Trigger Warning: Bereavement, Child Sexual Abuse, Mild Sexual References.

I am currently away from home at a spa hotel with a group of friends I affectionately refer to as the Messy Girls. We are all ladies in our forties and fifties who were widowed before the age of 50 whom I met through a wonderful peer to peer support group called WAY – Widowed and Young ( https://www.widowedandyoung.org.uk ). Many times friends have said to me, “A group of widows? Seriously? Do you all sit around in black and cry about your late partners?” Interestingly, although the occasional tear may be shed amongst us, it is definitely the minority of times, and more often than not our members are the ones in a venue who laugh the most, chatter and shriek the most enthusiastically, consume the most alcohol and are both the first ones on the dance floor and the last ones standing! We have found ourselves in a horrible place in our lives, but the support and cameraderie amongst members is second to none, and we have a shared experience that has taught us, above all, that life is far too short. On occasions, I have sometimes felt a little out of my depth with the Messy Girls. I don’t tend to drink a lot, if at all, and am not really a party person, but I have only ever been accepted for who I am, more recently, illness and all, and if I try to duck out of an outing, they always make it clear that I am very much one of them, and they want me there, but if I am not up to it, they totally respect that too. Last night, my mood was quite high. I drank rather more than usual, was exceptionally outspoken at the dinner table, and I made no secret of the fact that my aims for my time away were to get pissed and get laid. This behaviour is definitely out of character for me, and my Messy Girls made absolutely certain I was well looked after, not left alone, and was carefully supervised to make sure I got back to my room safely with just my (female) roommate.

Every one of my widowed friends I have spoken to understands the loneliness of having lost their partner at a time in their lives when they were not generally prepared to wave goodbye to intimacy. I apologise this is fairly blunt, and when you first lose a partner, it is not necessarily one of the first things you think of, but given time, the issue will inevitably crop up. Many miss having someone to snuggle up to on the sofa in front of the TV, someone to share their lazy Sunday morning lie-ins, someone to told their hand or give them a cuddle when times are hard, and dare I say it someone who fancies the pants off them and thinks them (with all their quirks and imperfections) the best and sexiest person in the world. It has been over six years now since my husband died and I have not been in a relationship since. It’s not through the lack of readiness or willingness, it just hasn’t happened. I have also witnessed a number of widowed friends start relationships whilst still grieving, and it rarely ends well. Not that, if I’m honest, I still expected to be alone this far on!

There are, I believe, two issues here, and confusingly there is a crossover of the two, which can sometimes be difficult to differentiate. It sounds simple in theory, but when you have experienced the love of a partner who has been able to meet both of these needs simultaneously, it can be a challenge to tease the two apart. So I will be blunt, and also personalise the scenario for simplicity. Is what I am missing the most, the sexual intimacy or merely physical human contact? Or both? Putting sex aside for the time-being, despite my rather outspoken hypo intentions for the time away, I believe it is probably simple physical human touch that I crave the most. I may seek that in unhelpful ways (eg. a potentially disastrous sexual liaison) but that is essentially linked to my own personal baggage and hang-ups with intimate relationships. In all honesty, I am not a one night stand sort of girl. I know the emotions involved would probably tip me over the edge at the moment. Life feels precarious enough as it is, without any more added self-recriminations.

I admit I am a very tactile person, always have been. I am the only person of my age I know who still has a security blanket. (Make of that what you wish!) I maintain that rather than being hopelessly immature or psychologically stunted, I just discovered the effects of self-soothing long before it became a buzz phrase in mental health. I am reassured by holding and touching the soft fabric, and it is essentially harmless, calorie and chemical free, if slightly embarrassing when sharing a hotel room with a friend. If you know me in person, the chances are you have been hugged and kissed by me, or may even have held my hand across the dinner table. It’s just the way I am. I have recently started reading one of Gary Chapman’s books about The 5 Languages of Love, which help identify and improve the ways in which individuals prefer to express and receive love in a variety of family and loving relationships. I can highly recommended them. I am a ‘touch’ person without any doubt, which came as no surprise to me, and is actually not uncommon for a woman.

