Part 1 | My Site 2

Noli Me Tangere

How do I experience life wishing the world would touch me not?

“Come on little guy,” I said to the green plant, which I offered my last bit of water to before setting an empty cup down beside his large, gray pot.

With drooping leaves and saggy stems, you would think he had not been watered in ages. In reality, it had been a total of two days. I figured since it was January in Michigan, he could survive while I spent the weekend at home. Apparently, I had overestimated his strength.

My roommate Athera, a petite and curvy woman, glanced up as I removed my final bag, from home, off my shoulder and returned to my position at the window. With eyes on my withering plant, I sighed, completely dejected.

Athera jumped off her half-lofted bed, landed on the shaggy carpet and walked over to my corner of the room. She reached out and took a single saggy leaf between her hands.

“Come on Luke!” she exclaimed. I laughed, remembering I had given it a name.

The previous summer, she and I had grown a basil seed as a part of a community engagement project for a freshmen organization we were in. Although I think they intended for it to symbolize new growth after the pandemic, for me, it symbolized the beginning of doubt in my dream of going to medical school.

My eyes find her hands flipping the leaf in her hand over again.

“Why are you rubbing his leaves, lady?” I asked, confused. Without any hesitation, she continued.

“Plants feel love through touch.”

“Huh,” I snorted, before reconsidering. “Wait for real? Does that help them grow?”

I shifted in place, becoming aware of how close she and I stood to each other. Although our dorm room was about the size of a shoebox, we somehow managed to clear the foot of space between my bed and the window for our plant collection. While that left enough room for our plants to grow, it did not leave very much room for both of us to stand comfortably.

“Maybe, I think,” she responded. I pondered the novel concept for a minute more. I have never really thought about plants as anything more than a stationary organism.

Couldn’t be me.

Plants feel love through touch.

With my dirty blonde hair pulled into ponytails, I bobbled back and forth, as we moved faster and faster down the 3 lane highway. It was a Sunday afternoon and the sun was shining brightly.

The pictures in the window are moving too fast. I cannot make out their shapes. Usually, I can see people, dogs and trees. Today, all I can see are squiggles. If I look too long, I start to feel bad butterflies in my stomach.

My mother is in the passenger seat of our truck. She has the haircut of a working woman: short, chic and powerful. My father, on the other hand, in the driver’s seat has a Clark Kent sort of look, without the muscles or the secret hero identity. Unless, you count being a stay at home dad a superpower.

The music was loud, and mama and daddy were talking about something in the front seat. I am not sure what, but I do not think Mama wanted to talk about it. During a break in the music, my father’s voice became louder and not so nice.

I glanced right to see if my brother had heard it as well. With his neck back and his arms limp, he must have elected to take his mid-day nap a little early.

Although I could not see his face, I noticed my father rub his forehead with his left hand. My mom turned away from him, and he reached out to turn the music dial up louder.

Something did not feel right. I felt warmer than I did moments before, and I put my fingers in my ears when daddy’s voice got too loud. Mama seemed scared.

This routine went on for quite a while. After some time, my mama looked back and found my eyes. With tears falling off her face, she reached back and took hold of my little hand.

It was cold and unfeeling.

“Mama what’s wrong?” Whatever was happening could not be good. Mama never cried on sunny days. She liked sunny days.

“Nothing’s wrong Honey. Can you just hold Mama’s hand?”

She smiled to ensure she was okay and that everything was fine. But, I know something was wrong, and I felt the bad butterflies in my stomach.

Glancing out my window again, the sun was nowhere to be found. It must have found a cloud to hide behind.

I now know that by holding my hand, she was activating my pacinian corpuscles and messaging my vagus nerve and hypothalamus. My blood pressure should have lowered and my heart rate steadied. The oxytocin increase should have helped me feel more connected to her and reduced my stress. But, I still felt the bad butterflies.

For a while after this day, Mama stopped reacting. No more tears, and no more turning away, nothing. She would just stand there whenever my father’s voice got loud. She would freeze in time and in space. Unmoving and completely unresponsive. Never again did she try to hold my hand.

Yet, I was left to wonder about that day: Was she consoling me, or was I consoling her?

Nothing's wrong honey. Can you hold Mama's hand?

Some years later, under further investigation, I found that plants do not enjoy physical touch. According to an article published in The Plant Journal (Berkowitz et al. 2018), within 30 minutes of touch, plants initiate mitochondrial stress signaling and can suppress growth and homeostatic processes. Furthermore, these signals can alter mitochondrial gene expression, hormone level and change regulatory networks within the plant.

Specifically, the concentration of Auxin, which is a hormone that regulates the growth of plants, can be impacted by touch. In other words, touching plants can actually stunt their growth.

