Aislinn Thomas,
May 7, 2009
It was almost two years ago now. Seemingly out of nowhere, what began as a dull ache in my lower back became a severe pain deep in my left hip and buttock, and then a fiery, burning pain that reached down my leg and eventually into my foot. Suddenly the most banal everyday tasks became difficult. I had trouble getting dressed, lacing my own shoes, sweeping the floor, washing the dishes, getting off the bus. I gave up riding my bicycle. I purchased a knapsack on wheels. I stopped going out. I could not sit down without severe discomfort, but neither could I stand or walk very easily. I became accustomed to modifying tasks—reading, eating, typing—so that I could do them horizontally, lying on my stomach propped up on my elbows. I attended classes this way, until I got to the point where standing was less difficult. Now I do most things standing up.
At it’s worst, my condition has been immobilizing, and emotionally devastating. At it’s best it’s something that I deal with. And dealing with it has somehow become seamlessly integrated into my life. It no longer seems unusual or problematic to avoid sitting, to not go to dance class or yoga, to think twice before going on vacations, to augment my diet with countless supplements and herbs, to fill my spare time with appointments, to take fewer classes, to wake up in pain.
The pain was elusive. And difficult to explain. I was told that I was far too young to be experiencing it. When I finally began to seek help, more than one person suggested that I was exaggerating, or that I wasn’t in any pain at all. I eventually found a good doctor. I tried several physiotherapists, two osteopaths, two chiropractors, an energy therapist, acupuncture, and naturopathy, none of which seemed to help. I eventually had an MRI, which revealed two herniated discs, one of which was significant, and impinging on the sciatic nerve. The print out of information that I received included possible causes of injury. As far as I can tell, mine fell under the category of “spontaneous,” which was at the bottom of the list. I went on anti-inflammatory drugs to help ease the pain. I had an appointment with a neurosurgeon. I decided that I could withstand the pain enough to avoid or at least hold off on any surgical procedures.
Over this time, my body has not been a place that I want to be. For the first while, I avoided any activity that required me to be attentive to what I was experiencing internally. I gave up my meditation and yoga practice. I stopped going dancing. I tried as hard as possible to escape the situation. And to fight it. Slowly, however, I began to experiment with a different approach, with meeting my body as it is, with all of it’s perceived shortcomings. With giving up on trying to make things different, and instead noticing and softening around the way things are. In approaching it this way, I seemed to be able to accumulate a certain amount of acceptance of the situation, albeit hard-won.
I’ve settled on a routine of weekly craniosacral therapy and occasional Alexander Technique lessons, as well as a modified set of yoga postures that I try to do daily. In combination with avoiding certain activities that tend to increase the pain, I seem to be doing well enough that I haven’t gone back to see the surgeon.
When Erin approached me about participating in the reformer project, I was interested in trying something new. I didn’t have high hopes. I’ve learnt not to.
To be honest, I don’t think I would have stuck with Pilates had I sought it on my own. I have a serious aversion to the language around it. I don’t want to think about my abs or fitness goals. I don’t want to do curls or crunches. I don’t even like the idea of working with exercise machines. It’s all too loaded with cultural fixations on controlling and manipulating body size and shape, which, in the name of self-preservation, I prefer to avoid.
At points during and after the first session, I was very close to crying. I didn’t especially want to come back. I talked with Erin about my concerns and my reaction to the experience. She introduced me to other ways of thinking about and experiencing the movements—alternate language to frame the instructions, other internal points of reference to notice and pay attention to. After most sessions we talk, if only briefly. And so, beyond facilitation, I also see Erin’s role as one of mediation. Whether directly, as stepping in during the sessions to help adjust and explain how to use the continually modified machine, or talking with me after the appointment, or else more subtly through the changes she makes to the machine each week between sessions.
Over the weeks, I’ve noticed an increase in my physical strength, confidence with the exercises, and sense of accomplishment. I’ve been able to experience my body as able to do things, as capable. I’ve noticed and found muscles I didn’t know I had. Suddenly they start kicking in as I go about my daily routine.
Yesterday, I touched my toes. And today I did so as well. That is a movement that I haven’t been able to do in almost two years, and it’s what I’ve most craved all this time. I don’t know that it is entirely the Pilates. I tend to think (or hope) that my recent increased mobility is a result of a combination of all the things I’ve been doing, a culmination of a lot of hard work and support and various situational factors. I can’t deny, however, the role that Pilates has to play in my recent increased mobility. And I also can’t deny the fact that I likely wouldn’t have stuck with it had my experience not been in the context of this project.