When I was depressed before, in my twenties, I was trying to come to terms with the sexual abuse I had endured as a child. I was attending a day unit after discharge from an inpatient stay, and my key worker was a male nurse. At first I freaked out, because I couldn’t see how I would ever trust a man I didn’t know, with such personal, delicate memories and feelings. My self-esteem was so incredibly low I was unable to even sit on the same level as the key worker, choosing instead to sit on the floor. In response to this, he sat on the floor next to me, and just talked very gently to me, real common sense stuff, with genuine empathy, until gradually, week by week I began to realise that he was actually ok, I could trust him. I would test him with small stuff at first, until he gained my confidence. I appreciate this wouldn’t work for everyone, but when I finally did manage to talk openly to him about my childhood abuse, shaking and in floods of tears, he said nothing, simply put his arms round me and held me close. I felt safe there, and I felt heard. On one occasion he said very quietly to me, “I understand what you’re going through.” I turned, quite astounded, to look at him, and in that second I knew it was the truth, and he sobbed with me. Were his actions professional? Appropriate? Certainly I am harking back to the days when practitioners were definitely not so ‘hands-off’ as they are now, but all I knew was that he saw me where I was and responded to my need for reassurance and acceptance in a way that built trust, rather than in any way felt threatening, inappropriate or abusive and I was able to work through and process stuff I hadn’t felt able to share before.

I remember as a nursing student, many moons ago, being taught to use our discretion as to ‘appropriate use of touch’ when reassuring a patient. I admit I have no idea what the guidelines now state, but I have observed a shift in practice during my current illness. When studying for my degree two years ago, a number of our lectures were given jointly to our group (Early Years Education) and to the Teaching and Learning Support students. We observed the marked differences between working with pre-schoolers and primary aged children with regards to physical touch. The Early Years Students were frankly horrified that a little four year old, on, for example, falling and hurting themselves, would not be cuddled once they had progressed to formal school, because it is considered a safeguarding issue. Small children need physical reassurance when hurt or upset, and have no reservations in seeking that reassurance. In pre-school, if ever in doubt we took our cue from the child. Common sense prevails, surely? If an adult genuinely poses a safeguarding threat to a child, they will find a way to abuse regardless. Don’t get me wrong, I am totally in favour of protecting children, or any other vulnerable individual for that matter, and of accountability, but sometimes when working with people we can, it seems, be guided by caution more often than compassion these days.

Every so often, a little quote pops up on my Facebook timeline about how many hugs a human being needs a day to survive and thrive. I can’t remember who the statistics are accredited to, or even if a source is quoted at all. To be honest I have no idea if there is research to substantiate the figures, or over what length of time too few hugs would cause one’s existence to cease, but I have concluded one thing; according to the quote I should be dead! Since my husband’s death and my son going into foster care there are many days when I have no physical contact with another human being whatsoever.

I met an old friend recently who is very accepting of my depression and as we chatted about how I was coping with things, she started to rub my back, seeing I was getting a bit upset. It was the most beautiful reassuring gesture, and I (having known her for many years) was able to tell her how much I appreciated it. Her reply was, “Anytime you want to come over to mine, I’ll happily make you a cuppa and rub your back!” Such a simple action, yet for me, that basic human touch was positively heavenly.

In the last year I have started to book myself in for a massage every so often. During our last Messy Girls spa break we took over the relaxation room and got chatting about the importance of physical touch to our health and wellbeing and agreed amongst ourselves that we should not only get together for a pampering break regularly, say every 2-3 months, but should endeavour, in between times to ensure as individuals we were treating ourselves to a massage or similar treatment as a form of essential self-care whenever feasible. Whilst any kind of pampering is good, there is definitely something about massage. I had never in my life been for a professional massage until last year, and I was quite taken aback at how magically healing it felt to be touched, skin to skin, when I had been alone for so long. I had experienced Indian head massage in hospital when I was depressed previously at the healing hands of one of the lovely nursing assistants on the ward who had trained at beauty school, and had found that wonderfully therapeutic and relaxing, but had always decided, until recently, that pampering in a spa or salon was too expensive to justify.

I am not in any way suggesting a regular treatment is going to miraculously cure mental health problems, but personally it helps me relax and de-stress, which has got to be a good thing. Neither is it a cure for loneliness, or a substitute for for a trusting relationship, but, my current lifestyle being a fairly solitary one, the therapeutic benefits of physical touch through massage are significant enough for me to justify the cost on a fairly regular basis.

It saddens me that we live in such a culture where human beings have become so hands-off with everyone but our closest family and friends, particularly where children, the elderly, sick and vulnerable are concerned. I understand not everyone enjoys or can cope with physical contact with others, but for so many, a simple hand laid on their arm or back, a hug or an arm around the shoulders communicates so much invaluable acceptance and compassion to an individual. Touch is an essential component to thriving in life.

In the wise words of Jerry Springer, “Take care of yourselves, and each other.”

Thank you for reading 😊