When I think about my life, my memories and my evanescent desire for physical touch, I think about how what I have experienced have shaped my perspective on love and affection. I imagine myself like a little basil plant that was touched, and scared and stunted.

“Wait, you can drive a stick? That’s so cool!” I said.

“Can you teach me?” I stopped, pushing my curled-hair out of the way, and stared at him with big eyes. He laughed and offered me a smile.

“Sure, maybe on our next date,” He responded.

After dinner at a cute sushi spot, we walked through downtown Ann Arbor. I got him talking about his classes and plans for the rest of the week. All the while, I led us towards my friend’s place. While I knew this man was Catholic and assumed he had good morals, I still wasn’t crazy about giving him my address after the first date.

Plus, after picking out my outfit with Athera earlier that evening, she assured me we had to debrief everything that had happened: the good, the bad and the ugly.

“I had a wonderful time tonight,” He said. I smiled.

“Me too. This is me.” I responded, pointing left, towards the large dorm.

I noticed his hand moving in his left coat pocket: Possibly fidgeting, possibly fighting the cold. It was a windy day in January, so I should be itching to go inside. But, for some reason, I didn’t seem to be bothered by the weather.

Having tripped earlier, I could tell he was nervous. Yet, I doubt he was more nervous than I was. Among friends, I had built up a reputation as being a bit of a swerve-queen; always saying goodbye and dodging physical contact.

What do you do at the end of a date?

I should do something before it gets awkward.

“Can I give you a hug, Nathan?” I said before I thought through what I did. He glanced up from the sidewalk to meet my blue eyes.

“Yeah, sure.”

Ah! What did I do?

I gulp, feeling every muscle in my body stiff as I braced for his impact. He stepped forward and his strong arms wrapped around me.

Most of my dating experience has not gotten this far physically. I have plenty of experience with the awkwardness that accompanies unwanted physical contact. When I am unable to dodge, these situations typically end with a side hug, or handshake. All the while, I count my way through, and search for a means to an end. I have even jumped on the wrong bus, simply to get away from a touchy date.

In these moments, I envy cacti, with their long pointed spines that deter predators. If only I had sharp edges, I could puncture the skin of anything that came too close. Maybe that is what I hope when someone tries to touch me; that they will feel the puncture of my complete distaste for such connection.

Maybe that is why I asked this man to hug me.

Just a few inches taller than me, my head fit nicely on his shoulder. He smelled of citrus and fresh linens. Clean and comforting.

It's as if I could feel his hug stimulate c-tactile afferents, or slow-touch nerves, and when they sent signals down the skin, and spinal cord to my brain. The cascade of oxytocin and serotonin increased my mood, lowered my anxiety, and most importantly, decreased my desire to run away. I am not convinced I actually wanted this to end.

Eventually, he pulled away. I found his blue and green eyes in the street light, and got to work deciphering his emotion. With a big grin, I could only imagine that he was content.

“I’ll see you around?” He said, breaking the silence between us.

“Definitely.” I responded without hesitation.

He smiled wide, so I could see his teeth, all goofy-like. He placed his hands in his pockets and nodded. Then, he turned around and left me.

I am unsure if it was our shared appreciation for quesadillas, or the blue flannel he had worn that night, but I stood there perplexed by him. I watched his tall, dark figure disappear down the street. Then, a single thought made me smile.

He doesn’t even realize how special he is yet.

I envy cacti, with their long pointed spines that visibly deter predators. If only I had sharp edges, I could puncture the skin of anything that came too close.

“I had a good time tonight. Would you like to hangout at mine for a bit?” Killian asked while opening the door to the pub for me. I walked through and instantly felt the rush of cold hit my legs. Crossing my arms, I worked to conserve as much heat as possible as I entered the chilly Dublin street. Finally, I processed what he said.

“Uhh..no thanks. I’ve got-I have to be up early tomorrow.” I responded. I eyed him, and saw he looked rather bummed. I figured something like this would happen, since he had failed to break the touch barrier on any of our previous dates and he was a bit heavy handed on his alcohol that evening.

I was near the end of my semester abroad studying at University College Dublin (UCD), when Killian asked me out. He was a Field Hockey player, so he was athletic, tall and Irish. Perfect, by most girls' standards. Or at least he was on paper.

By this point, we had been on a handful of dates, and I was unsure about how I felt about him. He was cute, fun, and nice. But, I'm not sure if I had much interest in being physically close to him.

We were heading south on the street towards the nearest bus stop, just a few below the river Liffey. It was dark out, and there were few people on the street.

Did he really just ask me to go back to his place?

Once at the bus stop, we stood side by side, along the sidewalk in front of an apartment building. There was an awkwardness in the air that surrounded us. At this point, Killian inched closer to me, and put his arm around me. I flinched and tried to hide my emotion.

