The Affection Connection

On my night stand is a stack of books about... well.. figuring myself out. I figure each month, since I enjoy it, fully researching each dare through other's perspectives might be useful. Indeed it has been.

The other night I was reading " Life Is A Verb" by Patti Digh, and I was touched by the story " Squeeze in Next to Someone, Arm-to-Arm." It tells a story of a how one person shied away from another's persist affection, and was consequently healed by it.

Naturally, it got me thinking about myself.

It is a fact that I did not grow up in an affectionate family. My parents divorced when I was two years old, (Derrick was still in-utero). The lines were clearly drawn as a result of the split, and the two sides were like night and day. Except for the fact that neither side readily demonstrated physical endearment- that is the tie that binds.

Dad was not an affectionate man. In all honesty, it wasn't until a few years before he passed, that I would initiate a hug at the end of a visit. I was in my early twenties then, and much had transpired between us, including his hiatus from our lives for six years. From age 20, to 24, I would come for dinner to see him, my step-mom, and my other siblings a couple of times a year. It was in the moments when, the kids would scurry off to do whatever it is they would do, and my step-mother would clear the table and wash the dishes quietly in the background, that my father and I began to know each other as adults. In the cool, crisp of the evening, inevitably, my dad would walk me out to the car. We'd stand in the driveway saying our goodbyes, under those shining stars- the same stars he first showed to me hiked up onto his shoulders, when I was just a wee lass. With great courage I would throw out line, and wait for him to respond.

"I love you , Dad.", I would say quietly, holding in my breath. Every time I would say those words to him, I would suspend my breathing unknowingly, waiting...seconds felt like an eternity. Was I good enough for him to love me? Did I matter to him, his first born child? Or was a merely an afterthought in comparison to the second family he had created, and that I struggled to find my place in?

" I love you too, Paula. Drive home safe. "

My God, I loved that man. I am my father's daughter, and it is now looking back at where and who I came from, that I feel the magnitude of a girl's love for her father.It is a natural nborn love, of innocence, of acceptance, of joy and wonder.

Next month marks 8 years since he died. Every year, Derrick and I pause on that day to marvel at how quickly time has passed since we got that call at 3am, one cold, February morning. We wonder in fascination at how dramatically are lives changed, and how they continue to be impacted.

Lately, I have also begun to wonder if Dad were still alive, would he read this blog of mine? What would he reveal of himself, to his first born daughter who is by and large, far more extroverted and outgoing as either of her parents....? Then I remark to myself, that maybe I wouldn't be nearly as vivacious and exuberant had I not lost my dad at the age of 25. So much of who I became in my twenties was due greatly to the experience of having lived through the death of half of the duo that created me into being.

I feel the need to be clear about my dad here, because I am cognizant of the fact that I write about him a good deal more than I do my mother. Perhaps it is because we tend to idolize the dead a bit... and also because as a female, my father and the relationship I had with him has directly affected the romantic relationships I have been involved in. The correlation is not lost on me there...I have worked hard at remembering my father's faults and flaws, as much as I recall his brilliance and humor. He was a human being after all was said and done, and not without his own dark side and demons her surely wrestled with. I suspect he held back, and that he simply did what was modeled to him by his parents (which is to say that that side of the family lived int eh shame and slinece of a dark sexually abusive history. I sometimes wonder if my father's lack of affection was a way to protect me from it...)

My mother too, was not overtly tender, though when comparing my parents to each other, she was considerably more so. I see that her lack of easy and consistent physical closeness towards her children, was similar to Dad's genetic aversion to displays of affection. She was simply working out her own issues around loving touch based on her own childhood experiences. I have memories of my mother cuddling me and rocking me as a little girl. And it was apparent to me, even at a young age, that my mother's actions spoke loudly of adoration and love for me, even if they did not always make sense. She was easy with verbal expressions of love, and it was also in every thing she has ever made me.

