Page 32 of Touch Me

That’s not enough.

I have to say something else, or she’ll think she has to say something—how do I explain this? “For as long as I can remember, I was different. My parents ignored it. I tried to ignore it. And to this day, it’s never been fully diagnosed.”

“Diagnosed?”

“SPD.”

“What is that?”

“Sensory Processing Disorder. It comes with a smattering of fun symptoms and most likely places me somewhere on the Autism Spectrum. I’ve done my own research. I’ve never spoken to anyone about it or anything, but it’s pretty clear when you read about it. I have most of the issues associated with it. Not all, but most.”

“What are the issues that come with it?” She keeps her position, speaking into the room instead of turning toward me, and I’ve never been so grateful for someone pretending to not see me.

“Well, the hardest to handle is my aversion to touch.”

“Aversion? Like, you don’t like it?”

“It’s more than that.” I sit up, rest my elbows on my knees, and run my hands through my hair. “Even the slightest touch causes me anxiety. It doesn’t hurt so much as it... causes a negative response.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she whispers.

“M-my skin starts to vibrate or buzz. My blood heats and races through my veins. Everything internally erupts into chaos, and everything outside fades away until the physical contact ends. Then I come back to myself, and I’m okay.”

Her voice is quiet, wavering. “So, the time in the gym? You weren’t repulsed by me?”

“Jesus, Cassie, no.” I hear a little sniffle from the far end of the couch.Fuck, don’t cry. “Of course not.”

“And in the kitchen, when I fell? When you ran? It was because you had to touch me to catch me?”

“Initially, yes. Physically, I was fine after that.”

“But you’ve been in your room for two days.” It’s a statement, not a question.

I sit back and blow a breath through puffed cheeks, head tipped back, eyes on the ceiling. “It was more out of anxiety and embarrassment. Physically, I’m fine. Mentally, I don’t know how to navigate this.”

“So my being here is too hard.” Again, another statement. “Before I came here, you were fine.”

“I wasn’t fine. I was the same. I just didn’t have any chance of any accidental physical contact.”

“But still, having me here is causing you distress.” She’s speaking so softly and clinically. Not like a friend—like a doctor.

“Cassie, sit up,” I say, turning toward her on the couch, and when she faces me, her watery eyes shimmer in the lights from the kitchen. “Cass, no. Don’t be upset. This is a me issue, okay? Not you. I’ve been dealing with this my whole life. It has nothing to do with you.”

“Your whole life?”

“As long as I can remember. My parents never did anything about it. They thought it was a phase or something. God forbid one of their children has something wrong with them. We all did our best to ignore it.”

“So, what are some other symptoms?”

“Uh, well, I’m not good with people. Big surprise there. I have difficulty reading other people’s emotions or understanding their feelings. Although I am getting better at that because I know you’re upset right now, and I don’t want you to be. A few years ago, I would’ve just walked away. So, there’s hope for some of the other things too. I don’t really have a filter when I do talk, and I tend to say whatever pops into my head. Just the thought causes me anxiety and leads to some very embarrassing exchanges.”

I’ve never spoken all my issues aloud, and the list is daunting as I continue, “Physical coordination is another big one. Working out every day has helped with that. I can surf, and I can run without falling. Having spent my entire life avoiding sports ensured that one took some time to work through.”

Shaking my head to stave off the nerves settling in, I wipe my sweaty hands on my pants before giving her more, “I don’t really like crowds or loud noises. But I can go to the pier and take pictures. I can walk down the beach or through the park. I think having my camera helps in those situations. I know I can leave at any time, but I convince myself to stay to take a few pictures. Now, I can stay out for hours. If I’m somewhere and the music is too loud, or there’s too much stimulation, I move on to another location. So some of my symptoms can get better—they have. Or I just have more control over them now.”

“Except with touching?”

“Right.” I bite on my lip and nod. “Right. I haven’t had much practice desensitizing to that.”

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