Reach Out and Hug Someone

Different kinds of friendships always comes to mind after being on a social network. There are fair-weather friends, casual acquaintances, lost friends, found friends, new friends, and friends who we hope to never meet again. For those we want to contact, we reach out and touch someone with a smiley face or a nice comment about something they posted, or a picture they shared. It's often construed as impersonal and lacks the emotional and physical response we as humans need. Then it occurred to me about an epidemic that faces the world and it's called skin hunger. It's an emotional response that is developed by the lack of touch. Sometimes, it can even cause you to feel depressed and completely alone as you swim in an ocean of peoples who barely know you. How wonderful it would be to jump into the car and visit a family member or meet a friend for a lunch or dinner date but instead, we have to be content with faraway impersonal relationships. The heartfelt hugs we once remembered are being diminished as more families and friends live apart in different states and this lack of touch keeps us from being close to our loved ones. When was the last time you reached out and touched someone? For me, it is not nearly often enough. When was the last time someone said, “If only you lived closer...” or “We can't be truly a part of your life when you live so far away?”

I am truly affected after leaving someone I care for when there's been physical contact, because I am a hugger and I have the need to look into someones eyes during conversation. I want to remember how the lines formed around someone's eyes when they smiled and the touch of their hand on mine. Don't get me wrong, I am thankful for technology as it has allowed us to communicate with anyone around the world, but unfortunately it dehumanizes the physical interaction for which many of us crave and thrive upon. We interact with our electronic devices more than we do with each other, completely eliminating the human touch from the equation. Sadly, many our our older generation do not use technological devices, and can leave them feeling unloved and out of the loop with others. How many times have you see a family gathering and everyone is texting, or surfing the web while grandma sits alone? How many times have you got together with the grandkids and they would prefer to text their friends or check out a You Tube video? How many times have you wanted to reach out and hug a young person without them thinking you're a pervert?

We live disconnected lifestyles and we live in an extremely litigious society where touching someone can be considered sexual harassment. People have become fearful of hugging and physically greeting one another. Can you imagine a child being born into a strange world with underdeveloped senses except for the sense of touch? We have all initially made sense of this world through our skins. Touch and affection told us the world is a safe, secure and warm place to live. Touch comforted us. A pat on the back, a squeeze of the hand, a massage or a gentle hug can heal the heart and spiritual well-being in the receiver. For those of us who may be suffering from skin hunger, a therapeutic massage may satisfy the cravings. For a parent, a spouse, a friend, or a caregiver do not forgo such a human and elemental need as touch. It makes lasting memories once a loved one is gone.

It is the first sense developed in the womb and the last sense to leave our bodies. It is so vital, in fact, that therapist and author Virginia Satir stated that human beings need four hugs a day for survival, eight hugs a day for maintenance and 12 hugs a day for growth. So find someone you love or care about and give them a hug today. You'll be surprised how many will say, “I needed that.”

Is It You?

"One never knows what chance treasures these unconscious rollers may toss up, on the smooth white sand of the conscious mind..."  ~Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Before we took our first breath we evolved into a thriving human being in a sack of embryonic fluid. A liquid which sustained our life's nutrients soothing our tiny bodies until our maiden voyage. Is it no wonder why we are calmed when we emerge ourselves into a warm tub of familiar territory when it can erase the visual simulations of our busy day? Water therapy has been used for its healing properties to heal pain, purge toxins, and in treating depression and suicidal tendencies. No wonder so many people desire to live near a body of water and focus on an overabundance of blue noise.

Being around water gives our minds and senses a rest from the world, it can calm us and transport us to another time to relive a pleasant memory. Which is the real reason for this post. Recently, my family gathered at the northern Michigan lake that was familiar to us all to say goodbye to our brother. He lived in Florida, but he was laid to rest 1800 miles away next to my parents in the family plot. We all gathered from three states for this brief encounter to the place I used to call home. As it is with many family gatherings, ours have its problems too. I shouldn't have been disappointed, but I was because there is always one who tries to be the buffer and make things right or makes excuses for those who think they're in the right. I'm that one. I am guilty as charged.

