I always feel blue after every health-related appointment. Today was massage day. One hour and and a half of deep tissue massage. Bliss? Deep tissue massage is never bliss. I hate massages that just feel nice. I feel them to be a waste of time. I get oodgy. When will this fucking thing that’s a complete waste of my time be over?
That’s how I feel about reading books that require nothing of me. I am constitutionally unable to read them. I get distracted in a nanosecond, and I don’t give a bloody damn. Now Tom Jones was funny. Wildly funny. (FYI read all the bloody footnotes, they're priceless.) Evelyn Waugh is a scream. Most modern literature (if it can even be called that) is one fucking waste of time. I need meaty. I must have it, or I’ll go bananas. And I’m already so, so this tripe can’t possibly be good for me. As I suppose you all can tell, reading shit is irritating. Seriously irritating. And often I am just physically able to read it.
But why ever should I feel blue after having a successful deep-tissue massage? (Success is measured by whether I open up and “let the therapist in” to the nasty painful spots.) I received an A+ today from my masseuse today. This pleases me. Go figure. But if all has gone so well, why am I blue? Each appointment with anyone who is supposed to make me feel better is accompanied by sadness. I would guarantee my life on it.
I ‘splain: Each and every health-related appointment (which seem to be all I have on the calendar these days) reminds me that I am not convalescing with the expectation of recovery. I am convalescing to continue convalescing ad infinitum with less pain. I still can’t wrap myself around the fact that I will never heal. That I will never get better. I am working to remain alive and as comfortable as I possibly can. Appetizing, is it not? (This while my fantubulous husband is giving me a foot massage, homework from Rachel the kickass massage therapist.) We open up my feet, the rest of the tight-as-a-drum legs should eventually follow. A fine plan. I receive a foot massage, and I’m sad. Like I need reminders.