Top menu navigation

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

While my masseuse gently weeps

JK. It's me doing the crying on the massage table, natch.

I am at a massage therapist's office, to work on some of the stalactites of scar that are crowding up my left chest. My skin is stuck down in a lot of places, and movement is weird.

In December I watched some self massage videos on YouTube, and got pretty good at it. I would heat the area, and then zone out in front of the tv, massaging away. I was able to unstick enough to get my last fifteen or so degrees back in my range of motion.

But there's still more to do, and I've gotten as far as I can on my own.

I tell my whole story to the therapist. Instead of freezing up, or clucking that I was too young, she asks questions. Informed ones. And she listens closely to my answers.

She explains that since it's our first session together, she's going to move slowly and gently. I say okay.

She begins at my feet, and before moving on to any new area, she asks if it's okay. Traveling to my head and check, then beginning myofascial release on the right side. After a few minutes my shoulder is lower. We talk about breathing.

She begins working on my left arm, setting of some kind of alarm in my left foot, which throbs deep down near the knuckle bones. She redirects for a few minutes, then asks,

"Would you like me to work directly on the scar?"

And I say yes, definitely.

She makes a wide circle, light touch moving inward toward the scar, towards where I have no nerves left and feel nothing. And that's when the tears come.

She sees me, or feels the change in the energy of the room, and covers me up, and gets me a glass of water. And since I'm already in tears I tell her lots more. I tell her that I am still so angry.

She talks about the way trauma can cause us to disconnect from our bodies, and that reentering can be so hard, so slow.

Then she takes me out to pet the therapy dog, and recommend a delicious bottle of rosé for me to pick up on the way home. (She's a keeper.)

Maybe the tears are what those other practitioners were hoping to avoid a couple of weeks ago. My fragility.

But this is not fragility. This a dandelion growing out of the pavement. First the sidewalk has to crack.

I don't feel broken after leaving. I feel new.

1 comment:

  1. "But this is not fragility. This a dandelion growing out of the pavement. First the sidewalk has to crack." Can I say Beautiful?