I just wanted to be hugged.
I thought about reasons and causes, and thought about all kinds of things, trying to come up with a reason or cause. The only feeling I arrived at was that I just wanted to be hugged and be tender. It was that simple.
For this, I had no choice but to cry.
To be honest, it's tough to live with this constant desire. Is it some kind of instinct that I am seeking it? If I am seeking it in a place where survival is at stake, I already have a dark feeling of despair. It is the exact opposite of the way I plan to live.
It was sophistry to want to feel, to understand, to be kind. A castle of sand. One wave swept away everything, and what remained was a featureless beach that no one could recognize. I don't want to belong to anyone, to be treated like property, to do things I don't want to do, to be afraid of being known even though I don't want to be seen in a weak state.
What can I do for me? What can I prepare? When I told this story to my few acquaintances, it was easy to imagine solutions. I could have a partner, I could play more, I could spend less free time, I could give you a hug? Make a phone call?
It's a stopgap. I mean, it's only a stopgap. This is something I will probably want forever and never get until I die. Now that I know, it means I have to live with that feeling until I die. Am I losing my perspective? Is there a different perspective?
When I said I wanted to end it, he said no, that it was impossible. I told him that it was impossible because he didn't seem to have noticed that it had ended in the first place. I told him that it was impossible and that the relationship was already over. It was a conversation I didn't understand. He asked me for time. Then he told me he wanted to have sex with me.
How can I describe the horror of this? My memory was disjointed in timeline and degree of shock, images, pain, fear, discomfort, disgust, all kinds of things were recreated in front of my eyes. I couldn't even speak. Only the fear spread to the spot, and the rest of my memory is so vague that I still can't quite recall it.
When I asked whether I had disliked being touched before then or after that, my childhood came back to me.
I hated being touched by my parents.
They touched me in ways that left me with nothing but a feeling of disgust. They stroked my thighs and I reflexively brushed them off as disgusting. I still remember the look on my mother's face at that time. I still remember the look on my mother's face at that moment. It was a face that did not even try to hide her discomfort. I think she was uncomfortable because I, her property, had disobeyed her. I don't remember feeling relieved or having my anxiety eased by being touched. I think it was a feeling I learned about when I grew up.
Since last year or so, I no longer hide the fact that I draw. Originally, my drawing was just a doodle. Even so, I didn't say so because I didn't want to hear negative words. I have changed my mind because I can live with the negativity now. I don't want people to say I'm not good at it or that it's meaningless because they want to damage me. I don't want them to be happy. Then, I will enjoy painting in a relaxed manner and with my feelings of the moment. Basically, if someone asks for a picture, I say yes, but I don't give it to them. I don't think it's right to take a picture of someone and use it as a standby screen without asking them. I don't mind if they use it privately without my knowledge, but it has turned me off a little. Maybe that tends to happen when you are older.
What I believe in is a feeling that is renewed every single day. Feelings that are unquestionably conveyed straight to you. I'm an idiot, so it's good if it's properly put into words and acted upon.
I won't do it, okay? I said I would, but I did.
What was that night? The last night. A story that will no longer be updated. A long story.
If I lived until I was older and more frail, I would remember it over and over again. The happy time and space.
The times and spaces where I wanted to touch and be touched. I can't even imagine if there will be someone who will want to be touched again. Maybe I'm just used to it, or maybe there is a line somewhere where it's okay. I have an aversion to touching my own body, so I didn't want to be touched.
It was hard to describe how the gentle stroking made me feel sleepy and euphoric, like a quiet rush of euphoria.