Eww. Eww. Eww.

“Did you know Jack Black has a band?” He asked and pulled out his phone from his pocket.

What are we even talking about? And for goodness sakes, why is he touching me?

“No,” I responded, trying to seem uninterested.

Our conversation continued in this manner for the next few minutes, while his arm moved to my waist, and he pulled me closer. All the while, I searched for a way out of his grasp.

“Well, there is my bus!” I respond pointing towards the double-decker green and yellow vehicle heading towards us. I slithered myself free from his grasp, moved towards it, hoping he was too tipsy to notice that this was not the right bus.

“I’ll see you around?” He asked. I ran towards the bus to evade any potential hugging or kissing he might force on me.

“Maybe.” I said over my shoulder as I jumped on the rather full bus and disappeared into the crowd. As the bus drove away, I stopped myself from finding his figure along the street.

If I never see that man again, it’ll be too soon.

After we moved north of the Liffey, and I was sure I wouldn’t run into Killian again, I exited the green bus. I waited a few minutes for the correct bus to arrive. Then, once on, I took a window seat at the back of the bus to begin my 30 minute ride back to campus.

Within a few minutes, an old, drunk man, missing two of his front teeth, sat down next to me to chat.

He seemed harmless, so I talked to him up until Donnybrook, where he got off. The conversation consisted mostly of pleasantries and him telling me about his life. However, about halfway through, he asked me if I would fulfill the American dream of finding a European Husband.

“A pretty girl like you, you have an Irishman, yeah?” He asked, showing me his toothless smile. I huffed a laugh. I ran through my night with Killian in my head.

I most definitely did not have an Irishman.

“No, not after tonight.” I responded. He didn't press me on it. Instead, he found a way to change the subject.

And I definitely do not want one as touchy as Killian.

A pretty girl like you, you have an Irishman, yeah?

Sitting in my living room, during a spring weekend spent at home, I was reflecting on the frustration of having men touch me in public with my mother. She offered me the goofiest of advice.

“Well Duh. You just gotta side-step.” She said as she took two steps to the right in a quick motion. I immediately began to laugh. My mother walked closer to the couch where I was sitting.

“What happens if they continue to advance Ma?” I say in between chuckles. She smiled.

“Hannah, You do, ‘Eww, No I’m okay’.” She said and let out a giggle. “Make sure to put your hand up. DUH.” She spun her hand around and thrusted it outward in a stop-like motion.

At this point, I was cracking up, uncontrollably. My mom continued like this for the next few minutes, demonstrating what I would do and how I could say it.

“Then, you end with the ‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you, thank you’.” She finished.

While my mother was being silly, sitting there on the couch, I imagined there could be truth to her words.

What would happen if I just asked someone not to touch me?

I am not sure that I have often tried a direct approach to prevent people from touching me. My mother, someone who doesn’t mind physical touch, thinks it's natural to set boundaries with people she doesn’t want touching her. What would happen if I did that?

End with the, 'I'm afraid I won't be able to help you, thank you.'

“So, why are you even Catholic?” She says, staring at me blankly.

After we had spent an hour talking about our political and moral beliefs, finally we landed on the topic of theology. While my childhood friend and I had both grown up Catholic, she no longer considered herself to be practicing. I still took the title, even if I did not feel qualified to defend it.

Sitting in my old, but beloved beater-car, I ponder a moment before responding.

“What do you mean?”

She pushed a piece of her dark-brown hair behind her ear and huffs a sigh. Then, she turned left to look me in the eyes.

“If you can’t see God, if you can’t touch him, why do you believe he is real?”

Without hesitation, I stumble over an unsatisfying response and insist that I have somewhere else to be. Driving her home, I turn the volume up just loud enough that talking over it would be a challenge.

Why had I never thought to touch God?

If my childhood friend were to ask me that question today - “If you can’t touch him, why do you believe he is real,” - I would offer up examples of other things you cannot see but believe in–gravity, sound waves, emotions–as support for His existence. Or, I would offer information on how touch is actually an illusion since you cannot really touch anything at all (atoms hover about 10-8 meters apart from each other). However, I am not sure that would be particularly productive, since I do not think it is my responsibility to convince others of God’s existence.

Initially, when this conversation happened, I was concerned that I did not have the desire to feel the Lord’s love physically. Yet, what I did not realize then, was that God was so undeniably comforting for me, because I thought nothing about him was physical - at least not in the prayer or communication aspect of having a relationship with God.

Throughout a given day in my life, I endure a certain amount of unwanted physical contact. Whether it is shaking someone's hand or getting hugged from someone I haven't seen in a while, it can be challenging to navigate these situations where I am expected to physically connect with another person. But, when I spend time praying with the Lord, I do not have to engage in unwanted physical connection.

