The importance of massage when you're losing your mind

There must be a name for what I'm feeling. I just know it. This loss of focus, squirrely thoughts rampaging through my mind like, um squirrels. Complete abandonment of my once atomic energy.

My friend David calls me Rekha Boom which simultaneously thrills and worries me. Does he mean I'm really loud? My cousin Suj once compared my footfall to that of a T Rex. You know the scene in Jurassaic Park when the kids are in the SUV watching the glass of water quiver and undulate with each footfall of old Tyrannus? Apparently that's me to a T.

Then there's the inability to express myself, which as all my friends and family know is nearly impossible. I apparently was expressing myself my mother's womb who recalls feeling pregnant with either a boy or a demon. Thanks Ma. But these days words, spoken, written, even sung just don't leave me. Should I say they leave me but not in any way you might call elegant. I gibber. I start saying things and realize i don't know what I'm saying and then try to backtrack into saying something else. See, I'm gibbering right now.

Then there's the bonecrushing loneliness. Normally I reserve that particular adjective for men with extemely large, ahem egos. But here it feels appropriate. For some reason it feels like no one nowhere can bring me solace. Not my trusty friends or relatives who coddle, cajole, bully, harass or baby me into a better mood. This ploy works for a while then they leave and along comes Mr. Bonecrusher again bruising my sparrow-like bones. There's not much you can do. I'm reminded of Steve Martin in the Jerk as he's leaving the home of his post non crossed eyed reading glasses fame. As he leaves he grabs a lamp and shouts a Bernadette Peters I don't need anything. All I need is this lamp. Lamps are helpful that way.

Actually I do know what it is. Aging. And I'm not very good at it. My cousin Cynthi says "Babe you're molten, you're being reborn and repoured." I'd like to be all alchemical but there's no getting round this - it sucks. I might be molten but it's the burning that hurts.

I discovered the brilliant Symbologist Caroline Casey a decade ago, long before Dan Brown, the other Symbologist wrote the Da Vinci Code and began offending Catholics at a global scale. She writes in her book Making the Gods Work for You at the loss she felt at the death of her daughter.

The abyss had opened up before me and I could feel the winds between the worlds.

So on top of the bonecrushing loneliness, the inability to focus or speak a formal language I'm experiencing achiness of the body. No it's not Fibermyalgia. The first woman I ever knew with the ailment was a rest stop lady in Brattleboro Vermont. My ex fiance and I were doing our annual autumn trip through New England, in which Vermont features predominantly. Beautiful land, really sweet open-hearted people and the wine, Oy! it's the 2nd highest wine consuming state per capita in the union. On this trip we stopped at the aforementioned rest stop cum tourist stop. A nice lady was sharing lots of maps to Quegee Gorge, supplementing with tips for snack and cocktail stops. By her side was a tiny black dog, who doubled as her animal care taker. No particular breed as I can recall, just a wee black dog with a shiny coat. Her name was Nino, which I believe means little boy or a rowdy wind driven from treacherous water currents. She was an assistance dog and carried things like keys and aspirin bottles for the nice lady. That was the first time I've ever heard of Fibermyalgia and being a borderline hypochondriac I've diagnosed myself with it ever since.

To combat this pain in the back, ass, neck, hip, foot - you name it I started seeking a massage therapist weekly. The massage technique is called Tua Nua which sounds much like a Star Trek character. Its based on the discipline of triggerig and draining meridians which in turn release flow of blood and energy to the 7 core chakras, which in turn allows energy to be equally distributed to the body. My usual girl Lili was not there but Amy was. One thing I'll tell you about these Korean women, they are strong. They know meridian and chakra points like nobodies business. And the good ones intuitively know what areas need most work. Intuition or the fact that your back is knotted up like an anchor hitch. Amy worked on my neck and face to prevent a migraine from shanghaing my day. She uses another technique called myofacial massage to alleviate trigger points on my skull and face. My jaw is practically locked from an old car accident. Which means its perpetually unable to open more than a small yawn. Men I've dated will tell you what a drag that is...

As Amy is poking at my face music gently plays on a portable cd player. Now music in these korean establishments can range from sappy to downright nail biting. Not that I have anything against Korean music. I like the 3 string guitar plucking out interesting note progressions. I even like the Korean singers doing remakes of popular American tunes. Christina Aguilara must be making crazy royalties in Korea. What I don't like is the church hymns piped out as relaxation. I grew up with that twaddle didn't enjoy it as a child and sure as bloody hell haven't gotten softer with age. Luckily this spa is playing really soft really slow spanish guitar.

I begin to feel better. The massage is doing it's voodoo, draining toxins, anger and despair from my body. By the time she's hammered out the reflexology points in my feet I feel I can actually breathe like a normal human, not the bewildered panting of late that has me hyperventilating like a Golden Retriever surrounded by too many exciting people. At this moment, right now I can see from here to eternity and not insanity. At this moment I know neither age nor love nor desire can distract me from my destiny.

And I will contradict the famous Mr. Fernando Lamas and say sometimes it is better to feel good than to look good.

Quote from Making the Gods Work for You. Copyright 1998 Caroline Casey.