My Massage Therapist Went Too Far (but not like that)

This past December I booked myself a 90-minute massage to help with muscle tension and swelling due to chronic illness and, of course, the stress of pandemic-life, parent-life, and just general life-life. I've had a monthly membership to a massage chain since I began my teaching career in order to help me manage stress and tension; over the years, my needs have changed some to deal with injuries and chronic pain, including some membership hiatuses due to finances, surgeries, and the pandemic. Suffice to say that this was my first massage in quite some time and I no longer had a go-to therapist, so I booked with someone new to me.

Historically I have been a fan of deep-tissue massage, but since being diagnosed with RA I've been rethinking this and wanted to try a firm massage instead. I hoped that it would be less painful in the moment and more emotionally relaxing, with the same longer term effects. My therapist was a very friendly man, tall and living in a larger body, who happened to be blind. I was intrigued to experience his massage, hoping he would be better able (than a sighted therapist) to use his sense of touch to respond to my body's tension (and writing this I have to pause and acknowledge that this assumption of mine may have been ignorant and driven by stereotypes that assign sensory superpowers to those who may have a single diminished/missing sense). Also, the fact that he is blind is relevant because he could not see me and therefore could not automatically judge my appearance.

He began the pre-massage consultation by asking me about my body history (surgeries, injuries, and whatnot) and what areas of my body needed the most attention. Once I was on the table and the massage began, he figured out pretty quickly that I am very tall and living in a bigger body. He worked his way down my back and found the extreme tension in my lower back and was surprised at how bad it was; he asked me if I wear properly fitted bras. His wife, he told me, was a 34 HHH, so he knew all about the importance of well-fitted bras and the necessity of replacing them frequently and so on -- for back health. I tried to take his mansplaining in stride; despite my knowledge of bras and having my own boobs to take care of, I also realize that there are many women in the world who do not know what to look for in a well-fitting bra or that larger breasts can put increased stress on back muscles. At the same time, I am also aware that bras are often designed for the male-gaze with no concern for comfort, as well as the arguments against wearing bras at all. Like many women during the pandemic I have eschewed bras almost altogether and, when I want to wear a bra, I exclusively wear bras without underwire or molded cups. But I didn't tell him that because I didn't want his opinions on my choices and I know that my back issues have nothing to do with my fairly average-sized boobs. Instead I let him prattle on about his wife, their marriage, and their little spats over the course of the pandemic.

Have I mentioned that I do not like to converse during massage? I'm one of those uppity bitches who is happy to exchange pleasantries and information and then I just want to enjoy the peace and quiet of not having to care for anyone else intellectually, physically, or emotionally. I just want my own time. Of course I will speak up about my massage needs, if pressure is too light or deep, that sort of thing -- but I really don't want to chat about personal things. 

Then he hit my sacrum and hips where I carry much of my weight and so began his many stories about his own experiences with diet, depression, weight loss, weight gain, and gastric surgery. I was polite and tried not to engage. I told him that I'm recovering from disordered eating. You would think that would be a signal to end or at the very least redirect the conversation, but it was not. He just kept sharing.  Obviously what worked for him -- a man with his own particular health history and genetic background that has nothing to do with my own -- should work for me, right?

We've all met these people. Maybe we were those people once. "I did X and lost Y weight and now I feel great and so much healthier and happier." The thing is diets don't work; people always regain the weight unless they restrict their food for the rest of their lives. Diets and gastric surgery work great, until they don't. And then people end up gaining more weight than they lost because their bodies are fighting against starvation and want to make sure they're prepared for the next famine. I learned all of this throughout 2021 during my personal quest to deprogram myself from Diet Culture, also known as Wellness Culture. As I lay there, I endeavored to tune out all of his well-meaning bullshit and enjoy my massage.

Later that day, my husband asked me how my massage was. I responded that it was one of the best massages I ever had, but the therapist talked way too much and was super focused on weight and Diet Culture and I now knew way too much about his marital relationship. 

But that night, as I was going to sleep, I could still hear his voice in my head.

And the next morning, when I looked in the mirror, I didn't look as good as I did the morning before.

And later that next day, I caught myself calculating how much of what I'd eaten to determine if I "deserved" to eat again.

And then I considered passing on a dessert treat that I really wanted, all because I didn't like how my body looked in my clothing.

And over the course of several weeks, one of the best massages I'd ever had turned into one of the worst massages I'd ever had. It reactivated that insidious voice of Diet Culture judging my worth and attractiveness based on the flatness of my stomach and how streamlined my figure appeared. My curves and rolls again became something wrong, problems that needed solving, totems of asexuality, proof that no one could possibly desire me. Over the course of a 90-minute massage, an entire year of personal growth had been called into question. An entire year of healing had been two-thirds of the way undone. The voice of Diet Culture had been re-amplified in my internal dialogue and it was devaluing me, belittling me, making me second-guess my hunger signals, ruining the pleasure to be found in food, and robbing me of the joy my body holds.

What a bunch of bullshit. How had I let some guy mansplain to me about boobs and my own body? He doesn't have boobs. He doesn't live in my body, he hasn't birthed children, he doesn't have my same chromosomes and hormones, he doesn't have chronic pain and illness. What the actual fuck?

Why didn't I stop him in his tracks? When he didn't get my hint when I mentioned disordered eating, why didn't I tell him point-blank that I don't want to talk about this stuff, that I do not agree with his thinking, and that it is doing the very thing a massage should never do: stress me out! 

At first, I thought that once he voiced his opinion, he would be finished; his point made. I tried my best not to engage while still being polite (because I, like many women, were taught to be quiet and polite and non-confrontational by my foremothers -- problematic!). Then, when he continued, I just hunkered down and tried to focus on getting through it. And when it became clear that this emotional assault wasn't going to end until the massage did, I tried to escape by completely checking out and retreating into my own mind. But the emotional assault didn't end when the massage did because my own toxic inner-narrative was unleashed and it took me weeks and weeks to get back to peace with my own body.

Never again will I allow someone to tell me how to live in my own body. It may come
in the form of voicing their own opinions, relating their "success" stories, or giving me "helpful" advice, but I know now that I must be very careful with my body-love as it is a fragile babe in its infancy. I owe it to myself to nurture and protect my body-love as fiercely as I would one of my children. Next time I will say, I am in a vulnerable place when it comes to loving my body, and I do not want to discuss matters of size, diet, or exercise. Period. End of story.