Yet, when my faith is weak, I sometimes seek out the physical and unfulfilling form of connection for myself. In these dark times, I can feel like Mary Magdalene, when she was mourning and alone. Then, when she found Jesus resurrected outside his tomb, she reached out to touch Him, but he stopped her.

“Jesus said to her, ‘Stop holding on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am going to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” (John 20:17).

The version of me that existed during that car conversation, with my friend, would have used this to support my distaste for physical touch. Jesus does not even want to be touched in the physical form. Beyond the fact that I no do not believe this to be true now, I now think this completely misses the point.

Since Mary Magdalene already believes in Christ and that He has risen from the dead, He does not need her to touch Him, especially before He makes his final act of obedience and ascends to the Father. Similarly, because I have faith in the Lord, (but mostly, because I do not enjoy most physical contact,) I do not desire to physically touch the Lord in ways that others might. Instead, I feel closely connected to the Lord after times of prayer during Eucharistic adoration, or the exposition of the Blessed Sacrament.

Yet, what I did not realize then, was that God was so undeniably comforting for me, because I thought nothing about him was physical.

“What’s the code again?" I said. Looking over my shoulder, Nathan came to a stop, panting. Putting his arm on my shoulder, he catches his breath. I giggle thinking about our impromptu race from the car. Impromptu in the sense that I was halfway to the door before announcing it.

“Do not worry…I got it.” He then fussed with the lox-box in the dark for a few moments. I glance at the beige building beside the church. It is not a place you would know was there if you weren’t looking for it.

Nathan opens the lock and then the door ahead of me, and I enter inside. Standing in the breezeway, I dip my right hand in the mini holy water font, and make the sign of the cross before opening the large stained glass door to the adoration chapel. Nathan follows in behind me and makes his way to the front row, directly in front of the Blessed Sacrament.

I walk down the central aisle, between the four rows of red-cushioned kneelers, towards the large beige mass on the wall. At the end of the aisle, I move to the right of the large curtains and select the open option on a dial. At once, the drapes part in the middle and move outward, exposing a monstrance. The sun-shaped structure has rays circling outward from the center. In the center, the Body of Christ is present in the most holy Eucharist. Once fully exposed, I drop to my knees and bow my head reverently while making the sign of the cross.

In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.

Hi Lord Jesus, it is Hannah.

After a few moments, I stand, and find myself in the second row of kneelers, behind Nathan. Pulling a red-beaded rosary out of my jeans pocket, I fold over the 59 beads in my hand. Then, I kneel, make the sign of the cross and begin to recite the Apostles Creed, alongside Nathan.

“I believe in God, the Father, Almighty…”

With my hand on the proper beads on the tail of the rosary, I move through all the opening prayers. Since it is Friday, I announce the first sorrowful mystery: the agony in the garden.

As I have elected to pray a scriptural rosary, on each Hail Mary bead, I read a line of scripture before praying the Hail Mary associated with that bead.

“Then Jesus went with them to a place called Gethsemane. And he began to be sorrowful and troubled. Hail Mary, full of grace…”

We continue like this through each decade of the rosary. Throughout which, we meditate on the suffering of the Lord during his life on earth. Beginning with the betrayal, and concluding with his death and resurrection. Praying with my eyes closed, I find that I can picture the Lord in my head clearly. Obedient, though troubled, with His destined death on the cross; the crown of thorns on His head; the blood dripping down His face and agony of crucifixion.

After we complete all 5 decades, we conclude with a Hail Holy Queen prayer, and I return to my seat. Then, I move my eyes upwards to the Blessed Sacrament. The consecrated host is a circular, pale off-white color with an imprinted cross on the center.

The next hour or so is spent talking with God, about everything from life worries, to aspirations for the future. Sitting before the embodiment of the Catholic Faith, I feel the fullness of His supernatural presence and peace.

I find that I can picture the Lord in my head clearly. Obedient, though troubled, with his destined death on the cross; the crown of thorns on his head; the blood dripping down his face and agony of crucifixion.

Rising up from kneeling, I fold up the cushioned stool, and turn towards the end of the wooden church pew. As the others file out ahead of me, I take in the long stretch of people now in a row.

Moving up the line, I admire the individuals around me. One dark-skinned lady in front of me has a striking yellow pants suit on. Another fair and dainty woman is in a long, paisley dress. One man beside me, likely Italian, has his hair slicked back and a bright blue sweater on. Behind then, there is an intricate, rectangular tabernacle that will house any consecrated hosts not consumed during this mass.

