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Physical Therapist

My physical therapist gave me strength. Not because she knew how to rotate my sacrum back to its original position or exercise my scaro-illiac joint, but because she recognized the cause of the injury from the injury itself without me having to say a word, having to defend myself, question myself or be questioned. The sessions I had with her were sanctuary. Herself a survivor of domestic abuse, a PhD in physical therapy, and a practitioner for several decades, she knew what she was seeing when she saw it even when I didn't say a word. My 'haunted eyes' enough of a give away for her. All the confirmation she needed. 

She began by gently asking me about my child, telling me about her grown boys (both older than me at that point), telling me about the abuse she went through, the difficult process of leaving, and mainly how she rebuilt her life. She'd mostly talk as she worked on my body, lamenting how my body ended up the same way every week and she had to start over every week. I'd listen quietly, sometimes wondering why she was sharing such personal details with me, but somehow, unbeknownst to me, sneakily finding hope and safety in her musings. 

I started opening up to her towards the end of our sessions, well, during the very last session in fact. She gave me the resources she could in a 40 - minute appointment and sent me on my way. The plan was to come back after insurance approval because even though my spine and posture were a lot better, a lot still needed to be done. I was never able to go back. I called to share why, ever the consummate professional she told me that she couldn't advise me on emotional matters and that I should make sure I contact a mental health therapist but she was happy that I was out. 



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