show me where it hurts....

I love my physiotherapist. I just love her.....to bits. She's fab. She's also been my meditation teacher, so I always feel like I've got to show minimal pain when being manipulated, because you know, I should know how to relax it out.......

Moving house is always fraught with danger (is that how you spell fraught?). I stuffed my shoulder during the move but stubbornly (or should that be stupidly?) kept going on and on. Then, when I had said to myself, 'I want to vacuum my new home as I feel the unpacking is about done', then, and only then, my shoulder stopped moving. I got so sick from the pain that I nearly hurled. Psychological release, that's what it is. Wish I could do the same kind of control when casting a deep meditation thought out to it's destination. Ah anyway. All in good time.

I love the way it hurts more after seeing my Physio than it did before I saw her. I love coming away aching and bruised with cup marks on me that give the impression I have been attacked by an amorous alien. I love it. I love the look of disbelief and pure fear that my husband has when viewing these marks. It makes me feel tough.....and I love the ache from them.

And she just seems to know that even though my upper arm is hurting,...that she actually needs to pummel my neck vertebrae,... squishing in, squishing out, squishing all about,...until it is even more in pain than my upper arm. Then she starts on the lateral back muscle.
Yegodz!!
I know it's all going to be good in a day or two.
When I can stop wincing when I move.
When the Arnica cream starts working on the bruising. When I can imagine visiting her again without doing a big chicken-out in my head.

I love qualified bodyworkers.