Upon arriving at the lake the first thing I did after checking in was to find a dock I could sit on and dangle my feet in the water. I have done this for as long as I can remember. Every time my parents vacationed at the lake in the summers, I ran to the lake soon as I opened the car door. After I moved to the lake as a teenager, I sought this aloneness every chance I could. I embraced my solitude of being by myself near the water. It was the one place being the new girl or popular or not fitting in didn't matter. The sound of the waves softly lapping the shore, the gentle motion of the fishing boat rocking on calm waters, and the smell of the boat motor gas did something to me. I suppose you could say, I transported myself to my happy place and did this once again thirty years after moving away. It was the gift I had given myself after a long stressful journey to get here.

All prior tensions was magically wiped away soon as I saw my pink polished toes in the water. I smiled and selfishly captured this moment in time for me alone. I thought about past years, the people, and many events that took place so many years ago. The moment I daringly plunge into the cool water my adult mind was engulfed with the fantasy of being the slim dark-haired girl of my past. The girl who wondered when a certain someone would be coming up to his parent's cottage for the summer or who I would see at the Music Box later that night. I emerged to the surface to catch my breath and caught the scent of a campfire in the distance and remembered the parties at a nearby campground. It all made me smile as I dove back under the water. The far ago memories danced like a rock song in my head keeping time with the beat of my young heart. I thought of my parents, my children and my husband. I thought of them with pride and with love. I thought of my brother who will be dearly missed.

The night before I was to head back home I saw a red pick-up truck with a business name painted on the tailgate. The beautiful Italian surname was that of that certain someone from my past. He was the boy I wondered about every time I drove by his parent's cottage when I came back home. I excused myself when I saw the person who it belonged to and asked if he was related to the someone I once knew. He said, “I am he.”

...Hangin' In the Breeze...

"The place where you came from ain't there anymore,

and where you had in mind to go is cancelled out."

We are critics, we all are. Sometimes we are our own worse critic, and not one person I know can deny the fact. The word critic and its elbow hard edges; C’s that sound like K’s and the “IT” in the middle that stands alone (remember how you felt when you were the "cheese," and the cheese stood alone?). You expect to see a gnarly pointed finger and the possibility of the oncoming spray of spittle that lands on your cheek and burns like acid. My mom used to tell me when someone points at you, remember they are pointing three fingers back at themselves. Those words should have given me some comfort, but they didn’t. In my case, my internal temperature rises; my heart pounds to a whole different rhythm, sweat beads undetected on my scalp, the tips of my ears begin to blush crimson, and I come back to reality when the nervous perspiration collects to form an ice-cold trickle down the v of my back.
 
Your critic leans back in his oversized chair, a smirk laces his thin lips and secretly gloats, confidant he made you feel exactly how he envisioned it. Patiently, he awaits the rest of your reaction. You’re speechless. That’s okay, take all the time you need to get it together, time is on his side, not yours. This same scenario could be the reaction to bad news. Like when someone tells you your life will never be the same, or the decision you’re about to make can affect not only your life, but also the lives of those you love.

Beginning a letter can be quite a daunting task, especially if it’s been a while since you communicated with someone. The following letter will get different reactions, but I have a very savvy following and most of you might get it…or maybe not. It’s been nearly eight months since I’ve last posted and sometimes (probably most of the time), I’m vague at to what I’m trying to say. It’s like the writer who wants and loves to write smut, but is afraid what his or her family and friends will think. I say, write it using a pseudonym, or screw what others think, and just write it. Did I just say that…coming from the queen of vague? Some of my posts I’ve been told “…are an exercise in reading undertones. Have you done any acting?” Yep, that made me laugh. Don’t we act out in one form or another every day of our lives? Think about it… I digress.

I haven’t determined if this will be my last post, too soon to tell at this writing but this may be the first of the final series of The Constipated Woman. You know what they say about all good things coming to an end…when another door opens, take a deep breath and walk through…Peace.