Moving my eyes upward, the ambulatory walls are covered in art depicting biblical scenes. On the left of the sanctuary, there is a mural of the resurrected Jesus, seen with a golden halo, amongst his apostles. The central apostle, St. Thomas, in the painting kneels before the Lord and has his hand outstretched into the wound on Jesus’ side. As if the Lord is saying, 'Have you come to believe because you have seen Me? Because you have touched Me?'

When it is finally my turn, I find my place on the dark kneeler ahead of the priest. Then, the servant of Christ, dressed in purple vestments, administers the circular, consecrated host to me.

“The body of Christ,” He says.

“Amen,” I respond, sticking out my tongue.

After receiving the Eucharist, I stand, make the sign of the cross and steer my way back towards my seat. Following the footsteps of the person in front of me, I close my eyes, and thank the Lord for allowing me to receive Him today.

Once at my pew, I kneel and feel the Eucharist move down my throat and into my stomach. As my body absorbs this physical sacrifice from God, a warmness begins to spread inside my chest. It is kind and gentle; blissful and comforting. His peace fills up my holes of doubt and worry. I am completely content.

As if the Lord is saying, 'Have you come to believe because you have seen me? Because you have touched me?'

I think that those are the moments I crave most. Not a fist bump, not a hug, and not any physical bodily affection. Instead, I want the life of the Lord in me; the body, blood, soul and divinity of Jesus Christ; the embodiment of love.

When pondering the complexity of the Lord’s physical form, I often think of this quote by St. John Chryostom:

"How many of you say: I should like to see His face, His garments, His shoes.
You do see Him, you touch Him, you eat Him. He gives Himself to you, not only that you may see Him, but also to be your food and nourishment."

Searching for a physical connection with the Lord was challenging because I do not desire that connection with most individuals. As such, I didn’t know where to look or how to find it. Yet, I managed to find it where I have always been told the Lord will be: in the Eucharist.

“This definitely isn't water,” Marion said, holding up her white hydro flask. We were waiting for our food at a local drive-in restaurant, inside my friend Annie’s ruby red Ford Fusion.

“Wait what?” Lucy said. I glanced up from my phone, in anticipation for Marion’s answer. At the same time, our server skates over to our car and hands Annie our food.

“It was three white claws,” she responded, giggling and dropping the empty bottle onto the ground.

I gulped. Although these three ladies had all been my friends for at least a few years, they had only been friends with each other for a few months. In fact, our friend group emerged during the quarantine of the COVID-19 pandemic.

For the rest of the ride, I barely touched my food, and I did not make a sound. Instead, I kept my gaze forward, on the back of the chair and resisted the urge to scream. While driving home, Anne, recognizing my lack of interest in conversation, turns back to meet my eyes. Although I was trying to remain as emotionless as possible, she must have managed to decipher something.

“Hey Marion, can we go back to your house and watch Dumplin’ ?” Annie asked. At the time, this film was one of my favorite films, so I know she was trying to make me feel better.

They all agreed unanimously. A few moments later, we pulled into her U-shaped driveway outside her large house. Marion immediately opened her door and struts to the front door in a dramatic fashion. Lucy followed suit, quickly. I remained motionless, and tried to regain my composure. Once I think it was finally found, Annie breaks the silence.

“Are you okay?”

As if those words were a code word to activate my ability to cry, tears streamed down my face without direction or purpose. After I choked on pure emotion for a couple seconds, I realized that she had shifted her body towards me in an effort to watch me crumble apart. Then, I sniffled and wiped my nose on either sleeve. I wheezed for only a few moments longer.

“If I go into that house right now,” I respond between sniffles, “I can confidently say when I leave, she and I will no longer be friends.”

Then, I open the car door, collect my things and head towards my blue Ford focus. She doesn’t stop me. Instead, she heads towards the front door, with her water bottle in hand and enters the house to rejoin her friends. I am thankful she didn’t follow me.

What she didn’t know is that I had already been there. Except I was 8 years old and instead of Marion, the person was someone who was supposed to keep me safe, but didn’t. I was back in that place. I was unsafe, and I could see those around me abusing substances.

As I drove off and away from danger, the tears kept coming. Yet, I am still unsure if it was because of what transpired that day, or something that happened much earlier.

If I go into that house right now... when I leave, she and I will no longer be friends.

I first began drinking alcohol when I studied abroad in Ireland, during my junior year of college, which I know is a lot later than many other people. The Irish drank in ways I had never experienced before: All the time and without remorse.

But, I was never anything like that. I only drank where I felt safe, never drank more than I could handle, and I would never, ever get drunk. However, that didn’t stop me from drinking alcohol at inappropriate times.

Sometimes when I am feeling rather pessimistic about my experience, I imagine myself as the snake from Robin Hood, Sir Hiss, when he is locked inside the barrel of Ale. Although I imagine a bottle more than a barrel, when I intend to avoid consuming the poisonous liquid, I sometimes fall victim to its irresistibility.

