Therapeutic Touch

Touch can be an issue if you have been sexually abused. I, myself, have varied degrees of tolerance to touch depending on numerous conditions.

Last Friday, I decided to indulge in the services of a professional massage. I have been hurting all over ALL the time. Retail pharmacy takes a beating on your hands, your neck, your back and, of course, your legs and feet. It's GOFAR season, so I have been training to run a 5K with my kids...on an injured foot! I hurt all the time. I ached for someone to touch me and make the pain go away.

I set up an appointment for after work, taking a chance and not even asking if the therapist would be a man or a woman. In the past, I had almost always requested that my massage therapist be a woman. It's not that I didn't care. I certainly was somewhat apprehensive about the possibility of receiving a massage from an unknown man, but something inside me told me that I would be OK. There was a grown woman inside me, a gentle mother, telling me that I was strong enough...that a professional massage from a professional man would not hurt me.

I walked into the spa with joy and confidence and was greeted by Mary Ann...my massage therapist :) Good thing I hadn't wasted time fretting.

When I walked into her beautiful and cozy escape of a room, I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted to forget the world for an hour, to think of nothing and no one else but me (just for an hour). I wanted to relinquish my voluntary movements to someone who knew exactly how to manipulate every bone and every muscle in my body to counteract the repetitive pain and exhaustion that I have subjected it to.

I climbed into her toasted sheets and immediately felt cared for and safe. She touched me, and I wanted to sigh and exhale...like the feeling of your first cold drink after hours in the hot sun, or finally sitting down after a long day on your feet.


I surrendered and allowed her to heal me...my neck...my back...my arms. She made her way down my arms releasing...releasing...expelling stress and tension, eventually finding my wrists...my wrists whose cuts have healed beautifully and completely. I did not recoil when she touched my perfectly intact skin. For a change, I had nothing to hide or to be ashamed of. Her touch felt like a hug, like affirmation, like love. She had no idea the emotions that she was drawing from me. She had no idea how far I had come. "Do it again", I wanted to say.