I Need You So Much Closer: Beneath the Seduction of Intimacy
About the series: “I Need You So Much Closer”
Intimacy — what does it mean to you? Death Cab for Cutie sings about it as a yearning impossibility in their 2000s classic “Transatlanticism,” some only view it as sex, others have an immense fear of the feeling. It can mean everything and nothing or be achieved with everyone and no one but yourself; it’s a complicated concept that changes with experience, especially in such an odd circumstance as quarantine. At Camp Thirlby, we relish in this vast range and simply view intimacy as an act of closeness — with romantic partners, friends, strangers, even yourself. It can be a simultaneously rewarding and terrifying experience, and self-isolation can amplify those feelings — especially when intimacy feels so unattainable. Our Camp Counselors have decided to reflect on the ways in which they find, or fail to find, this closeness, either inside or outside of the pandemic. Ranging from finding new ways of closeness during a time of crisis or rethinking past notions of intimacy, these odes to needing the affinity of people act as a reminder to its importance in a time when everything feels so distant.
My feet hit first as I threw myself in the air toward the glistening blue beneath me. Initially, the cold came as a shock but soon after excited me. He was funny and had a bright smile. My stomach turned in circles when I saw him walking down the hallway but instantly calmed with his embrace. Now, I could feel myself slipping in further; the water lapped against me in slow motion. I wanted to do everything with him.
Then, my knees grew weak. The cold moving up my body. I could feel the rush of something unfamiliar; his curls running through my fingers. As he complimented my perfume, my legs grew numb to the chill. Electric lips propelled me further. Half submerged in the water, I felt closeness I had once thought unattainable.
Next fell my heart, dragged in by the light that came from his eyes and underscored by the freckles that dotted his nose. Suddenly, I no longer had control over the water’s pull. My stability robbed, I now found my whole world in his gaze. My future defined by the spark that lived within it.
Finally, my head dipped beneath the surface — I was fully submerged. The solace of this spot was exhilarating and deafened the commotion of the air above. I lusted after this sudden remedy for my tangled thoughts. Leaning into the feeling, I pushed further down. Although my lungs began screaming for their own air, I refused to give up my sanctuary.
My body forced me back into the daylight despite my protest. I coughed and lay limp on the rock I had jumped from; I deeply desired a return to the water that had cradled me. Although it stole my air, the silence was addicting. I longed for the comfort that came from being so immersed, so lost in his eyes, so far from the sharp words that perpetually pierced my mind.
Understanding the inner workings of his head, provided me a pretty distraction from my troubles. Haunted by feared inadequacy, I traded my insecurities for the comfort of love; fooled into believing the dark water would absolve me from all worries. I was screaming for my lost agency. However, I still clung to the notion sold to me by every rom-com I have ever seen: love was everything, and without it, I was nothing. My careful exploration of the green in his eyes become bigger than anything that was once important to me. Looking back, I question whether he ever paused to dive into the blue of my own.
As the sun dried the drops of water that clung to my body, I felt desperate for the peace of the depths. My survival required the water; my worth sustained by intense, immersive love. I used a knife to carve his initials into my heart. I bled out to get his attention. I closed my eyes to sleep but my forehead blazed at the thought of his return. His touch reconciled the intensity of a forest fire with the tranquility of a single flame. I could feel my fingertips burn when I remembered touching his curls. My body remained strong, reminding me to never sink that deep again, but my heart urged me to return.
As I held on to him with all my might, he effortlessly slipped from my grasp. I spent days and then weeks and then months tailoring myself. I wanted to make loving me as easy as possible, but my efforts were not successful. I posed in front of the mirror and worked to fix what I did not like. The more I fought, the more I felt like his toy. Trading my dignity for a fixed smile and an endlessly understanding nod. Loving him felt like walking on eggshells. The more of myself I invested, the more of me I hurt. I used all my tricks to remind him of why I was worth loving while trying to convince myself that I was. Silently, he broke all of his promises and left me with a pile of crushed eggshells and a bedroom filled with tears. I reassured myself: how sad — he did not know what love was. Narcissist; cruel and ignorant. A villain.
I felt burns from the sun develop on my skin, drawing me to the cold water with greater ferocity. Still, I resisted. I lay there lusting for his approval, the only thing that would bandage the wounds born of my engraved chest. Despite my patience, it never came. No longer able to resist my urges, I jumped once again. Feet, knees, heart, head. However, he was gone. My future was his teenage fling. He had moved on in search of new promises.
No longer there to pull me in, I felt lost; the jump did not fulfill what I craved. Instead, the water served as a reminder of his abandonment. I bobbed to the surface. Head enveloped by the soft rays of sunlight, heart, feet, and knees held in careful balance by the water. Delicately supporting themselves for the first time.
Forced to recognize my own hurt instead of escaping into the depths of affection, his eyes no longer held the secrets to my happiness, and his curls no longer bound me to his validation. My past, but not my future. A part of my story, but not my happy ending. My own strength recognized as I escaped from the comfort that had drowned me.
Finding reliable intimacy now seemed unrealistic. Questioning my long-held belief that passion determined happiness, I thought about how I rose to the water’s surface when I could have sunk to the silence. Confronting everything I thought would damage me had instead brought confidence.
Alone, I realized I was just as important now as I had been then. Floating weightlessly in a place of past hurt, I understood vulnerability could exist without resigning power. I valued how the sun hit my face, how my blue eyes glistened as I admired my own reflection, and how smooth my straight hair felt through my fingers. Intimacy’s seduction became secure as I appreciated my imperfection. Woven together by resilience and acceptance, my feet, knees, heart, and head prepared to love again.
About the Author
Ali Kilborn (she/her) is a Junior at George Washington University studying psychology with a minor in public policy. Her passion for understanding human behavior combined with her (often excessive) introspection motivates her writing. She takes comfort in any slow RnB song and an aggressively blue sky. Ali hopes to pursue a career where she can intersect mental health education with her love of creative writing.
