It’s my first time. I sink into cushy recliner. A monitor tracks blood pressure. The therapist adheres a finger sensor, a final electrode as I shut my eyes. Count backwards from 100. I feel like the Bride of Frankenstein. Focus on your breathing. There’s a New Daily Persistent Headache party in my head. But it sounds cooler if I say it’s a Beastie Boys Fight for Your Right party. Relax your feet. A rave that makes me rave. Relax your legs. My therapist reminds me of the Marshmallow Man. I wonder if he likes marshmallows. Relax your chest. The noise machine whirs and lullabys from beyond. Relax your neck. Sounds like the air-conditioning wall unit in my childhood bedroom I’d crank to drown traffic. Relax your cheeks. Your nose. My what? Will he ask me to relax my eyelashes next? My boobs or behind? You are weightless. Bull. I have a muffin top from meds that make me drowsy. I try to float. I visualize ocean water stroking my scalp, but I begin to sink. Water stings as it jettisons up my nostrils. Open your eyes. He removes the wires and finger sensor, observes me like I’m Neo waking from the Matrix. Is the pain gone? he asks. Nope, I say, Gomez and Morticia Addams are flamenco dancing across my cranium while Wednesday and Pugsley blow whistles.
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