Physical Therapy is the Making Me Work...
The first time my opinion was documented on camera, outside of my family, was in high school. Downtown, during the fall homecoming parade, a friend and I were enjoying the festivities when a student with a video camera approached us.
“What do you think of the parade?” A microphone landed in front of us. My friend ducked behind me, not wanting to share or be seen on camera. I immediately saw my opportunity. My back straightened, and a smile spread across my face. I spoke clearly and calmly and shared a positive review. I can’t recall exactly what I said, but I remember feeling my words landing with the interviewer…and I liked being on camera.
After thanking us, the camera crew walked away. Adrenaline pumped through my body, and I turned to my friend. She was in the clip, standing next to me, somewhat smiling. I could tell she didn’t enjoy the experience like I did. I scanned my outfit, hoping I’d picked a nice thing to be seen in. I wasn't expecting to be on camera when I got dressed that morning in my dELiA*s red alien t-shirt that coordinated with our school colors and Guess jeans. To my relief, I approved of my choice of clothing. Feeling good about the experience, I could tell I’d want to feel this more.
Over the past few years, I’ve had more opportunities to speak in public. I love these moments. The outfit choices, the words shared, and the connections made are something I treasure. I do my best to prepare and memorize what I’d like to convey. I memorize it word for word, and then often, when I’m up there, things change a bit, but with the foundation already established, I can find my way around. It keeps me on task because, let me tell you, I can talk.
Last year, as I prepared for a speech, I wandered my house for hours daily, practicing speaking out loud. My Apple watch tracked thousands of steps through our galley kitchen, around the hallway and bedrooms. The old hardwood floor creaked in the same spot each time I rounded the bathroom corner. I did this route so much that I didn't have to look up anymore and could simply read my paper while walking. At first, the dogs followed me, thinking they would plop back down wherever I stopped, but after a few rounds of circling the house, they planted themselves in the living room where they could fall asleep within earshot.
Practicing went on for hours.
On day three, mid-afternoon, there was a change in my pace. A pain began tightening in my jaw. Opening while speaking became increasingly difficult, and being the person I am, I pushed my way through it. As you can imagine, my approach wasn’t the best choice. The tightness in my jaw worsened, and I could barely open my mouth within an hour. Feeling forced, I took the afternoon off and the next day from practicing.
Food was difficult to chew, so I mainly consumed smoothies or protein drinks. The hamburgers cooked that evening were too much even to nibble on. Still, being me, I returned to the same routine once I healed.
Months later, tense and in the dentist's chair, I brought the situation up with the dental hygienist. My jaw has popped for decades, all without pain. But, turning forty, things begin to ache a lot more. And with every dentist appointment, the loud popping sound of my jaw startles anyone near my mouth.
“Oh wow, does that hurt?” Her eyes widen as she scrapes the plaque off my teeth.
“It’s been happening for years, but just in the last few months, it’s started to hurt.”
“Do you clench your teeth?” I quietly wonder if anyone doesn’t do that.
“Yeah, I have a night guard, and sometimes I do it during the day. But since I’ve started public speaking, it’s gotten worse.”
“Oh, you need to learn to relax.”
Oh, is that all? Lying in the chair, I try not to roll my eyes. Obviously, I need to relax. She continues with the cleaning, and when the dentist comes in, I bring it up with him.
“If you’re having pain, any sort of pain, we need to do something about it.” I’m thankful for my dentist, who immediately referred me to physical therapy.
I envisioned doing silly jaw exercises, practicing breathing, or wearing a weird head brace. But nope, these are not the protocols for jaw pain. Instead, back, arm, and core strengthening tasks are provided, which are challenging.
“It’s work that you’re going to have to do. Do it or not, it’s your jaw.” The physical therapist kept it honest, which hit me in multiple ways.
You have to do the work.
And to be honest, I often don’t want to do the work. I feel like I’ve done so much work on myself already… but I know it’s a lifelong thing… oof.
I left the physical therapist's office with my exercises and posture-correcting images. Even as I write this, I have felt my back slouch. It's so easy to turn into a typing goblin; sometimes, it even feels good. The warm, relaxed muscles, the hunched shoulders, and the clenched jaw are so cozy. I get the draw of it, but the pain—the physical pain I’ve started to endure—isn’t with it.
It’s been about three weeks since the physical therapist appointment, and I’ve somewhat stayed on track. Of course, I made a tracker in my bullet journal, cut out the black and white printed images of the people showing how to perform the moves, and glued them into a cute chart-like design. I have to put my spin on it somehow. Otherwise, how will anyone ever know I did the work?
Because I have to do the work.
When this sinks in, a scary realization occurs: No one is coming to do it for you, and the pain will only go away if you take care of it. Sitting with this thought, I feel how heavy this statement is. Emotional work feels more manageable for me; crying is such a release. Journaling gets it all out of my head, and talking about it connects me to others, and I feel less alone. Physical work, though, the heavy breathing, the tingles on my skin, the aching afterward… I have to work harder for that.
The young high school version of me wouldn’t think this would ever be an issue. Growing up in a family of talkers, it’s just been my way of life. And now, talking too much is painful? If you know me in real life, I can see you laughing at this because you know how much this tracks.
So, I’m wrapping this post up and headed to the living room to exercise. I don’t want to, but I will. I will use color-coded markers to track my progress and trace my fingers over the indentations of the paper, reminding myself I was here. I did the work. I’ll reward myself with a podcast and maybe a Coke Zero out in the sunshine because I like a treat when I do something I don’t enjoy.
But, I will do the work…