Some hurtful memories can surface when least expected
IHATE exercise. Or rather, I think I do. Once I get down to it, I enjoy walking, aqua-gym and yoga, but I simply cannot get to the starting block.
The motivation for physical movement feels insurmountable. This is becoming a serious problem. Medical professionals are no longer ‘advising’ but telling me I MUST walk daily for my osteoporosis, and, when possible, yoga and swimming for my arthritis.
Even my six minutes a day physiotherapy stretches are a stretch. I know I am disconnected from my body. My body is simply a means of transport for my head. A glorified set of wheels to take me from one place to another so I can spread about the important business of thinking and talking.
Apart from the marital aspect (discreet cough), all recreational physical activity mystifies me. Even though ailments directly affect my writing — fatigue of Crohn’s disease killing my imagination and arthritis restricting my writing capacity — I still resist.
I’m not a killjoy. I believe that exercise is fun, but I just can’t get myself over the hurdle of actually doing it. There is something deeper at play and I wish I knew what it was.
So, this week, in despair at myself, I booked a massage at The Biodynamic Clinic at the end of my road. I’m sceptical about alternative therapies and extremely fussy about who I put my body in the hands of. I am still convinced that my neck problems were set in motion by the clicking of an over-zealous chiropractor back in the days when I thought all men in white coats were medically trained.
However, one of the therapists, Denise Molloy, is a long-standing Killala neighbour of mine who is smart and kind. She’s also a trained nurse.
My recent ADHD diagnosis means recalibrating myself. By middle age you think you know who you are. Turns out, I don’t. Or rather, I feel selfconscious about myself and a bit off. Lacking even the motivation for a head-clearing walk, I decided to pay Denise to manipulate my muscles.
The refurbished Biodynamic Clinic is clean and fancy and next door to my house, so I was happy climbing onto a table to let Denise work her magic. I find relaxation almost impossible but her firm touch and soothing manner made me surrender.
‘Goodness me,’ she said, hitting my shoulders, ‘this feels like a brick in your neck.’ I was delighted to have the minor ache vindicated and told her about my mystifying inability to exercise, despite my good intentions.
Denise said soothing things and began to massage my face, but, as I felt her warm hands on my cheeks, a memory floated to the surface.
I was eight years old and running around the playground playing kisschase. I was waiting for the new boy to try and catch me. He was called Roberto and he looked like a young Elvis. Normally, the beautiful, sallow-skinned Italian boys were out of my league but Roberto was different because he had only one hand.
ONE day, I asked him, straight out, what had happened. He explained that, when he was four, he had, accidentally, put his hand into the mincer in his family’s butcher shop. It never occurred to me to be appalled. I just thought he was heroic and incredibly brave, and instantly fell in love.
I thought he might love me back because he was broken. I knew I was broken, even though I didn’t know how. Every afternoon break, after that, I waited for Roberto to chase me. I ran and ran, but he never did. On this particular day I noticed that nobody was chasing me. I was running on my own. Humiliated and hurt, I stopped running. And I haven’t run since.
Growing up, I learned how not to look broken. I made friends and built a life but I never fully played again.
Sometimes small incidents hit a nerve so deep that it directs us to a way of being that becomes who we are, when really, it’s not who we were meant to be at all.
I was meant to run and be carefree. At 54, lying on a therapy bench, I realised that I am still broken. The difference is, now I know why. You can’t help who you are, but you can help your response to it. Once you know, you can do something about it.
It’s never too late to play, although, it may be too late to play kiss-chase!