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I meant it when I said at the beginning of the week that I’m doing absolutely everything I can stomach to get control of my anxiety. This morning I woke up slowly, savored my daily cup of coffee, and ate a breakfast sandwich in bed while I climbed the ranks of the Diamond League on Duolingo. At noon, I drove to a massage appointment I begrudgingly made for myself over a week ago. It’s not that I don’t enjoy and benefit from massages. I do, but scheduling this particular massage felt like a defeat. Admitting to myself that my anxiety is creeping close to a tipping point was hard enough. Then I blogged about it, making it real online, too.
I was in good spirits on the way to my appointment. I didn’t start crying within moments of waking up like I have been recently, the weather was nice, and a series of both literal and metaphorical bumps in the road didn’t stress me out like they normally would.
Unexpected changes in order:
My regular massage therapist no longer works at the spa. I knew going in I was going to be massaged by a new person.
The tiny parking lot of the spa was under construction when I arrived, leaving seemingly nowhere for me to park in busy downtown. I’d arrived early to my appointment because of course I did, so I had approximately seven minutes to figure out where to park my car.
When I called the spa as I was circling the block to ask where customers should park due to the construction, nobody answered. Voicemail picked up as I was making a questionable turn.
There was a bit of a walk from the lot I eventually found to the front door of the spa. I could feel myself sweating under my shirt.
When I got to the door of the spa, it was inexplicably locked. (Not even 2.5 seconds passed before a very nice person unlocked it and apologized for my wait.)
Once inside, I made a lighthearted joke about the parking, changed into one of the soft weighted robes I wish I had the guts to steal, smelled my armpits just in case, and poured myself a cup of crystal-infused water. (I told you I was doing all! the! things!) I quietly set an intention to feel my anxiety melt away and settled into the plushy lounge chairs. I tried to meditate on inner peace while I waited for my new massage therapist.
We were about 10 minutes into the massage when she stopped to gently ask me if I was stressed or anxious. I fought the urge to assure her that I’m actually very cool, very calm, zen even. Instead, I admitted that yes, I maybe (not maybe) suffer from a little (a lot of) anxiety. She asked me to take a deep breath. I did. She sighed.
“I’m going to teach you how to breathe, okay?”
My thoughts in order:
I know how to breathe.
Stop talking to me during my massage.
She began explaining diaphragmatic breathing to me and how as women, we’re conditioned to constantly suck in our tummies. She pointed out that when she asked me to take a deep breath, the parts of my body that moved were my chest, neck, and shoulders, indicating that my breath wasn’t in my belly where it should be. She said she could feel the tension in my shoulders caused by the way I’ve been breathing.
My thoughts in order:
I know what diaphragmatic breathing is.
You can’t be treated for vaginismus by any pelvic floor physical therapist worth their salt without learning about diaphragmatic breathing.
Please stop talking to me during my massage.
I KNOW WHAT DIAPHRAGMATIC BREATHING IS!
Then she placed her hand on my belly and we breathed together. She was right. Feeling my belly fill with air was a new sensation. It felt weird and labored.
“You learn fast! Try to do that as I massage you. It will bring more oxygen to your muscles and it will help with your anxiety.”
We didn't talk much after that. I tried really hard to focus on my breathing while she massaged me. When she was finished, I actually felt very cool, very calm, zen even. I drank the rest of my water, changed back into my clothes, put the weighted robe in the hamper instead of in my purse, and floated back to my car, wherever it was parked.
Here’s the thing: I did know what diaphragmatic breathing is. In 2017, I was treated by a pelvic floor physical therapist who was a wealth of knowledge. I still have printouts from her office on breathing techniques for dilator work and penetrative sex. But my treatment journey, like that of so many others in this space, wasn't so cut and dry. I completed her program (she actually sort of broke up with me, but that’s a post for another day) and then I didn't touch a dilator again for four years.
At the time, my only goal was successful penis-in-vagina sex. Dilators made me uncomfortable because of course they did and I’d already lost a relationship due in part to my vaginismus. I wasn’t about to lose another one. Fast forward to today, Dear Reader, and she’s not only having penetrative sex but she’s practicing with her dilators and she doesn't even know how to breathe properly!
I do now, and I’m grateful that I begrudgingly made that massage appointment and that my regular (silent) massage therapist wasn’t available. I’m still anxious, but I think I’m finally starting to feel (and fill) better.