Massage Masochism

Several months ago I wrote this post about my ongoing battle with alopecia. The hair loss which follows the line along my left temple turned out to be an aesthetically horrifying side effect of chronic cluster migraines, the condition with which I was finally diagnosed in mid-August. Though the diagnosis brought about irritating lifestyle changes (less wine consumption, reduced outdoor activity in hot weather, more sleep and less demands on my limited free time), the verdict was certainly preferable to that of an autoimmune disease or brain tumor, which were the other two options.

The team of doctors who helped me looked for answers decided upon a fourfold treatment plan: one emergency medication for sudden headache onset and two daily pills, the aforementioned lifestyle changes, a topical steroid spray intended to regenerate hair growth and treatments as often as I could afford them with a craniofacial massage therapist. Through a series of a medical exams, it was ascertained that copious knots located at the base of my skull, scalp, neck and jaw might be limiting the healthy inflow of blood and oxygen while causing a retention of impurities and other waste. It was also hypothesized that these knots developed over time, likely due to the effects of 2011 stress - cancer, divorce, and a schism with close family members.

I went AMA and took myself off those daily pills within a month, The prescriptions were causing reductions in my heart rate, breathlessness and chest tightness. During light jogs, I felt dizzy and lightheaded and worst of all, the tablets did nothing to restrain the monstrous headaches that often appeared out of thin air. I held onto the emergency pill, and still do, as it has proven effective at limiting the discomfort if I act with alacrity.

But about those craniofacial massages. They have been a horrendously uncomfortable miracle. It turns out I had an expert right in my own backyard, a longtime friend with an established mobile therapy business. He specializes in the treatment of those with chronic conditions like arthritis, multiple sclerosis and yes, migraines. Because many of his clients are homebound or otherwise limited in their motility, Pat comes to them. As a sole proprietor with his own equipment, without the expense of office space, his rates are highly attractive.

But I digress. I booked my first 90-minute treatment in the middle of August. Pat started with my scalp before moving to the base of my skull. For a person who has built a career out of presumed self-awareness, I knew not until he touched me exactly how sore, rigid and entangled those muscles were. Hell, I didn't even know they were used for anything. However it wasn't until he slapped on a pair of latex gloves and began digging around my jaw inside and out that the actual tears began to flow. As Pat began to isolate grape-sized kinks in the muscle groups which permit talking, eating, brain and neck support, I couldn't believe I had been walking around living day-to-day life like this. I am certain the tears were shed in equal parts sorrow over the ignorance which led to needless suffering, as well as temporal pain.

At the conclusion of that first session, I had watery eyes, sneezing and a two-day runny nose that ejected copious amounts of weird green shit. Was that mess literally stuck inside my head? Never had the dire warnings that a stressful lifestyle impacts overall health seemed more obvious. I had the mucus-filled tissues to prove it.

As I walked out Pat's front door, I was resolved never to endure another bout of his sadist "massage therapy" again, but I certainly couldn't deny that I had more movement in my jaw and neck than I ever remembered. I also couldn't ignore that as he worked through my jaw, tiny shoots of pain were refracted at the front of my skull - exactly the point from which the migraines emanated.

Nearly three months and one regenerating bald spot later, my belief that prescription drugs often only mask the problem, and bring about their own pitfalls is stronger than ever. I'd stop short of labeling myself a New Age homeopathic hippie, but I am a logical being and if something works, I stick with it. I haven't suffered a migraine in 12 weeks and the new hair growth, even if entirely white, offers encouragement that this past summer's informal wig shopping may have been premature. I no longer obsessively pet the smooth spot that shouldn't be, as if enough rubbing could awaken the dormant follicles.

If short-term pain once every three weeks means getting my life back and a reprieve from repetitive, expensive doctor visits, then it's a true pleasure. 

Stone Cold Rhymin'

The gift of a child so adorable, good memories lessen the horrible.
My eardrums are bursting, my dry throat is thirsting, your timing is just so incorrigible.

Sinuses strained and throbbing, nocturnal weaving and bobbing.
Normally a machine but you got between. Now I'm weak to the point of sobbing.

It's true that you're fleeting, but also deceiving is your name, the Common Cold.
Because there's something abnormal about the way you're so formal in leaving me out of the fold.

I have work to do and pounds to eschew but can't overcome the wheezing.
Instead I lay prone, a broken drone, disabled by violent sneezing.

When I feel better, I'll get myself together. A honey badger anew, I vow.
I can't breathe when you stay, but you won't go away, so I leave my mouth open for now.