Like the snake, I was forced into the barrel by those around me, but I ultimately let myself stay in that space. No one made me drink. Only I am responsible for drinking the poison.

Although that isn't quite true. When I think about my adolescence, I have numerous memories that unfold like the following one.

Sitting in the passenger seat of the car, I finished braiding my hair, and tied it off on the end. My dad pulled into my best friend's driveway, which is where I'd planned to spend the night. I began to gather my things, while my dad put the car into park.

"Hannah, try not to drink all of Al and Mar's alcohol tonight." He said with a goofy look on his face.

"Haha, you're funny Dad." I said back to him. He huffs a laugh.

"Come on. You could have a little, you know. I'd let you." He offered.

"Thanks Dad, but I'm good. " I responded as I opened the door and exited.

Other family members of mine echoed the same sentiment as well. Sometimes it was my brother, my aunts and uncles, even my grandmother. Yet, the irony of this is that when I finally decided to start drinking, it wasn't in a place that they could see it. I was halfway across the world.

The mantra I adopted, while there, highlights the sort of drinker I was: “If you’re always tipsy, you’re never sober, you’re never drunk, you’re never hungover.” This meant drinking during the school day, drinking at home, and drinking when I was alone. It was mostly pathetic.

However, it was during this time, when I found if I push myself far enough, colors look brighter, noise sounds louder, and my need for sleep disappears. Although this wasn't completely alcohol's fault, I realized later, once given a diagnosis, that alcohol was actually just numbing the problem.

I think others that drink are in a similar situation. They drink to numb them from the reality of their life.

Coffee sort of has that effect on me as well. It's a sort of socially acceptable hard drink for the daylight. Something to take the edge off by distracting you with energy and the pulsating sound of your heartbeat.

I find that I am not able to drink these things in moderation. The all-or-nothing mentality is a pretty common theme in my life. Some might call it addiction, others might call it a habit. Regardless, I won't mess around with it. Instead, I've decided to cut them out of my life completely. Otherwise, I might be stuck in the bottle forever.

If you’re always tipsy, you’re never sober, you’re never drunk, you’re never hungover.

Sometimes I imagine myself still drowning in the bottle. Swimming and scanning for any loved one who is slipping into that poison, on high alert and miserable. Floating in the pool, after being thrown in by someone much bigger than me, in their drunken rage, my body is unclean.

A few months ago, this fact was solidified for me.

It was the first week of October, the leaves had just begun to change, and it was perfect flannel weather. A few gal pals of mine and I had gone away for a weekend near one of my family member’s homes. This particular family member reached out and mentioned that we should meet up at this festive area in a nearby town. I agree, thinking we would get dinner together, and catch up.

After driving 45 minutes, we made it to the apple orchard we had agreed to meet at, and I parked Annie’s large mom-car. Before I can type out a message to alert our arrival, I spot my family member staggering and swaying towards our car.

My stomach fell to my feet. I open my door, and run towards them. Even when I am a few feet away, I still had to say their name before they recognized me.

“Oh, I fo-for-forgot you were coming.” they said. “Did you get something to eat?”

On their face, there was ketchup on one side and mustard on the other. I could see remnants of their hotdog in their teeth, yet it was unable to mask the smell of poison on their breath.

“No, we just got here.” I responded and offered an insincere smile. Then, we stared at each other for a few moments. I searched for a reason, or explanation, but there never is one. Their blue eyes were glossy and glazed over. Tears started to roll down my cheeks and my heart felt heavy in my chest.

“I’m sor-sorry, Hannah.” They said, as they began to cry.

“It's okay,” I quickly offered. “------ it’s okay,”

I reached up with my right hand, and wiped the single tear from their cheek. Then, I glanced at their significant other, as they stood there on the left, with a smug smile on their face. They were completely unconcerned. As if they were saying,; ‘It isn't my job to stop them.’ You’re right, I thought, it used to be my job. I returned my gaze to the inebriated individual in front of me.

“I love you —-----,”

“I lo-love you too.” They respond. Tears continue to move down our faces. We go back and forth like this for a few moments.

How can I help you out of this?

Completely unsure how to aid them, I reach out and offer them the only thing I feel might fix it: a hug. It is long and wildly unfulfilling, but I try to communicate as much love and kindness to them as possible in those 10 seconds. When we pulled away, I returned back to my friend’s car and my family member left with their significant other.

On the ride home, I wondered about that hug and if it offered them anything that I had never felt before. The sort of stuff Nathan and Athera talk about feeling when they hug people. I decided it failed to show them my love, and failed to fix the problem.

Why can’t it fix this problem?

Maybe it's because I needed the hug a whole lot more than they did. Maybe it’s because my body is unclean from the years spent stuck in the bottle.

