing in the very depths of my heart… and the words to finally express, to finally verbalize the desire that I am still afraid to hope for, but I am learning to allow myself the space to acknowledge that it is there.

I long for a touch that is pure and intentional with no strings attached. I crave a touch at the end of a long day that simply says, I love you. I’m here for you. A touch that does not need alcohol to blur the edges of panic that were always there, because it never felt right. I long for a touch that feels like home. A touch that says, I love you for who you are, and not what you can give to me. A touch that says, I will choose you every single day until the day that I die. There will never be another. I will fight for you. A touch that says, Your heart is safe with me. Here is my soul, and there are no secrets. There are no lies.

Not perfection, but perfect trust.

We will know each other, truly, deeply.

I will remind myself that two things can exist at the same time. I can grieve the knowledge that the kind of touch that I experienced for so many years taught me fear, and that it wasn’t supposed to be that way. But I can allow myself to hope for, if even just a microscopic sliver in my heart, that maybe the kind of love that I am beginning to find the words for really does exist.

One that will say,

you’re safe now.

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