Don't Touch Me! - 16

 

 

Cody headed to bed soon after Brent left. Despite the fact he was afraid he wouldn't sleep, he did, awaking at seven the next morning. After fixing something to eat, he went back to work on his book. Much to his surprise, it was well after eleven when he came up for air.

I guess Brent was right. I can get back to writing again—with his encouragement. He's good for my morale in more ways than one. I only wish…

He stopped there. He knew he could never again be involved with a man on a personal level—even if one was interested in him. Well, maybe as a friend, but that's it. It's hard to be more than just friends when intimacy of any kind is out of the question.

It was a thought he'd had more than once since his fear of being touched had appeared. He hadn't lied when he'd told Brent he wasn't the social type with lots of friends. But being forced into seclusion made him miss the few he used to have. He still talked to a couple of them, by phone or via email—and even those times were getting few and far between. They said they understood what was going on with him. He truly doubted they did, and it made his continued connection with them tense.

"If I only knew why," he whispered. He'd researched haphephobia and discovered it was, with rare exceptions, triggered by some sort of external event—usually an assault of some sort or abuse in childhood. The problem with that explanation was, he certainly hadn't been abused by his parents, and for damned sure no one had ever assaulted him. "I think I'd remember if they had," he told the psychiatrist the one time he'd seen him.

"It's possible you've repressed it," was the shrink's reply.

"Uh-huh. Assault involves being hurt, bruised or worse. It would be hard not to notice that and remember what happened. Right?"

The man's answer had been that they'd delve into the possibility, despite Cody's denials, during future sessions—after Cody had begun his regime of anti-anxiety meds. It hadn't happened. Cody had never returned and had resisted seeing any other therapists.

"I'll beat it on my own or learn to live with it," he'd told his mother. Since he had no problem with her touching him, she had scoffed, telling him he was using 'this imaginary phobia' as an excuse not to get a real job. "I wish it was imaginary," he'd replied angrily, and they had never talked about it again.