In addition to the other things, I’m a massage therapist. I specialize in deep tissue work. That means I do the kind of massage that feels AWFUL while I’m at it, but when I finish you feel a whole lot better for a couple of weeks. Most of my clients are people with chronic pain issues. I usually see them regularly, trying to undo a lifetime of knots. (Just a quick tip here – if you just spent the last thirty years making sure your neck is horribly jacked up, it will probably take me more than one hour to fix it. I’m good, but there are limits.)
It’s a wild and underappreciated skill to be a hands-on healer. I’m hesitant to make claims I can’t back up, or to guarantee results. There are times you want to be in the hands of a good surgeon, and I’ll never advocate a massage as an alternative to appropriate medical care. I’m keenly aware of my boundaries and limits. Within those parameters, though, I’m a freaking miracle worker.
I can take away pain. I can fix that limp you’ve been noticing. In an extreme case, I saw a woman last year, for a single session, who complained of constant migraine-level tension headaches. I haven’t seen her since, because she hasn’t had a headache for a year. Apparently I cured her.
(It doesn’t always work that way. Some people I can’t help; or, most likely, I can ease muscle tension for a few days, and make them feel better for a while. It’s still totally worth it.)
It’s a strange and lovely calling. The power of touch is amazing. Make a point of touching somebody today, would you?
Tell them I sent you.