I hung up last night with a most unsettled feeling.

That’s part of the trouble with living 540 miles away from the person you love. The person you need. The person who needs you.

I can’t be witness to what happens after I hit the “off” button on the phone. I can’t be witness to the in between moments when the need is the greatest. My voice isn’t enough.

And I have to trust that which I “see” from 540 miles away. Quietly sitting on the steps in the warm morning sun, watching for brown mice with a hunger for anything and listening to the gentle singing of the birds enjoying the new leaves and green lushness of everything around us, I have to force myself to trust what I am “seeing” behind my own eyes and I have to look.

And it’s not good.

It made me wonder if maybe that error message I kept receiving last night…the one that didn’t make any sense…when I was trying to book a flight to Manchester, New Hampshire from Ottawa, Ontario was really trying to tell me, “that’s too far away”. It’s been two weeks now. And we’re looking at another three. And maybe that disconnected screen was really reminding me of what I had already promised:

You’ll never have to go as long as four weeks in between seeing me again.

It’s those damn 540 miles. Not 5,040 miles, granted, and believe me, for that I am truly grateful. But in moments like these…in moments like last night…I can’t help but curse the literal distance between us.

Because my voice isn’t enough. My words don’t fill the void and they seem to trickle out faster than I can re-fill. They have no staying power. Not anymore.

My voice isn’t enough. My body needs to be there, too.

My body has not been treated with very much respect over the course of my life. The moments of tenderness are far and few between and while I’ve had a few of them, they are outnumbered by the moments of hate and anger and violence and violation…at worst…and rawness and disconnection and pure sexual intent at best.

So, with that said, when my body has been treated respectfully or tenderly, I almost don’t know what to do with it. I’m learning, slowly but surely, I am learning that my body is my own and that it deserves gentle touch. Loving touch. Kindness. And, yes, respect.

That lesson started years ago with another man who asked me to do something nobody else had ever asked me to do. I had no limits. So I didn’t object. I had long ago resigned myself to the role of an object. And while what he asked me to do did seem a wee bit strange, I didn’t even bother to give myself permission to wonder whether or not I * wanted * to. Nobody else had ever asked that, why should I ask myself?

And with that, I removed my shirt, got into the position he had asked me, very politely and very kindly, to assume and we began.

I had no idea then what I was really doing. Not only for him (because clearly, I had no idea what spurred the request or how deep rooted the need was…I was young and not too interested in the hows and whys of a situation in those days. It’s only with reflection that I can look back at our time together and see it in another light…) but for myself, as well.

He was the first man to treat any part of my body with any kind of respect or positive regard.

It’s too bad I didn’t fully learn the lesson then, ten years ago. I might have been able to save myself a lot of heartache and pain if I had paid attention.

Over ten years passed and I rarely spoke of this man at all. When I did mention him, in passing, I only spoke of his age (he was significantly older than I was) and always as an anecdote. I never told anyone what we spent the bulk of time together doing. Looking back on it now, I don’t think it was out of shame or disgust that I didn’t speak about it. Granted, it was kind of weird and “out there” but that fact always got sidetracked by the way it made me feel. And that’s what stopped me from talking about it. The way that what we did made me feel about my body and myself.

My body had been treated with kindness and respect and yet again, I didn’t know what to do with it. So, I buried it. The feelings of gentle touch and respectful regard were so foreign to me, they truly felt wrong. And spent the next ten years seeking out and taking part in the exact opposite. And never, ever talking about it.

Until now.

Funny how things come full circle, isn’t it?

One night, a few months ago, after I had a few drinks in me and after a particularly intense conversation with Don, I told him about my time spent with that man. I shared with him something I had never, EVER shared with another living soul. It was scary, believe me. To talk about something so taboo and so unheard of. It’s why neither Don nor I ever refer to it directly in any of our blog posts, although we do mention it cryptically quite often. It’s the simple fear of making all of you throw up into your coffee or curl up in the fetal position. It’s the simple fear of rejection from those of you we think so highly of. Those of you we count as our number one supporters.

And when I proposed the idea to Don, his first reaction sent me reeling in the opposite direction. But for some reason, I pushed through it. And long story short, we tried on our next meeting that which I had spent so many hours doing with that older man.

And it worked.

Beautifully.

Last night the urge to engage in that one activity was so overwhelming, it actually hurt. My body could feel it. My body could feel it and it began sending out the signals that we needed it. He needed it. Even my body knew we needed to be there. My voice isn’t enough.

This morning is no different. I woke up, once again, in position for it. And my body started nagging me because it knows what will work. It knows what needs to be done.

And we’re 540 miles away.