June 8, 2013

Hello My Friend,

It’s been a while hasn’t it? I sincerely apologize for being so disrespectfully remiss concerning my continuing correspondence. You may come to a few conclusions of your own, on what condition my condition is in. You may concur with others about a probable diagnosis to what may seem to you, an obvious problem concerning my delayed absence. Please don’t. Better yet, just have a party. If you love to have parties to celebrate the non-substantial and the senseless, then the subject of my well-being will make a great theme. Flavor it up with a black light, a ball of tin foil, some grease paint, and a little mood music like Iron Butterfly and take yourself a retro 60’s trip with a zombie theme. Yeah, yeah, that’s the ticket…call me and we can work on the details. That was extremely rude…sorry!

After all, I did make a pact with you, and I fully acknowledge I haven’t kept many of the promises I intended to keep. In the past, you frequently prompted me to indulge you with dark and voluptuous snippets of my life to maintain your loyalties. I tried and I came up short. Instead, I frequently arrived with pen in hand, my thinning hair uncombed, and balancing my cereal bowl size cup of coffee while dodging my over-indulgent cats. I sit on my fat ass at my uniquely crafted desk and prepare to write out on my arm for all to read, a watered-down laxative in the form of feelings. I am remiss of the reason I came. The cold coffee imprinted two halos inside my favorite chipped mug. I am remiss of spent time or the number of cups I drank. The sun is high in the sky and I am remiss about why I’m still sitting here.

I duly note a number of my obligations did not exceed some of your specifications. I tried to be your friend. I tried to convey, and I believe I succeeded in letting you know you are not the only one out there with dark and crazed feelings. Should you ask me tomorrow what I wrote today, I would be remiss of an opinion and promptly display a blank canvas.

Did I forget to mention what your words meant to me? Did I tell you how supportive you were? I am remiss. I know I might have waited too long to tell you I care and for that, I am sorry. Hundreds of daily emails have dwindled down to an infrequent handful of letters from cyber followers who have become my friends, and that’s okay...really. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging during my absence; I am not remiss of the guilt or the sense of commitment I promised. I realize seven months is a long time to wait and see if I happened to share some sort of whimsical enlightenment to make you laugh or cry. By now, many of you may have even forgotten my blog’s silly name or the purpose I began to write…that’s okay, you can be remiss of that. What I fear is leaving an existence I am becoming remiss of. I didn’t leave you I left myself. It’s not so puzzling, just frightening.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was the playwright’s fault for setting the stage all wrong. The props, the backdrops, and the eerie musty draft from backstage…all wrong. He promised the audience something he knew I could not deliver. I told him not everyone could read between the lines. All eyes were on me and if I gave a second rate performance, it was his fault. The script was flawed; even an imbecile could plainly see he plagiarized my subconscious in an attempt to gain fame and recognition. It was he who made me forget my lines by his devilish pranks and subliminal actions off stage. It was he who made me the fool of the performance while the rest of the cast waited in the green room sipping on a mild degree of success. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter now because I am totally remiss of the events during the blackout. Was it the stage or was it the set? Yes, yes, that was it…the set collapsed, it was an obvious flaw in the design and structure…that’s the answer—which I am now certain of. I merged with the coulisse and watched the confused audience from the diffused wings of my manic thought balloon. Remiss.

Cleverly camouflaged amid the props I stood unnoticed. I froze and watched the audience with widened eyes and gaped mouths to see the massive conglomeration of their seemingly pathetic lives form over their heads. Did they understand any of what was happening? Of course, they did not. Did they see what I saw, or were they remiss their own lives were being anonymously played out before them?

When everyone twisted his or her heads for one final glance towards the stage, I believed I would be in agony if they found me out. I wasn’t, and was thankful. They, the perfect ones with their curled lips of apathy, whisper to one another behind cuffed hands hiding the mounting sense of panic. They gather their programs and their looking glasses and scurry towards the theater’s only exit in an orderly fashion. They were afraid. Their declining postures and outstretched necks told me they were afraid others would see the fading façade through the failing youth toxins. Those, with their perfect pompadours and french manicures desperately inhaled the trail of the dispersing phantom whiffs of sanity as it marched out the theater before them. I stood remiss of emotion.

It would be remiss of me if I did not share with you the vital role you have made in my life. I know you cared…I feel it now, and I felt it then. Please forgive me; I am remiss of your name and long for the days when I was untouched by an atrophied brain.