On Touch: A Torturous Feeling

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    In Akerman’s chapter on Touch, her discussion on torture— “In the Middle Ages, so-called witches and others who lived on the outskirts of the law, piety, or convention were burned at the stake. Mimicking the fire and brimstone of hell, it was the ultimate horror. Death would happen cell by cell, receptor by receptor; each of life's minute sensations would be torched.” (Akerman, 69) — struck me. 

    The descriptions of death happening cell by cell, a mimicking of the fires of hell… it sounded familiar. Sensations of being constricted by something on your body, an unrelenting, continuous assault of the physical sense of touch. Whenever clothing is too tight, too scratchy, too loose, too soft, I really do understand the senses described here. 


               What do the Middle Ages era torture and modern clothing have to do with each other, though?

 

    As someone with sensory problems, whenever I touch a texture that feels wrong, it does feel like I am being tortured cell by cell, receptor by receptor. It’s an awful feeling, really. Sometimes inescapable. 

    Maybe the shirt I had picked out for the day was fine at first but then the tag flipped up from wherever it had been hiding and then it felt as if I was being stung or crawled on by little pokey fibers sporadically. 

    Or what about my pants? 

    Are they denim today? If so, have they been “broken in,” so to speak— washed and worn over and over to the point where the denim is almost soft, just to alleviate myself of the “jean-ness” of it all (sometimes I can’t even do this… too torturous to even think about.)

    Or maybe I’m not feeling up to the jeans and just want a nice, consistent sweatpant. 

    Awesome, ole’ reliable. 

    Until it’s a little too hot out, or humid, and the wetness and heat of the air and sun creeps into the fabric, or if my skin wants to betray me that day. Any combination of factors could be at play in the unpredictable-ness of the sensory nightmare that is clothing.

    Touch is one of those senses where it really, truly is a gamble as to whether I am appreciative of my ability to experience the world through physical sensation or wish to rid myself of every nerve ending that allows for the feeling of scratchy on me.


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