I didn’t know what to expect when my coach Tom Fleming told
me to go see someone named Marcus—it was at the end of 1990. But I was
desperate to get my left hamstring to work properly again. As of then I’d had my
longest mileage for a year ever—for the year already by the end of November. I
didn’t feel good. Much was wrong with my health. Things I never spoke of till
decades later—Or never.
Back then, I worked for a defense contracting company in
finance. My husband had just begun to go back to school full time that year, so
we pinched pennies. Tom knew that. Marcus gave us runners on Tom’s team a
discount for services.
Tom had a name for Marcus. He’d eventually refer to Marcus
as the Voodoo Man—as Marcus was aptly named. The experiences that I could
afford to have with such a character as Marcus were tremendous. And well-worth
the pain he inflicted when I wouldn’t let go. Follow me.
It seems anything uncomfortable—we regard as pain or as a
form of pain. However, if we could change our perspective and see the thing we
consider painful as a changing of the guard—or a reconfiguration of our psyche
or perhaps our ego—then we could reason with the disruption we considered painful.
Now Marcus didn’t tell me this. Yet, I was open to the
mind-altering experience of diving into my own pain without medication. I
believe there is more to our athletic and non-athletic pains than we’ve been
coerced to understand. Too, we’ve gladly accepted the non-work of society’s
acceptance of getting through pain. As if to say, ‘We are not responsible for
addressing our pain in a mindful sense’. Nor taking accountability for our
uncomfortable pain’s existence.
However, I’m not addressing pain brought on by pains occurring
in battle or victimizations of war—where burn victims may need outside
allopathic pain relief. Too, anything that’s in that realm is clearly another
story. What I’m addressing here are headaches, strains, sprains, things that we
consider every day or are reminded of by advertisements, by our parents or
elders in our community about pain.
Aging—people are taught that we are supposed to not suffer
from the processes of aging. Nor the fear of dying. We are taught that we need consoling.
And that because of age, we are wiser. Those are the coercions we are convinced to
embrace. We name those coercions, retirement along with other inferences. Which
is a complete and utter lie. Follow me. Being wiser does not necessarily come
with age. I’ve met dying sixteen-year-olds, who had the wisdom of someone four
times their age. I’ve met four-year-old AIDS patients who’d begin to yell, “No
More!” It’s not that they knew best, although they might. It’s what they feel
instinctively about their treatment. I’ve heard people in their sixties say it
with the same inference, yet they were allowed to draw the line for themselves.
But that wisdom is few and far between.
Our everyday pains. Or the pains we appear to arrive at over
time. We accuse or the medical fields, allopathic and alternative medicines
alike have accused us of a multitude of sins due to our activities, sometimes
the lack thereof. Usually, it is pointed out that it is the activity and or our
jobs over time that cause us pain. We are not taught by the medical field that
we are to exist with the lifelong phrase of, “Chop wood. Carry water”.
“Chop wood. Carry water.” Is used in a philosophical manner
in Buddhism. It means many things. It’s a principle of sorts. Keeping it in
simplified context—it reaches to always having to work at things. Always having
some type of process of working or work. Because then—what will we exist as, if
we don’t accept some type of responsibility throughout our lives in human form?
As well, productivity is just as important as just being still—as rest.
Going back to Marcus, yes he fixed my left hamstring in one shot
that day. He kept saying, “Be here now.” That and along with small words is all
he’d ever say in a one-hour session. Even before each session, He would keep it
short. You’d only say a few words—He’d read your mind. Follow me. Marcus was in tune with each person during
that session. He did not overload himself as most full-time therapists could be
compelled to do to pay the bills. Yet, he warned me, as my life had become upended,
and I was forced to make a career decision. I had opted to go into the field he
was in. He warned me of burnout. He knew my soul.
One day about 1992 around late November, early December I
lay on his table. At this point, I was still running, yet pained and losing
certain abilities in my right leg. My face, my head, my jaw, my neck, my right
leg and back all still hurt—never mind the flashbacks that were occurring every
day. I forged ahead to not allow our dreams to completely shatter. Sitting was
painful. However later, in the week of Christmas my office was close—I ran 200
miles in that week over the course I’d been abducted on. I did it to conquer
any doubt on getting through this. Painful, yes. Cursing, yes—but it was my defiance—and
it was to push back at the world in which we lived.
I had nerve damage, unknown to me through multiple
misdiagnoses I had fractures in my back from the crime committed on me. I also
was still working full-time at my job at the defense contracting company—yet I
was in school at night as I apprenticed part-time as a bodyworker and massage
therapist at a gym. My marriage was good. But as a couple my husband and I were
thrown into a hellish nightmare of dealing with a criminal case against my
abductor and rapist from the 1991 crime committed on me. We both knew I
should’ve been dead. Some in law enforcement told me that as well over that
past year when they knew about the case. Too, I had many people including
lawyers who were trying to tell me it wasn’t worth testifying. That’s a story
in itself.
So here I was on Marcus’ table at the end of 1992 for the
sixth session in two years. In the middle of the session, Marcus paused for a
second and said, “Goober”. I nearly fell off the table. How the hell did he
know I was thinking of my dog who died in 1989? And he never knew I had a dog. Much
less my dog’s name. I mean for crying out loud, we never talked. Not real talk.
It was, “… my right leg is weak…” And he’d respond, “Okay then.” Then I’d lay
down, be in the moment and drift off occasionally. Marcus would remind me, “Be
here now.” I would comply. There were times I’d curse from pain as he worked
but I’d remain still. I wouldn’t pull away. I knew not to. He accepted my once
in a while curse word. And he continued working, not missing a beat.---Jody-Lynn
Reicher
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