Floating in the pool, after being thrown in by someone much bigger than me, in their drunken rage, my body feels unclean.

On one particularly chilly December day, after class had ended and I was excited for the weekend, I entered through the back door of my house to find my housemates gathered in the kitchen around the dining room table.

“Hey guys, what’s going on?”

As my eyes jumped from one sad lady to the next, I searched for some explanation in their faces. Landing on the lady with dewy eyelashes, and rosie red cheeks, I figured that she was the culprit.

“What’s wrong Athera?” I asked.

Typically, Athera is the embodiment of joy. She is bubbly, and full of energy. Like a glow stick, or one of those solar-powered dancing flowers. Today, she was like a raincloud. She was uncomfortable and distraught.

I moved towards the table, set down my book bag and took a seat in the only open chair left in the small room. Sitting across from Athera now, she glanced up at me and forced a smile. Trying to hold back the tears, she choked on emotion for that couple seconds. Then she sniffled, wiped her nose on her sleeve in a failed attempt to stop it. But, it came anyway, like the weekly junk mail – persistent and incredibly frustrating. Finally, she broke out in tears.

“I just can’t believe…”

Athera went on to describe the awful situation she was dealing with for the next several minutes. Unfortunately for you, that is not my story to tell, and frankly, her composure is the only particular part relevant to this story.

Once she had told us everything that happened, we went around the room offering advice and encouragement for her to be strong and persevere. Every few moments, her crying would become more intense, as if it came in waves.

Throughout all of this, I felt particularly unsure about how to help her. Not that I didn’t think talking about it was helpful, but she did not seem to respond to it well. She appeared to get smaller and smaller the more we talked about the situation, like she was trying to hide herself from our view. She looked like she needed to feel appreciated. Like she needed to feel loved.

I feel like I should hug her. I don't want to, but maybe that would help. Should I?

Throughout our friendship Athera has always been a hugger. In fact, when she moved into the house, she encouraged us, whenever anyone came home, to run up to them, say ‘Welcome home!’ and give them a big hug. Although some of us didn’t willingly participate, she insisted on pursuing this gesture regardless.

I should hug her.

But before I could say anything, my roommate, Sydney, beat me to the punch.

“Can I hug you?” she asked Athera. Athera looked up at Sydney’s smiling face across from her.

“No.” Athera responded without hesitation.

Why didn’t she want to be touched? I thought she liked hugs.

After that, no else offered any help beyond kind words. We remained in the kitchen with Athera until she had to go to work that evening. When she returned home, she wasn’t particularly interested in hugging anyone either. I remember wondering about this peculiar situation over the next few days.

Maybe not everyone who enjoys physical touch, always enjoys it.

She is bubbly, and full of energy, like a glow stick, or one of those solar-powered dancing flowers. Today, she was like a raincloud.

“This is so weird.” I said looking towards Nathan and I’s newly intertwined hands. We sat in his mini, but comfy car, driving back towards my house. Having spent most of the past few months and the entire afternoon together, he had just asked me to be his girlfriend. I said yes, before realizing that I was now expected to partake in physical displays of affection.

“This is so weird.” I repeated. I glanced toward Nathan and saw he had entered his own world. With the silliest smile across his face, he was bopping to the beat of his own drum. Every couple minutes, he would clench his fist real tight and say ‘Let’s go!’ all goofy-like. That made me smile.

“This is so weird. I don’t like this.” My fingers felt icky. I looked down and could see my skin was clammy and pale. Nathan snapped back to reality and caught my eyes.

“We don’t have to hold hands if you don’t want to,” he responded. I offered him a smile and pulled my hand from his. I let my eyes linger on him for a few moments more. He looked like I crushed his spirit.

At this point, my hands had gone cold, and my blood diverted elsewhere. It was dark outside, the sun had gone down hours ago, and there wasn’t another soul in sight. Nathan was driving quicker now, I think unsure about how I was feeling. I was also unsure how I was feeling.

I had hugged this man numerous times, why did I not want to hold his hand?

Why can’t I just enjoy physical contact?

Within a few minutes, we arrived in front of my house. I turned to say something, but he beat me to it.

“Can I have a hug?” He turns towards me with a mile-wide smile across his face, his anticipation beamed. My heart rate increased, alongside my breathing, delivering more oxygen to the large muscle groups I needed to escape this situation.

“Absolutely not.” I responded. “I think I need to go on a run.” Then, I opened my door, got out of the car and closed it behind me without waiting for a response. I ran up my front steps to unlock the front door. Once inside, I sprinted upstairs to my bedroom and lay down keeping the lights off. I didn’t end up going on a run.