The Passion of JC

When we began dating several months ago, my boyfriend Jean Claude and I wondered aloud what shape that tell-tale first argument might take. As the early throes of faultless infatuation begin to fade, a couple's first skirmish can say a lot about the pair's respective communication styles, methods of conflict resolution and maybe even provide a glimpse into the relationship's life expectancy. Those that fight in a fair, calm, reasonable and empathetic manner may anticipate a pattern of give-and-take respect and harmony. At the other end of the spectrum, pairings that would cause former spouses Tommy and Pamela Lee to pause and shake their heads may want to consider seeking satisfaction elsewhere.

For JC and I, the inaugural squabble began with a semi-tense evening conversation, a discussion I errantly believed had reached its conclusion before bed. I awoke to start my morning routine and was greeted with a churlish, silent man where heretofore I had recoiled from a Mr. Rogers level of diurnal cheer. Something was not right but as I mentioned, I had believed the preceding evening's tiff to be completely resolved. After repeatedly asking my boyfriend to spill his guts with no success, I decided that perhaps he was simply not looking forward to a day at the office. No big whoop.

Shortly before we boarded the local commuter train, the truth was revealed: JC had not recovered from wounds sustained the night before and was dead set upon the cold shoulder until he did. At this point, mystified, frustrated and angry anew, I uttered the following sentence which has become the stuff of legend in our brief shared history: "You know what? Why don't I build you a cross and you can martyr yourself because that's clearly what you want to do?"

A stunned Jean Claude replied with a simple "I don't even know what to say." It was evident that he was not accustomed to being spoken to this way at 7 am. What can I say folks? I shoot from the hip and as a writer, there was zero chance of ignoring such an appropriate, if obvious, analogy. His initials are JC. He was playing the victim. I told him to nail himself to the cross. Get it? Ha!

I digress. Once my sweetheart had a chance to recoup, he opted to embrace the trope of martyrdom with gusto. It quickly became an affectionate inside joke. Before long, JC would lament a bad day in a whiny tone or request some high-maintenance favor. Just as I would grow annoyed, I would whip my head around to witness him engaging in the pantomime of a forsaken man hanging from nails, wearing an impish grin. This sort of thing tends to take the wind out of my impatience. 

Flash forward to this past weekend when we attended a production of the play Mistakes Madeline Made by Elizabeth Meriwether. On assignment for one of my freelance gigs as a Chicago theater critic, Jean Claude my intelligent, thoughtful and articulate partner has become my companion of choice.

We ventured to the theater on a Friday evening, straight from our respective offices. That meant that we were loaded with bags, coats and other items before I collected my press packet and essential glass of red wine. In the course of business, I thought I had turned over custody of our tickets to JC.

In a harried, sweaty state, I led us to the upstairs theater where the performance would be staged and stood in front of two elderly female ushers with my hand out. Naturally, I was waiting for Jean Claude to fork over the passes. When he calmly insisted that he didn't have them, I grunted and may or may not have threatened to "kick his ass" for failing to produce them. I am an urban Italian woman and intimidating rhetoric is reflexive, like the way one automatically raises their arms to break a fall. By now, Jean Claude is well enough acquainted with me to ignore these peevish ejaculations, but it was immediately clear that the octogenarian ushers believed me nothing short of a monster. JC could not resist the opportunity.

As I rifled through my backpack and press packet, he played to the crowd: "Baby! Why would you speak to me in that harsh tone? Haven't you already spilled wine on me (yes, I had)? Didn't I offer to hold your belongings so you could get organized? I SWEAR I don't have the tickets. Don't hit me again!"

When I discovered the tickets (naturally) were indeed insider my folder, I was red-faced on two fronts. In the first place I had falsely accused my mate of having possession, but even worse, his Academy-Award worthy interpretation of Farrah Fawcett's abused character from legendary TV film The Burning Bed drew appalled clucks of disapproval from his new usher friends. Suddenly I was the Chris Brown to his Rihanna.

And it was then I knew I had learned a valuable lesson. Singular moments of tension are fair game for my boyfriend when it comes to mining comedic material, and nothing is safe. This one's got me on my toes. And I kind of like it.

Cleaning Out My Closet

"You've got your ex-husband's bathrobe hanging on the door, the pajamas, shoes and books of another estranged boyfriend and an office chair donated by yet another former lover. Why are you holding onto all of this stuff?"

