Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.
I’m no Catholic, but when you’re lying on your bed, with a guy trying to place your knee to your chest, and you’re unable to think of a single swear word, let alone say one, you know you’re in trouble.
And as anyone who knows me can confirm: I can make a sailor blush, so it must be bad 🙂
Yesterday I spent a stupid amount of money for what can only be described as an hour of cruel and unusual punishment. Sixty minutes of virtually unrelenting pain as my otherwise wonderful physio contorted my limbs into positions they really did not want to go.
Torture, in case you’re wondering, is defined as an act of inflicting excruciating pain. I think come visit me on a Saturday afternoon and see it inflicted on someone who’s actually paying for it.
And trust me, when I tell you I ain’t got no BDSM fetish.
When I was a gym bunny the only point of exercise, I used to say, was to do the stretching after. Teasing out the muscle fibres and detaching them from themselves and all of the connective tissue in between.
Stretching’s more important now as my muscles get quite tense and inflexible. And I need their ability to expand and release if I’m to regain my ability to stand.
At this moment poking my eyes out with sharp sticks would be a more preferable form of pain management than forcing my bent legs straight.
A good analogy would be thinking of an envelope that’s been sealed with a super-glue that’s gone cold and become inflexible, and then trying to open it without tearing or ripping.
The fibres of my muscles are the envelope’s edges tightly sealed. And they sting when touched, even lightly.
Each stretch results in a minuscule tear separating the fibres from the glue. It’s been over six months since any physio-terrorist did this.
I’m trying not to scream, but tears are streaming down my face and I’m struggling for breath. If this was real torture I would have passed out some minutes ago.
The conversation goes a bit like this:
Ok, bit further, bit further, argh *&@##!!
A sailor blushes.
Sound of deep breaths
Until finally: No stop, I can’t take it anymore. I’ll sign anything. Give me a pen, I did it, It’s my fault. I confess.
Very well. Your signature here please and that will be £80.
Same time next week? 🙂