touch starved

My thumb hovers over the “install” button. Yet again, I decide not to download a dating app.

Instead, I make nests.

Pillows, blankets, and cats, if they’ll cooperate. I flop into the middle, tangle myself in fluff, then “pspsps” to summon my furry therapists. My brain flips through every open tab as I try to sleep.

I used to sneak into my kids’ rooms and sleep on the floor next to them, telling my then husband that they were crying and needed me. But half the time, I needed them.

Before kids, I had Zimmerman. His paw often rested on my hand or lips. When times were really rough, Oliver became a weighted blanket on my feet.

Right now, I’m in my nest. Bex is in my lap and lifts his head in annoyance whenever I sniffle or shift. It’s nice and all, but I need something more than bedding, feline, and kiddo cuddles. I’m touch starved, and these substitutes aren’t satisfying.

I attempt to socialize by joining a virtual Crips Art gathering. I draft a pattern for my dress with 20+ people acting as my “parallel play” partners. It’s beautiful, and I love seeing other people’s art. But it’s not the same.

I try shopping, texting, phone calls, letter writing, and just sitting in the same room as a friend. Still, the lonesomeness remains.

My bestie Madison wrote about yearning for a partner, and I keep circling back to that feeling. Part of me wants a partner desperately. Not even for “grand romance.” Just small things.

Someone to put my feet on while we watch TV. Someone to dry the dishes after I wash them. Someone to hand me my scissors while I sew. Someone warm to press against while I sleep.

But chronic illness twists this yearning into guilt. I calculate my usefulness like it’s an invoice. How much energy could I realistically give to a relationship? Would my bad days eventually cancel out the good ones? At what point does it stop being a partnership and turn into a caregiver-client relationship?

I don’t know.

I just know I’m tired.

I want a safe spot to be a puddle, preferably next to a human with nice boobs and soft skin. Someone to trace their fingers along my back until I fall asleep. I miss softness.

So I sit here, wrapped in fluffy blankets and pillows, thinking about how touch starved I am and quietly wishing for some sort of sapphic romance to unfold.

Until then, this combination of polyfill, cotton, and cat fur will have to hold me instead.