I am 29 years old. I have been married for five years and a mother for a little less than that. More than likely there won’t be any more children for me. I can’t allow my husband to be near me. At first I think I am just getting back on my feet after a torturous birth followed by the subsequent bearing of my inner demons. I am wobbly on my mother-feet. I am a hyper-vigilant demon suppressor.
There is a lot of discontent between my husband and me. He is affectionate. I am cold. An embrace makes my skin crawl, holding hands is a trap. Sex is unthinkable. In looking back I realize I have always been this way to some extent. I have always thought it to be a compulsion born of the freedom to make my own decisions about how my body will be handled now that I am free from my childhood. But why, really, do I not choose these pleasant endearments like everyone else does? It has never made sense, but at all cost I have avoided the confusion of feeling so fearful about such affections by never being in the same room as my husband, certainly not the bedroom.
The only person in my life whom I can hold and who’s hand fits in mine in such a fateful way that I never want to let go is my daughter. When she beckoned to me from the cosmos, all things were possible- the instinct to bring her forth made love-making tolerable- even pleasant. I have noticed that my brother is the same way, a new man around his son, affectionate and amenable- not his usual grumpy, distant self. I have spent many a cup of tea with his wife, trying to answer to his cool resolve to stay away from her, yet keep her near. I realize now that I do it too and therein lies a commonality that cant be denied.
We were orphans amongst family. We were driven apart as siblings. We were distanced from peers. We toiled with our bodies, until we couldn’t feel them anymore. My body was sullied by perversity, his by violence. Somewhere along the line, we left our bodies behind and found sanctity in dissociation. It served us so well- such perfectly invisible mind-armor. Now we don our mental chain-mail – impervious to dangers that are no longer a real threat. Formative years of never being held, never being tenderly kissed, never having our hands taken by protective adults, never being tucked in- never being loved have made us inaccessible. We seem forever locked away in a turret guarded by memories past, defense mechanisms present.
I work on the premise that what our children don’t know won’t hurt them, until the fighting begins. I have no excuses. I don’t know why our perfect love is so ruined by this invisible haunt who whispers untruths to me. I hear it warn that if my husband holds me I will have to feel something unfamiliar. I am told that this waxing discomfort will escalate into irreconcilable alarm, pain, panic, breakdown and as always a marathon mind-meander to a place I cannot come back from at will.
My life is perfect and it is ruined.
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