A Little Higher, please.

2 hours of emotiona- I mean.. lymphatic drainage.

I walked into my full body lymphatic drainage appointment yesterday. Sore, hungover and exhausted from the debauchery over the weekend, accompanied by a little smile reminiscing of the good times had over the last 48 hours and anticipating the relief over the next two.

I do the usual greeting, quick visit to the bathroom, half cup of water before I remove my clothes and get on the table, under the towel, and raise my voice just enough so that my therapist knows I’m ready to be taken to nirvana. It’s a new girl, or at least new to me. I wonder if she knows how ticklish I get around the lower legs. I guess she’s about to find out. I give her the heads up that I’m most likely going to doze off because I had a big weekend to which she responds with a smile and a nod. Perfect.

Warm oil gently seeps its way into my belly button as if it were hot chai being poured into a stainless steel cup. She presses her hands down on my stomach and holds them there, I grin: it’s about to go down. We start off with the thighs, it’s where I tend to retain most water so it’s where most time gets spent. As the therapist creates waves with her slim but strong arms I’m starting to feel a release I hadn’t felt in other sessions before. Wave one: the remaining tension in my lower body that wasn’t targeted by my *ss shaking last night is slowly leaving my body. Wave two: the constant rage against the patriarchy is briefly put on pause. Wave three: I can’t believe my dusty ex managed to make me question whether I am beautiful or not. I am sensational. As the waves continue I sink deeper and deeper into this ocean of catharsis and it becomes clear that today isn’t like any other day. Today, it’s time we face some things. If therapy has taught me anything it’s that the harder I run away from things, the harder they smack me in the face so I do what I know is right for me and immediately give in. Ugh, I don’t want to cry on this table.

I’ve erased the part where she tackles my shins from my memory. The tightness from the endless running without knowing where the f**k I’m heading in life was at level coiled spring and I spent the entire duration wondering if maybe it’s time to just get off the treadmill and head back home. Wherever the f that is. Arms? Oh arms. OH WAIT! ARMS! “Sorry but…” I quickly open my eyes and immediately lock eyes with my therapist: “I’m type 1 diabetic so I have a sensor in my right arm at the moment.. just so you know.” I was met with a very gentle “I saw, don’t worry.” Silly me, of course she saw. Of course she knows. Of course I don't have to worry. She’s a woman, after all. She notices, she analyses, she understands. I close my eyes again and right as I’m about to doze off, my sensor alarm starts beeping as if the world is about to end and the government is sending messages to my phone. I jump up, she gasps, I feel silly, she is worried. “It’s okay, I ate some gummy bears before we started, I’ll turn it off and we’ll be fine.” She nods. I nod. We continue our dance. “F**king diabetes.”

Now it’s on to my favourite part! My neck, back and shoulders. She lifts the towel off of my body and holds it out in front of her as I wiggle my body around before landing on my front like a domestic cat. Oh wait, she needs to remove the pillow so that I can place my face into the hole. Nice.

It’s time for the heated towels. Or cloths… I’m not actually sure what they use but it’s hot and it’s heaven. The first hot cloth lands on my left shoulder and… ouch. That first millisecond of burning sensation took me by surprise but I quickly remember that it gets better over time. Hmm.. just like my mother’s love. The second hot cloth lands right in between my shoulder blades and she even presses down on it, as she presses down on my back the tears find their way out of my eyes. I wonder if she knows there’s a leakage in treatment room 5. Thankfully the calming sounds of sitars and bansuri overpower the noise of my teardrops hitting the floor tiles.. I guess today’s ocean is a tiny bit more literal. By the time the third cloth connects to my right shoulder I’m wondering whether I should book in another therapy session, it’s been a few weeks. I’ll email her as soon as I get home.

She uses a tool on the back of my legs to guide the excess fluid to my lymph nodes and I’m trying to remember what tools I was told I have to guide my feelings of anxiety and sadness to… well.. anywhere outside of my body and my mind. I start listing them in my head only to realise that if she’s made it to the back of my legs, there’s not too long left of the treatment. I try to silence my thoughts and dive back in. I wonder if I’ll go out again tonight. It’s time for the stomach and the waist - my favourite part because it often means the therapist will really put their whole body into it. She stands to my right and reaches her arms over my body as she grabs me on my left side and pulls my skin towards her. With every pull I feel years of hatred for my belly evaporating. I can’t believe that when it was actually flat, I used to think it was something that needed to be hidden. If only I knew back then what I know now. I know I should love it because it’s genetics: my mum has the same belly and so does my grandmother. I know that little pouch below my bellybutton is there to protect my insides but last Friday night when I was skanking out to DJ Cooly G and I felt my corset creep up and my belly creeping out I… hated it. The therapist stops the pulling, walks over to my left side, reaches over and grabs my waist from the right side. With every single pull she erases the negative thoughts I had over the last five minutes. It’s okay to feel this way sometimes, I’m only human. I guess.

It’s now time for my add-on: thirty minutes of an Ayurvedic head massage. Warm oil gently finds its way through my strands of hair to my scalp. That couldn’t have been hard anyway, I’ve been losing my hair for the last twenty years straight now. All the auto immune conditions and stress have taken a toll on what once was my head full of Indian pride but now seems to be more like my head full of Indian… lies? Whatever you want to call my weave. With her finger tips she gently massages in the oil before using a comb and with every single comb stroke I feel release. Release from the fact that I don’t know if I’ll ever financially recover from the mistakes I’ve made over the last few years. I release the guilt I feel for letting a man completely destroy my nervous regulation system last year so badly that even the mere thought of him makes my chest collapse. I release the worries about my dad’s heart stem, eye injections, prostate and chest. The strokes across my scalp seem to follow the sounds of the bansuri and I realise I miss India. I need to see my grandmother before it’s too late. She can barely remember anyone or anything but for some reason when she speaks of me her brain seems to be perfectly functioning. I never said goodbye to my granddad. I hate that. He was the man I knew the least because he never said more than 4 words over span of 24 hours and yet, the man I have loved the most. I wonder if I’ll ever love another man in my future again.

Time’s up. The treatment is done. I finish my half cup of water, wipe down the oil and head to the infrared steam room. Within fifteen minutes every single thought that occupied my mind had left my body in the form of sweat dripping down my nose, ears, back, thighs and even my toes. I quickly open the door midway through to let in some fresh air and to make sure I get a break of the smell of Casamigos fighting its way out of my pores. Last seven minutes, you got this Jyoty. Just a little longer.. The light shuts off. She lives to see another day.

I get dressed, pay my remaining balance and wish the girls a lovely rest of their Bank Holiday weekend as I walk straight into the sun. Ready to take on the beatings of the world before my next session is six to eight weeks.

Self-care I think they call it?

Great.