my small, sweaty hands

why I avoid physical touch

At one point, I started drawing a lot hands and tried to master them out of spite. To make it more bearable, I used hand-holding scenes from films and K-dramas as references. And I haven’t recovered since (I am laughing and crying)!

Elizabeth holding Mr. Darcy’s hand from Pride and Prejudice (2005)

So, I decided to write about Marta, one of the few people who intertwines her fingers in mine, and why even her physical affection can make me feel uncomfortable. It’s long, but I hope you enjoy it ~

---

Marta holds my small, sweaty hands more often than I’d like her to. She tugs them whenever she wants me to read her a book or play Snakes and Ladders with her, dragging me with the strength of an eight-year-old. Sometimes, I forget how big Marta is because her fingers are as soft as they were when she was a baby. Though her height is less than an inch away from reaching my shoulder.

When I could cradle Marta in my arms–pick her up like one of her stuffed toys–I’d always let her play with my hands. Feeling her chubby fingers wrap around mine was as natural as me being her manang. I’d smile until my cheeks hurt.

But, lately, I avoid Marta’s hands as if they have the Midas touch. Three days ago, she placed her hand on my shoulder, and I almost flinched.

“I don’t like being touched,” I said in a tone as cold as the water pouring from the faucet.

Marta was standing outside the bathroom doorway, begging me to explain a story she just read. She had been watching me wash my hands with impatience.

“But you let me hug you yesterday!” Marta insisted.

I told her, rather angrily, that I wasn’t in the mood today. She let go. I forget what happens after—my memory has been deteriorating—but it’s either Marta complained that “it’s always like this” or we both fell silent.

What I’m sure of is that regret flooded my mind as I dried my hands. I’ve been running on a broken body clock, a worry-wrecked brain, and a barely beating heart for a while. I felt even worse that day. My outburst was understandable, but it wasn’t justified.

So, I sat next to Marta later that afternoon, reading aloud the book that she couldn’t understand. I was tempted to run away whenever her hair started to brush my arm—when did it get so long?—but love kept me steady until we reached the last page. That’s when I apologized. And, because she’s too kind, Marta said sorry for getting mad at me too.

I’m not as gentle as her though. I pick at this memory like a scab, opening the wound over and over again to prevent myself from scarring Marta later on. I don’t want to always be like this.

I’m probably afraid of Marta’s physical affection because I’m barely holding myself together. Since I survived the first semester (hell), I’ve been picking up a million, scattered pieces of myself–trying to undo months of waking up in panic, sobbing on my pillow, and typing papers in the ungodliest hours. The slightest pat pressures me to recover, reminding me that people lean on me to stand.

I need to be left untouched, and I hate it. Who am I if I’m falling apart?

Then again, whenever Marta feels sad or scared, I let her cry on my shoulder or cling to my arm. I embrace her smallness and love her for it. It feels awkward like carrying a newly born baby (how do you hold helplessness?). But Marta comes first. And the happiness of being her safety is incomparable.

Maybe I’ll be happier if I give in to Marta, if she can freely hold my tired hands and hug my fragile frame. Maybe it’s the kindness I’ve been looking for from myself. At the very least, I’m sure Marta will be happy (she loves barging into my room). That’s enough for me.

So, I’ll open up my arms to her a little more each day. Though it’ll take months to adjust to Marta’s constant closeness (and years to learn how to show that same affection to myself). It doesn’t matter. In the end, she’ll own my small, sweaty hands–know she’ll always have me.