7.25.22<\/p>\n\n\n\n
CW \/\/ self-harm mention; suicidal thoughts mention; <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I do not let people touch my wrists. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I have not always been this way – sensitive to those who might touch a vulnerable area of my skin. Before depression gripped my throat with its compassionless touch, my wrists were not considered vulnerable to me. They were as strong and durable as the rest of my body, and did not decree special treatment. And yet, highschool crept upon my unsuspecting mind, and with it, the full weight of a damaged psyche. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I started self-harming. I dug my nails into the flesh on my legs, tore at it to feel something, to make myself bleed. I feared addiction should I find a knife. I feared I would not stop myself from going too far if I brought a blade to my wrist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I learned, unwillingly, that if you cut up your arm length-wise, you can\u2019t be stitched together again easily. My memory fails me often, but this fact remains, sitting stalwart as a cautious reminder of the fear I held against myself. Now I knew this. Now I knew how to die at the hand of a blade.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t let anyone touch my wrists, let alone myself. I didn\u2019t want to die, even as I fantasized about it. If I touched this area of my skin – if anyone <\/em>touched this area of my skin – who knew what would happen? Who knew what I might let happen? Wrists became off-limits. They became dangerous. I could not wear watches, I could not wear bracelets – any brush of fabric, of metal, of leather – all of it would make my stomach churn, make me think of that little fact I learned, make me remember how easy it is to die. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I began healing. I pulled myself from my suicidal years and dragged my body through college. I tore my hand away whenever anyone touched my wrists, said they were sensitive, said I didn\u2019t like them being touched. Some took this as a challenge, increasing my discomfort as they reached for my arm, as they put cold metal against my skin, as they laughed and teased and insisted I just let them touch me. The sensitivity grew worse, grew almost unbearable. I practiced running my own fingers along my inner palm, then down and up my forearm, learning to trust myself. I would not harm my body. Not anymore, not ever again. It was safe for me to touch. And, eventually, I would find it safe for a select few other people to touch as well. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Once, my yoga instructor moved my pose by grasping my wrists, and I did not flinch away. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Once, my friend grabbed my wrist to lead me somewhere, and I did not feel ill. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Once, I turned my palms face up so my girlfriend could bind me to the bed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There are few people I trust more than this woman I\u2019ve given myself to. When we lay in bed together, and she runs her fingers along my arm, across my hand, I expose my wrist to her, like a beast displaying its stomach. I let her touch, let my body tense, then relax. I do not fear her hurting me. Her caress does not bring terror. For once, I feel like I can be vulnerable, and not fear the bite of some sardonic joke – of cold metal, of a sudden jab of nails, of something that would make this trust shaky. She touches, with a tender love, and I am not afraid.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She leads my hands through the cuffs, locks them against the foot of the bed. I feel the leather press against me, firm but unthreatening. I cannot remove my hands, and I cannot shift the bindings so they do not touch my wrists. They do not bother me. I trust her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDo you feel safe?\u201d she asks, her voice a whisper as she straddles my waist. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes,\u201d I breathe, leaning up to kiss her. \u201cI have never felt unsafe with you.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I do not let people touch my wrists.\u00a0<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"I do not let people touch my wrists. Except for you. Except for you.","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[283],"tags":[876,158,157,12,814,795,238,466,114,97,342,877,37],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p27tjX-CP","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2407"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2407"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2407\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2408,"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2407\/revisions\/2408"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2407"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2407"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2407"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}