Such was the incisive observation and inquisition from my main squeeze, the man who is beginning to help me put away years of frustrated hopes, rejection, pain and sorrow in an inability to foster a requited love relationship of equals. It wasn't until he drew attention to the discarded elements that represent a lifetime of romantic missteps that I finally stopped to ask myself, "How are these mementos, these vestiges of the past serving me in the present?"

The answer, in large degree, is that they are not. Beyond creating environmental discomfort for my current partner when he visits my apartment, I'm not sure the retention of these keepsakes accomplishes much more than laying building blocks of painful memory over which I stumble. My ex-husband's bathrobe, while large and comfortable, has a habit of leaving magenta colored lint on everything with which it comes into contact. Much like the character of the man who once wore it, I can't move about freely for fear of inciting a messy riot which no lint brush seems to be able to contain.

The aforementioned office chair was a thoughtful gift given to me by a gentleman I dated last year. He said that his own body hurt while watching me strain to type at the soda fountain kitchen table, seated atop a backless bar stool. Somehow he procured a supported office chair that can be adjusted to reach the height of my monitor. While this utilitarian item was much appreciated, it clashes greatly with my studio's aesthetic and there's been ample time to search for a replacement. I just haven't, I realized, because I am reluctant to discard tangible evidence that my spinal well-being actually mattered to someone.

As for those pajamas, shoes and books left in the wake of my last relationship: I've hidden them in the recesses of my closet for the better part of five months, preserving them like fossils from an archaeological dig. I deluded myself that the bond which formed with so much promise even as it ended in disillusionment was strong enough to yield an eventual friendship. It's not the first, nor probably the last time I overestimated my necessity to another's equanimity. Having confronted the reality that he and I will never again occupy places in the same social sphere, it is time to gather and return.

It seems somehow appropriate that when I restore these belongings to my former companion, I will be receiving precious little in return: two bottles of shampoo and conditioner and an extra set of housekeys. I never allowed myself to invest in setting up house at his place the way he did in mine. This appears to be a pattern. When the union blows up and after the dust settles, I escape with the essentials in my purse, never having to worry about a painful return to the scene. Swoop in, don't get comfortable, swoop out. Post-divorce, this has been a strategy for avoiding the kind of hurt you can only experience when forced to pack up and move out with only half a life in boxes.

It may be indicative of the transition I am currently undergoing that should my current relationship fail, I will need a lot more than a purse to remove the accumulated personal items I've felt comfortable enough to leave at his place. I am more invested than a spare toothbrush. It is both exciting and terrifying to let go and just enjoy the fall. But I realize this week, as I set about repackaging the remnants of affairs past and returning them to their rightful owners, this form of spring cleaning creates new space, figuratively and literally, for a cleaner and less haunted future.

Desperately Seeking a Dream Catcher

Taking a break from sweating the upcoming Presidential election, and now that the Chicago Teachers' Union has settled its war with Mayor Rahm Emanuel and returned to the classroom, I would like to explore another nagging plague in my current existence: bad dreams.

In college, newly fled from the stultifying influences of a broken home, a paradigm shift from survival mode left my subconscious flooded with psychological disruption. At that period in my life, sleep was not a problem. If anything, I availed myself of way too much of it as an escape from past wounds I had not the tools to heal, as well as present demands that I had trouble meeting. That said, nocturnal adventures were punctuated by disturbing, bizarre, often threatening images that belied the waking image of a good time girl without care. It was at some point during my sophomore year that I began relying on depressants to put me into a deeper trance, providing a certain amount of insurance from waking in a disturbed sweat.

But like any substance routinely ingested, the drugs lost their edge and before I knew it, no amount of chemical shield was enough to stave off the nightmares. In time, therapy, self-exploration and the accrual of newer, less intimidating experiences dulled the edges. The dreams never left completely, but they became less frequent and less menacing.

What was old became new again in the fallout of painful separation and divorce last year. Dormant fears of abandonment were realized in ways that felt inevitable yet impossible all at once. Naive as it sounds to my own ears, to love as much as I did must yield success. And when it didn't despite my every effort, I was right back in the shoes of that broken college student: disoriented, despairing, yet by this time old enough to understand that a youthful pattern of interpersonal injustice and failure was one I might be unable to transcend.

This time even a light sleep was not so easy to attain, and fitful slumbers were accented by violent, wretched visuals that once again had me reaching for over the counter reinforcements. But I couldn't drink enough Nyquil to medicate the root causes of my nighttime horrors: fear, shame and a broken heart.

