My beloved audience: This is an *UNSOLICITED REVIEW* for the Recovery Lounge & Spa.
“Have you ever had a concussion?” He texted me.
Good Lord. That question again? But this time it was Jay Mysterious from my support group, so I wasn’t quite as aggravated by it. Then I thought to myself, “C’mon, Jay. You know I have. I’m sure I’ve said it before at our meetings.” Maybe I didn’t. So, I answered in the affirmative and lo-and-behold I was offered an opportunity to experience a new type of therapy to help rejuvenate the mentally defunct such as I. Jay Mysterious is one of those shining beings that came into my life about the time I was preparing to exit it. He’s been one of the most consistent in reaching out to me and checking in as I’ve made my way into what Duran Duran called The Ordinary World. Still…my perpetual defense system chimed in. For reasons I won’t explain now, I’m overly suspicious of extreme concern and generosity. Regardless, I seem to thrive on being prickly towards people at times.
Really? A nice trip to the spa to help me heal is it? I’ve heard that trick before, governor.
I was right. Jay Mysterious gave the conditions. First, I spend some time reading over the treatments and journal about what I hope to gain from them. Okie dokie. I can do that, mate. Second, I come to the treatment 100% sober. GET FUCKED, said I. Ohhhhh what a spiraling maze of defensive behavior that set me in. I’m more than one year sober from alcohol. 14 months ago, if I had been told to show up sober, I would have said something funny and cheerful like, “Righto pal!” and then would have drank a half pint in the parking lot 15 minutes before my session expecting that the booze wouldn’t set in until I was safely passed out on the massage table. Then I’d wake all nicely drunk and well relaxed, my slur and wobbly walk would have been explained by the wonderful service I’d just received. Yeah, I was a ninja level drunk.
Anyway, I drove—sober as a corpse—up to this nice little nook of a neighborhood next Jefferson park. You could hear the Broncos getting booed, if it were a Sunday. It’s amazing how the area around Mile High Stadium has changed. Immediately I felt out classed. Damn Jay, perhaps you’re right. This was not the sort of establishment that encourages rowdy folks who are high, or on caffeine, nicotine, mushrooms, kava, or kratom to enter. Folks have assumed I’m one or all these things simply because I’m very talkative when I feel I’m the stranger in a strange land. The poor kid in me always assumes the worst about how others perceive him, too. I took a breath, then I reached out to the front door of this swank little glass walled spa on the corner of a god-knows-how-expensive condo block—and it was locked.
Yep. The crazy Garys of the world weren’t welcome. Jay had a played a massive prank on me. One for which I would take his life. Fortunately [name REDACTED for protection] opened the door and gave me the warmest welcome I’ve received in years. I took two steps inside and was certain I died and went to heaven. Apparently, Heaven was designed for hip people who’d managed to find their way into the success track of the vast corporate digital wasteland creeping in on the last of the unplugged folks. This was a safe space for those folks with the weight of the financial world on their shoulders. And hell, I mentally collapsed under my 100k year job after having it less than two years. Fuck, I don’t blame you for seeking out a clean quiet getaway furnished with fancy water in cut glass. You’ve done the regular things, but the doctors haven’t done shit for your bizarre health conditions (my latest is called PPPD or 3PD) that take away your ability to drive on the highway without wigging out. You want to try something more in-line with the weirdos you hung out with in your university days. I mean, sure their pot grows never made millions, but they seem relaxed and happy. Here it is, the Recovery Lounge and Spa. You see a symbol you recognize from some of the podcasts and YouTube feeds you binge. Some girls at the yoga class have key chains with these sacred geometry symbols, too. So you say, what the heck, I know about the studies on Electromagnetic Pulse. CranioSacral Therapy. Infrared Light. And you walk through the door immediately at ease knowing your spending your self-care allowance on your budget app with one of the good people. You’re still part of that club, kinda.
But that’s not what old Gary thought when he made it to the front counter with [REDACTED] and was swiftly checked in without having to scroll for fifteen minutes giving away my total life history on their point of sale tablet. Fuck no, my late great hero would’ve said, not in this place. These are the good people. So, I followed [REDACTED] into my first treatment on what would be a small tour of the interior. Sensing that something powerful was afoot, I decided to volunteer personal information to my caregiver. As is my modus operandi. Most people who lead me into rooms with medical equipment are nurses…
So began a trip into what I called subtle intensity. There was a moment, briefly, when I lay on the table for my PEMF treatment that I was certain I had been either conned or robbed. Either there was nothing to feel, or my dented brain had eliminated that section of my feeling to save the more important sensations. Then it began. There was a sudden spasm in the muscles above my right knee. It was very gentle and curious like being alighted on by a butterfly. Or like bubbles rising to the surface of a bath and falling open to the colder air. I focused on the feeling of warmth growing stronger in sections of my body. My nagging lumbar spine (degenerative disc disease) joined the spasm parade. Next stop, Cloud Nine Sans Smack. I had an extraordinary awakening thereafter…
To be elaborated upon further in the next installment.
Comments