Breaking Fingers

I just got a massage from a dancer. It was the most painful and amazing thing I have ever felt. These past thirty minutes together made me understand my body in ways I have never been able to understand. There is so much I can fix about myself.

The minute she touched me she exclaimed, “Woah! You poor thing.”

Poor thing.

Do I treat myself that bad? My poor body! Then she grabbed my shoulders and pulled me backwards, by pressing her fingers on the top part of my pectorals. She pushed down her fingers one by one, and it stung everywhere around my chest. As if jelly fish inside my body woke up and stung me all at once. She pushed upon hundreds of little pieces of toxins, and I felt them all. I felt them bursting and cursing me as they spread about my body, running away from her strong and fluid hands. Her fingers, as if breaking against my skin, squeezed harder as she said, “Oh, I hate these!”

I hate these?

As if these little balls of toxins were critters! If my body was a house, this dancer just cleaned out the attic. It was painful, but it was spectacular all at once.

I am at a loss. I am stupified. I am a horrible person to myself. I feel like the first thing I do when I wake up is curse: “Get up you lazy _____” (fill in the blank). Then I carry about 3 bags a day, just in case I decide to do something productive, which almost never happens until I get home, anyways. I do this to myself. My poor body. My poor mind.

Now the jellyfish are in my head. I hate headaches. It’s time to drink some water. It’s time to change myself: how I view my body, how I speak to myself, how I treat my nutrition…everything needs to change it seems.

Gosh, more oatmeal. More oatmeal please!

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