The last few weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about different types of physical touch. Unfortunately, that is a sentence that is always going to sound inherently creepy, but I think I can get away with it, considering current circumstances. I’ve been thinking about the time at Mardi Gras a mere month ago when four of my friends attacked me with hugs and kisses, completely enveloping me in a storm of affection. Thinking about my Nanna grabbing my hand as we walk together, her laughing and clutching my arm as I attempt to convince her to try a burrito (which she refuses because she’s too white and afraid of flavour). Remembering the countless small touches with past lovers, like resting my hand on their thigh as we watch TV, or rolling over in bed at night, and having them move to spoon me instinctively.

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For a very, very long time, as a fat closeted youth, I shunned affection and hugging. When people wanted to hug me, I would tense up and make it an unpleasant experience for all parties. I felt so insecure in my physical body, that to let someone embrace me would make me feel ashamed. And I felt so scared and uncomfortable in my mind, and I could never let myself be vulnerable, or get close to other people physically. That all changed when later in life, I found my community and began to love myself. I am now what you would call, a “hug slut” (can I say slut in the Guardian? Who knows, it’s a pandemic). The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve relied on physical affection from other people, especially friends. They are a constant; those you know will always be there to give you a hug when you are going through a hard time. Except for now, in this very specific hard time, when it could be used the most.

At the forefront of my mind every day is that I can’t be touched by, or touch another human, for god knows how long

Almost everyone’s lives have suffered a sudden dramatic change. With the lockdown laws meaning you’re stuck indefinitely with whoever you happen to be living with, it’s sparked a conversation about which way of life would suck the most right now. Obviously the real answer to this is that it continues to suck the most for people it’s always sucked for – imprisoned refugees, prisoners, homeless people, the chronically ill, the elderly, people with disabilities, those in unsafe relationships, and all the other marginalised groups we’ve ignored.

But a lot of the general public will now be struggling in ways they haven’t before, and we will all be facing our own challenges. For example, parents having to keep their children inside and entertained 24 hours a day while still working seems like a literal nightmare. The part I am struggling most with in my individual circumstance is the sudden and complete loss of affection. I’m anxious about other things, like losing work, but still at the forefront of my mind every day is that I can’t be touched by, or touch another human, for god knows how long. (Again, creepy but justified.) When there isn’t a pandemic on, being alone is great. I spend time socialising, seeing friends, dating, being affectionate, and I am fulfilled and sustained. Suddenly, with all that gone, everything else seems harder to cope with.

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Luckily, I am a very “online” person, and I am using the privilege of having the internet to its fullest extent. I am actually in contact more with people now per day than I would be usually. There’s texting, chatting, watching movies together, video calling, apps where you chat with whoever is around. But socially I am often switching between two kinds of people – there’s those who are in lockdown with friends or family or lovers, and those interactions make my desire for that even more acute. Or I am talking to other people in the same situation as me, and the almost-but-not-quite being present with each other leaves a hollow feeling when you close out of the chat window to sit alone again. The silence in the few seconds when you hang up, either way, is deafening. There’s never been more ways to connect with the people you love. But it’s not the same, and it’s not enough. Because the thing that is missing is touch.

Seeing someone through a screen will never be the same as hugging hello. Human beings need touch to thrive. We need affection. We need skin contact. These are not the hippy feelings of a lesbian alone in her room for too long, this is actually science. When everything else in the world is scary like right now, the one thing that might help is being embraced by someone I love, and it’s the only thing I cannot have. It’s obviously not the most pressing issue facing us, but not knowing how long it will be until I can feel someone wrap their arms around me again fills me with dread. But I also know I’m privileged to have that be something I miss, and something I know I can look forward to on the other side of this. And I’ll never take it for granted again.

• Rebecca Shaw is a writer based in Sydney

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