In 2012, I am somewhat a different woman than I was the year prior. Not only accustomed to, but thriving in a solitary living environment, ensconced in a supportive, healthy and loving relationship, and surrounded by friends and contacts who inspire, buttress and move me to strive for what never seemed possible in the dark ages, this 34 year-old female feels more whole than at any point in the past.

Yet my pesky subconscious continues to remind me that all is not well. Recent weeks have borne witness to a vengeful return of the nightly phantasm. Several evenings ago I dreamt of my estranged mother. In the dream she was scheduled for brain surgery and my sister and I arrived at her bedside only to hear her castigate her unwanted children to anyone within earshot. In a fit of rage, I began choking the patient with a force so inhuman that her head severed from her neck and rolled onto the operating room floor. Blood sprayed everywhere. Have I mentioned that in my waking life I am a skittish pacifist who watches episodes of Grey's Anatomy through her fingers and cries when her boyfriend tries to show her Google images of a spinal tap? Yet when I awoke, I had to confront the reality that I am suppressing a great deal of maternally-directed rage.

I have discussed these sleeping battles and waking aftershocks with my therapist who seems perversely pleased despite a general concern for my restfulness. Dr. T has long held the theory that the internal compartments built to house the pain of childhood neglect were made of the flimsiest plaster. Her theory is that I have to open those hiding places at some point in order to mourn and move forward. I have resisted this work in the diurnal hours but it seems that latent emotions will have their say no matter what locus of control I contrive to own.

CPS Teacher Strike 2012: Unarmed Kids

Throughout my primary school and junior high years, I attended a little hole-in-the-wall Lutheran school called Pilgrim in Chicago's Ravenswood neighborhood. Though I don't have much use for these skills now (notwithstanding the occasional drunken parlor trick), I memorized the books of the Old Testament in order and recited Bible verses in addition to acquiring more progressive knowledge like sexual education and critical thinking. Believe it or not, challenging our pastor on issues of religious dogma was unpunishable, even encouraged.

I enjoyed eight years as a rather large fish in a small pond. With a graduating class of 12 students, and all of them white except for one Mexican-immigrant kid named Jose Echevarria, it was easy to achieve and maintain social and academic dominance. In the meantime, while I appreciated the humanities-centered education I received, I lamented a curriculum devoid of World Geography, advanced mathematics and rigorous scientific principles. Some topics necessarily gave way in order to save time for the Catechism.

The world appeared set to open for me as I prepared to leave a tiny Lutheran institution in favor of Chicago's public school system (CPS baby!). As a new enrollee in Lincoln Park High School's much-vaunted International Baccalaureate Program (I.B.), a course of study which I must point out, earned derision from a variety of Tea Party crackpots earlier this year for its encouragement of global citizenship, I had access to technology, student diversity and scholarship that I would not have otherwise gleaned by hewing to the religious lines I had been walking.

I recognize that my CPS experience does not mirror that of the City's general student population, where the matriculation rate recently touched a new high of 60 percent but college graduation percentages fall below 10. Post-Great Recession, there numbers do not speak well of students' ability to compete for jobs in a hyper-connected world that requires more education than ever. But let us not pretend that there aren't mitigating factors beyond disengaged students and uninspiring teachers as certain anti-union factions would have it. Poverty and a frustrating lack of modern resources, compounded by children in gang-infested neighborhoods who do all they can just to get to school alive are certainly at play.

As the nation is now fully aware, Chicago Public School teachers voted to walk the picket line this week for the first time in 25 years. I am grateful that I was never impacted by this learning interruptus, a distraction that the City's struggling students don't need, but I understand that the fight between Mayor Rahm Emanuel and the Chicago Teachers' Union is about far more than pay raises. I join many of my friends and colleagues in bemoaning a state of political affairs that has rendered urban children collateral damage in this war. I respect that the Teachers' Union feels the need to put its foot down before issues of classroom size, resources and the recent vilification of personnel render doing the job of educating impossible. It's hard to sympathize with a Mayor who appears so little invested in the City's school system that his own children attend high-priced private institutions.

It's difficult to escape the impression however, that there will be no winners once both sides have laid down their arms. Educators will remain underpaid and overtaxed with too few resources. School administrators will not glean the increases in standardized test scores so desired without addressing systemic failings that put the City's children at a disadvantage before they set foot inside the classroom. One outcome however is certain: as the strike completes day two and families without alternative childcare options struggle to provide their offspring with productive, often unsupervised, methods of spending their newfound free time, it is the kids who pay the long-term price.

May this standoff conclude with utmost alacrity. Children who have seen their parents lose jobs, homes and more deserve a break.

