I have a pug that turns to stone the minute I try to pick him up.  He absolutely despises being man handled and will squeal like a pig.

The thing is, I can totally relate to Max.  There were years, and I mean DECADES, where I couldn’t stand to be touched, even though connection was the one thing I yearned for most of all. I wanted to be loved and seen and held like a little baby, but I refused to admit that to anybody, least of all myself.

I can still remember my girlfriend’s wedding, stiffening when she, in her joy, attempted to hug me, one of her bridesmaids. I can still remember the WTF look on her face when I blocked her with some karate move, then, sensing I was being really weird, patted her on the shoulder.

The first time I received a gift certificate for a massage, I went cold.  I’d read somewhere that with certain types of massage people will break down in tears on the table.  The thought of coming unglued in front of a stranger struck me as absolutely horrifying.  I couldn’t imagine lying naked in some dimly lit room, allowing myself to be seen—Good Lord, the cellulite—or touched in an intimate way.  I couldn’t imagine being that vulnerable, that out of control.  I had no idea how one was expected to act, or what one was supposed to say for the entire, awkward hour.

To top it all off, I was dead from the neck down in bed. I would enjoy the attention and desire of a man, but have him make love to me and it was as if my senses were wrapped in cotton wool. I was perfectly capable of pleasure on my own, but involve someone else, and my body refused to respond. I was so intent on giving so I would be loved that I allowed myself to be touched, but not really. Believe me, I kept that information ALL to my self.

I used to think my dislike of being hugged, or touched, or massaged, or connected was a product of my upbringing.  My parents were stiff-lipped North Dakotan Norwegians who didn’t go in for all that fluffy stuff. You were supposed to greet your family members with a quick sideways glance, maybe a muffled hello, even if you hadn’t seen each other in three or four years.

As much as I like to blame my dysfunction on the wolves who raised me, I’ve come to realize over the years that I had two basic problems operating under the surface that prevented me from being touched (or reached); two problems that are interrelated:

1. I had no idea how to receive
2. You can’t receive shit when you wear 300 pounds of protective armor

Let’s address the first issue.

Being a recovering nice girl, I know how goddamn manipulative people-pleasers are.  Regardless of our protestations, we love to give until we drop because others end up owing us big time.To be fair, you can’t be any other way if that’s all you know.

Because we know that there’s an unspoken price tag associated with just about everything we do—i.e. I put up with your drinking, then you don’t ask me to pull my weight around here—we’re reluctant to be on the receiving end of anything.  We know there’s a mysterious tat due for someone’s tit, and we’re not sure we’re prepared to pay it. When we don’t want to pay, we don’t play.

In a nutshell, we like to control who is beholden to who.

Even more detrimental to human connection is that armor we’re all wearing. That 16-inch-thick steel plate designed to prevent others from seeing who we really are.

Abandon this protection, allow someone to see you without it and:

• They’ll pinpoint your vulnerability and use it against you.
• You’ll lose the ability to know where you begin and he or she ends.
• You’ll both recognize how hurt and flawed you really are.
• You’ll no longer be able to lie or hide.

If you’ve ever met me in person, you know I’ve gotten over my reluctance to touch. If I’ve scared you with my hugs, I’m sorry.

If I had to pick an incident or two that served to open me up it would be meeting and marrying Walt, and going to my first Tony Robbins event.

I got really good at receiving when I came face to face with real intimacy and didn’t die. When I allowed Walt to know my flaws and darkness and pettiness and immaturity and neediness and discovered that I was still loved. When I realized that he would still bring me coffee in bed first thing in the morning even though he was really pissed at me (I know!  Hard to believe!), and lay out my vitamins while in the throes of a heated argument, and throw his leg over mine and fall asleep even after I’d confessed the most horrible, evil thoughts, most of them about him. Like it was NO BIG DEAL!

Even better, he’s remarkably clear on what he wants and expects of me, which has a way of boosting trust. Who would have thought there could be NO HIDDEN PRICE TAGS in a human interaction?

And after a Tony Robbins event, I’m sorry, if you can still flinch after 5,746 total strangers have hugged you like a long-lost sister over the course of a few days, like they love you and want to experience the real you, well, then, something’s REALLY wrong with you. When the Robbins organization says, “Life will never be the same again,” they fucking mean it.  (I’m not an affiliate, but if you have this issue, I can’t recommend it enough. UPW

Hugs?  Massages?  Attention? Physical touch?  Bring. It. On.  Love it, love it, love it. I had no idea what I was missing.

If you see yourself in any of this, we should DEFINITELY talk.