I know that I was simply overwhelmed by all the input I have received on the physical-touch-front that day. Before we had held hands, I was having a blast, and there was not anywhere else I would have rather been. Then, we held hands and my brain responded by entering fight or flight mode. Without fully processing, I decided to run away from him without consciously realizing what I was doing.

I felt unsafe, fearful, and panicked. All of which, I had not previously felt any time before while being with Nathan. Why had holding hands changed that for me?

We don't have to hold hands if you don't want to.

“What plant is that?” I asked, pointing to a sprawling shrub in the corner.

Joanne, a thin woman with a bright smile, moved towards the plant. As a botanical garden docent, she was touring me through all the important plants in the conservatory before the field trip that we would help lead later.

“Oh, this is a cool one Hannah. You’ll like this,” Joanne said, reaching her right hand out and touching the tip of a leaf. Immediately, the mini leaves, or leaflets, like that of the teeth of a comb, that run alongside either side of the leaf, closed inward on themselves.

“Wow. That is so cool,” I responded, and reached my hand to touch a section of leaves. Just as before, the leaves pinched inwards, limiting their surface area. With disbelief, I continued to touch leaf after leaf, and watched as each one reacted just as the one before had.

“Why does it do that?” I asked. I turned towards Joanne and saw she had been distracted with another plant. Turning back to me, she began again.

“It's a defense mechanism that the touch-me-not plant developed probably to prevent predation.

Huh. If I had leaves to close up like that, maybe people wouldn’t try to touch me all the time.

Under later research, I discovered that the Mimosa pudica, or the Touch-Me-Not plant has indeed developed this movement phenomenon in response to others. Their thigmonastic movements, or non-directional responses to touch, limit surface area, and make the plants appear dead, or unappetizing for herbivores.

Similarly to these plants, my reluctance for touch has little to do with me and more to do with those around me. My aversion to touch is a response to others expecting societal norms of physical contact from me. Just like the touch-me-not plant, I am responding to others.

But, the overall reaction that is occurring is more complicated than that. It is caused by a loss of turgor pressure, which is the force that the water in the cells exert on the cell wall. When calcium ions and anions become depolarized and initiate an action potential, the cells release water and collapse on themselves. In this way, the response follows an all-or-none principle for reaction to occur.

In a similar fashion, I don’t think my aversion to touch is consistent with every person in my life. Some people do not meet the depolarization threshold for me not to want to hug or touch them. Others, meet that threshold without any effort. In other words, there are individuals that I don’t mind physical contact from: My siblings, my closest friends, my fiancé. Yet, there are others that I wouldn’t want to touch with a 10ft pole: everyone else.

Still, can I actually expect others not try to initiate socially acceptable forms of physical contact in the current society?

No, I can't.

Why? You might ask. Well, what did I, someone who is touch adverse do when I discovered a plant that is touch averse?

I touched it. And did so repeatedly.

Similarly to these plants, my reluctance for touch has little to do with me and more to do with those around me.

In the last semester at the University of Michigan, I worked on a project all about plant spinescence, specifically the convergent evolution of spines, prickles and thorns. Throughout my research, I found that Cacti, or plants in the Cactaceae family are native to the Americas. These plant have modified leaves, or spines, that protect them from herbivores and help to retain water in arid climates. However, there is a similar genus of plants, Euphorbia, also commonly called spurges, that are native to Africa. These plants, have also evolved spines that are similar to cacti. While these two groups of plants are often mistaken for each other, their evolution is unconnected and occurred in different places.

I think Athera and I are like this. During that moment in the kitchen, she didn't want to be touched. Whether because she doesn't like touch, didn't want to be touched by the individuals around her, or maybe she felt the window where a consoling hug would have aided had closed. Regardless, she was averse to touch in that moment. Similarly, though more often than she, I have an aversion to touch. She has different life experiences, different wants and different perspective on how she experiences love. Yet, we come to have similar reactions in different situations.

In fact, I think all people are like this. They can like touch, and not want to hug you. They can not like touch and want to hug you. Contrary to popular belief, there isn't a one-size-fits-all. No one owes you a hug, or a handshake. They can change their mind whenever they please.

I am like a cactus with strangers. Stiff, and uninviting to any sort of physical connection. Yet, with my family, and fiancé, I am like a goat willow, with an appearance encouraging them to touch. Although this isn't a black and white distinction. Sometimes, this is true, other times it isn't. Sometimes I want to hug them, sometimes I don't. They roll with the punches. You would too, if you loved someone enough.

About the Author

Hannah Zalewski is a senior at the University of Michigan, majoring in Evolution, Ecology and Biodiversity and minoring in Writing. She hopes to pursue a career in plant ecology and conservation. In her free time, she can be found hiking, crocheting and playing board games. If you wish to contact the author, you can emailing her at haza@umich.edu