Bill Clinton Restores Democrats' Lovin' Feeling

No matter on which side of the ideological spectrum you sit, it's difficult to avoid political engagement this week. The Republican National Convention, which resulted in the official nomination of the Romney/Ryan ticket, has been followed thus far by the blinding spectacle of the Democratic counterpart. A thought occurred to me last night after the conclusion of Bill Clinton's return to convention glory, a nomination speech punctuated by a virtuoso display of GOP myth debunking that must have left leaders from the right reaching for the Neosporin.

The thought was this: not only do the 2012 Presidential election and the respective nomination fetes offer a"clear choice" that candidates and pundits love to discuss, but moreover there is a clear dichotomy in the motivations of the two conventions themselves. Simply put, Mitt Romney and his team sought to recast their robotic candidate as a human being with middle class appeal(a goal that arguably fell totally flat). The idea, after a brutal primary season in which the former moderate sold his record as a compromising Governor, for the opportunity to appeal to the dogmatic Tea Party zealots which now represent GOP leadership, was that Mittens hadn't moved so far to the right that he'd lost touch with regular middle-of-the-road America.

Contrast this with the mission of the DNC. A report from my hometown paper, the Chicago Tribune, shared the results of a Reuters/Ipsos poll yesterday which indicated that the POTUS doesn't have any trouble with popular appeal. To quote the article, "The online poll showed that voters found Obama more likable than Romney by 50 percent to 30 percent. Forty-one percent said they believed Obama 'understands people like me,' while 28 percent said that about Romney." It's only natural that voters would tend to gravitate toward a man of modest beginnings, with the power to elicit action and emotion with relatable personal anecdotes and a wondrous oratory gift. It's almost unfair to place Barack Obama's considerable magnetism and think-on-his-feet intelligence next to a wooden, scripted man who looks like the enemy from Wall Street and admits to loaded offshore bank accounts. No matter how hard he and his team try to prove otherwise, Mittens is not one of us.

Nevertheless, Barack Obama faced a considerable challenge heading into this week's events in Charlotte, NC, one faced to a lesser degree by Romney. The President and other scheduled speakers had to re-energize the Democratic base, the disillusioned who voted for "Yes, We Can" in 2008 only to see the slogan perverted into "Yes, We Can...But Only if House Republicans Cooperate." Over the last four years, hope and optimism have taken many hits in the face of unprecedented Congressional gridlock that seems to worsen with each important issue requiring decisive action.

Though one may disagree with the right on many, many issues, no one doubts the party's commitment to unseating the President by any means necessary. For reasons ranging from respectful academic disagreement to the worst kind of racial intolerance, there is little doubt that the GOP can anticipate record turnout at the polls this November. However, there is ample reason to suspect that some of the interest groups which carried Obama to victory in 2008 - voters under 25, women, the gay community and the impoverished - may not be motivated to complete their registration applications this round. In addition to disappointment in the Obama agenda's success already mentioned, nefarious attempts by Republicans to disenfranchise minority groups and the poor have already met with a great deal of prosperity.

Against this backdrop, the primary goal of the DNC must have been abundantly clear to Team Obama: get those 2008 voters, many of whom cast a ballot for the first time, back to their polling centers. See San Antonio Mayor Julian Castro deliver a rousing speech about his immigrant family and the hard work and sacrifice required to make it in America. See Michelle Obama, the most capable First Lady since Hillary Clinton, humanize her cerebral husband with tales of date nights in a rusted out automobile. See Elizabeth Warren's massive appeal to the 99 percent with a stirring repudiation of the GOP's obsession with treating corporations better than people.

And last but not least before the current POTUS has the opportunity to address his constituents directly, see former President William Jefferson Clinton bring a convention center and millions of voters to their feet with the answer to all our disillusioned liberal prayers. Bill Clinton is considered a political genius for many reasons but his ability to meld lofty policy discussion with a relatable, folksy charm that doesn't talk down to Americans...well last night's speech was simply a master class in connection. All that was wanting was a microphone drop to complete the President Emeritus' triumph.

I am one of those voters who has occasionally felt letdown by the conflict between the theoretical Obama of 2008 and the practical limits of governing. However if the endgame of this week's convention is a restoration of enthusiasm, and a renewed commitment to ensuring a second term for the President, then mission accomplished. Whatever the roadblocks of the past four years, the current Commander-in-Chief is the only candidate who cares about the recent decline of the middle class and possesses the policy tools to put it back on the road to success. I'd like to thank Bill Clinton for the impassioned reminder.