I treated myself to a massage a couple weeks ago after meeting the 20th deadline in 30 days. My body had gotten to the point where it was regularly crunching and popping. Stretch to get that glass of water
*CRACK*
go into a Warrior Two position
*POP*
roll your shoulders back to get relief from that shitty shitty shoulder pain
*KEEERUNCH*
It's fun times.
So I saw Reggie at a nearby massage chain, where I knew I could make a same-day appointment. I walked in feeling that everyone knew how crazy I felt, stressed, knotted, gnarled, any word with N that evokes that pretzel-style feeling. They didn't. They directed me into a small room down a long hall and told me to disrobe as far as I was comfortable.
Dis shi' was alll coming off. Nothing getting in the way of me and a strong, persistent hand.
So I'm down to the underwear, the jade bracelet, and the hair tie, and Reggie walks in. I think he was Asian? I didn't have my glasses on, so he was a coffee-colored blur. I didn't need to see him. We would connect via the crags in my back and shoulders.
He starts, and I am in bliss. He can't knead hard enough. I hear him grunt from time to time, as if he is pulling taffy. He pulls and squeezes the knots on my back for 45 minutes until rocks become putty, save for my right shoulder, which he still works on.
"You have a strong holding pattern," he whispers, the only words spoken during the process.
"Oh," I mutter, wondering if he'd witnessed my life for the past 36 years. I know.
I can't let go of things. I love the things I used to love, I think about what I could have done better, I try to hover in a good moment because I'm afraid there won't be more (there are always more). I circle above myself in said holding pattern, attending to worries, observing to ensure I don't make mistakes, monitoring so that I can see all angles and all ways out just in case I need to make an exit.
And yes, I hold up my shoulders when I'm writing. I have a body pattern. I am working on letting go on all levels.