Both of these people, so very different from me, each made choices in their lives that refelcted the lack of affection and close conncetion with their own parents. I see both of my parents personal sacrifices as enormous " I love yous", unspoken to me.

...where was I going with all of this? .. Oh right! Touching, affection and the connection between people and the goodness that results from such interactions...

A wall has been carefully and steadily constructed around me- my body is a physical representation of that wall. I carry my weight in my middle- where I feel most vulnerable. Part of the reason for this wall, now revealing itself to me, is the fact that I did so to keep people from touching me. There is a part of me that grew up thinking that affection wasn't for me- I wasn't deserving. (If I had deserved it, wouldn't i have received more of it?) Affection was a luxury afforded only to the thin and beautiful people of the world; to the " normal" people with " normal" childhoods. Affection was like cake- saved for special occasions.

Being touched in a loving way, meant I had to let someone close enough to do just that. To hold my hand, squeeze me in a hug, or kiss me square on the lips. Even gentle friendly caresses were hard for me to accept- almost harder because they appeared to be so familiar and commonplace. How wonderful for me, I think in gratitude, that another part of me knew that I needed all of that and more- that I deserved it- because I did attract in (and continue to do so) the most superb friends and lovers into my life, who have helped me to know just that.

Still, it has remained a challenge for me to accept the devotion that comes with connection. Even now, I still sometimes feel like a fraud when a friend reaches out to squeeze me, in a high-five, or takes my hand and holds it in kindness (it is ironic to me,knowing this about myself, that holding hands is actually one of my very favorite forms of affection. Its right up there with kissing a lover.)Within the safety of an established relationship, I am sweet, openly affectionate and I warm to touch instantly. Why has it only been in that space that I have been so?

"Hello Mr. Obvious on line 1...."

In my closest friendships, I continue to challenge myself to hug back as fiercely as I love, and to be comfortable in those every day precious moments of vulnerability.

Some years back, I recall reading an article about two, old, Italian men who were lifelong friends, in a quaint little Tuscan village. The article showed these men walking along a street, hand in hand, serious as all get out, though kindness radiated from them. The article talked about how it was quite common and openly accepted for grown men to show fondness towards each other by holding hands. My American brain wanted to throw out judgements, and yet I was so taken with the beauty of that story. What would the world be like if we were all so comfortable in our expression of affection to those we care for? How would we greet one another? How would we fight with each other?

***********************************************************************************

Pondering my willingness to look deeply at who I am and the life I have created, thus far, has me wondering about the family I may build someday. Maybe the reason for all of this introspection, boundary redefinition, and wall de-construction around who I have made myself to be as a result of my own upbringing, is so that I may pick up where my parents left off...

I want to endeavor to be half of the kind of parenting duo that cuddles with our kids in bed, in our pajamas. We will watch movies on a rainy Sunday afternoon, while eating pop tarts sprinkled with laughter. Openly declaring "I love you" so there is little doubt behind my actions or words. I want to hold hands with my child, and wonder adoringly at how their small hand fits into my larger one. I look forward to what that will feel like one day.

***********************************************************************************

As I was finishing up that chapter in " Life Is A Verb", before I went to sleep, Ellie had snuggled up on my chest. She was nestled warmly in between my body and the layers of blankets. Purring away, her eyes squinted in a doze, she kept reaching her paw out to me, then withdrawing it. She did this as if she were afraid to actually touch me. Finally, after she she reached out once more, I took her paw in my hand and just held it loosely. She purred louder and curled her claws up in the way she does when she is happy. She just wanted me to hold her hand.

It occurred to me then, that perhaps she too hesitated reaching out to me- her paw extended in love out to the person she loves. Perhaps she was holding her breath as I once did when telling my dad that I loved him...

" Am I good enough to love?" Elli asks, and then exhaling with a purr when she felt me grasp her soft little paw and answer with,

" of course you are, my Love. We are all good enough to be loved. That is the truth of who we are."