Sadomasochist PT!


The owner of the Physical Therapy place has an over-the-top Phillipine accent, a fabricated smile, along with the body of Dr. Robotnik. She oversees everything, including my chart. And although she’s the boss of everyone and everything in the place — I fucking dislike her with a fucking passion! My day is much better when I don’t see her at all when I’m at PT (and I go 3 times a week). I mean, when she doesn’t breathe next to me, when she doesn’t say hi to me or stand 10 feet away from me — my day is simply better.

My first (and current) impression of this PT woman is she’s truly cruel. I could tell by the first evaluation; how she grabbed my lifeless foot of two months and twisted it in ways where my natural instinct was to contort my face with emotions and invisible curse words. What upset me the most about her giving me pain like this was not once did she think to mention sorry or even warn me beforehand of her vicious nature.

Let me say for the record, I’m not a stranger to PT. I’m a weightlifter for Christ sake with a fairly decent ego that makes it easy for me to acquire injury as if it’s a mark of a champion. And what I’m about to explain is all a true story. None of this is made up for amusement, but for me to remember the chapters of my life.

Side note: I have this theory, where, sometimes I believe that if a person has been in their occupation for far too long that their behavior and actions and such start to become the occupation as oppose to them being the occupation — whether good or bad. Like for instance,  stockbrokers are evil. Do you think it’s really a coincidence? Mmkay.

So anyway, for the most part I tend to work with the male PT who I love, but his boss is the fat cruel bitch and owner of the place. Cruel fat lady has a tendency to come by — I presume — when she has no other paperwork to do and when she wants to critique and hear her own voice to get off — while other times she observes my PT session (with my male PT) I believe, just to taunt me by saying, “Do the exercise without holding onto the bars. Or can you do like this (gets on an easy wobble board with straight posture while dancing on it).”

Times like this, I want nothing more but to poke her eyes out with my hands as I think to myself: I can certainly get on the easier wobble board and pretend to dance on it and laugh like you do if only I could put 100% bodyweight on my right ankle that was broken a mere weeks before while not having my other muscles compensate by trying to stand with a marine perfect posture if I wasn’t in so much fucking pain already. But, let’s face it, only one of us is in pain and lives a pretty more normal life with two feet healthy and walking on the ground.

So, is there a wonder why I think she’s such a HUGE cuntbag? She enjoys taking jabs at people when they’re in pain and one lady who also gets PT and was on the bike when she overheard the fat lady owner say, “Can you do this and dance?” to me, she took it upon herself to say to fat lady: “It’s easy to say those things when you’re not the one in pain.” Then a moment of awkward silence fell on all of us and everyone else in the PT office.

I want to stab this fat lady in her glittery hazel eyes, not only because she reminds me of one of my cruel unforgiving married-in aunts, but because nothing I ever do is enough for her (not that she matters) and because my pain is never painful enough for her (although often enough, the pain is unbearable and I make it look easy). She never has anything positive to say and maybe this is another part of her monstrous personality?

Here’s what I gathered so far from this vicious bitch. When she sees me down in the dumps with pain and I’m taking a time out slouched on the chair resting for a moment she comes on over and asks me, “How are you? Are you in a lot of pain?” I say yes sometimes and crack a sneer. And when I say yes, she laughs like a wicked witch and walks off stage like a director just screamed cut!

Another time: I had to work with her one day when she massaged and jerked my foot off in a very hard and fast fashion, she managed like usual to hurt me during the process. After that abuse, she had me do lots of new exercises for my foot/ankle and she made me perform them up until I let out a large breath that sounded like I sucked heavily through a straw of pain because my calve was about to give me a fat cuntbag Charlie horse. She did this 3 different times and each time I could tell she enjoyed looking into my face to see what reaction I was willing to give.

Another time: She came by to check my progress and I did my ankle exercises while she placed manual resistance (her hand on me and placing resistance down so I can fight/flex against it for those who aren’t aware of what MR means), then decides to flex my foot upwards to the ceiling past the 90 degree mark (which now I can do), but went past the muscle and stiffness resistance until 2 cracks let loose from somewhere in the middle and back of my foot. Thank god it didn’t hurt, but I don’t understand why she would do this? Or why didn’t she apologize for cracking my foot? Or warn me that a crack could happen?

There’s also another young PT woman who aids me at times when my Male PT is helping others in need of something, and I call her Numbnut because she’s very gullible. When she comes to assist me she thinks it’s girl chatty time and never counts my reps while she speaks up a storm. She asks me so many questions that I start to make up stories for my amusement and to get through the pain.

Because she’s learn from the fat lady cunt which is to be aggressive to the point where my body goes to panic mode, where it wants to flee and it goes to fight mode and I get the hulk urge triggered beyond a pain threshold I can’t handle (but must!), where I want to beat Numbnut onto the parallel bars til she feels what I feel and more. Just like fat lady, Numbnut has no remorse and shares no empathy for other people’s pain, even though she’s clearly the one giving it and could choose to give less says the flood in my eyes to which I hold back.

Aside from these two psychotic bitches, the male PT I work with has been very good to me. Since day one he has been very nice to me. Lately, he’s been very happy with my progress. Probably because he’s aware of how much I work on my own at home and because I progress quickly. During each session, he says, “Sorry” numerous times and says, “I’m sorry I have to put you in pain, I hope you understand.” And not once has he taunt me in any way or has given me extra exercise work to do or has ever said, “Do anke pumps all day in your house.” Because I’m always in pain, so how far will I get with pumping my ankle all fucking day?

To end this, I know some of you may think I sound crazy. But I can assure you I’m very good at reading people and even better with reading human behavior. I’m pretty sure you’re asking: What do you mean the owner of the PT place would want to hurt you? What would they gain out of it? Well, sit down and read this post again. Two out of three people I work with are aggressive and sadistic. They push me over the pain limit. How come one doesn’t? Numbnut doesn’t come off as if she does it because she gets off on it, but fat lady DOES get off on it. My gut tells me Numbnut gives so much pain because she wants the patient to get back to normal as soon as possible.

Still, I know what my intuition tells me and I know it never fails me. I know how sick this world is and how much sicker the people who live in this world are. Fat cunt lady has become her occupation, someone who gives pain and willingly gives pain with a willingness like no other while the patient has to deal with it in order to recover. It’s not a wonder why fat lady says, “You’re so nice.” It’s because she’s had numerous people curse her out already. I’m just trying to take the high road. But for how long?

Listen, this is fat lady’s sick fantasy, where one can view it as a sick love fetish story.




I’m so comfortable.
I want to give myself away
To you. I want to take
My clothes off and my skin
And give myself away.
You have an allure
That sets me free.
You have a power
That makes me want to
Drop my hands at my side.
And even if I could
Explain it — I can’t.
It’s like something unforgettable
In childhood. Or something
Joyful when one gapeseeds nature.
It’s like when you take
An apple and cut it into
Slices and offer me to eat
It with all the love in
The world. It’s you, it’s
How you give yourself to me
That allows me to give
Myself away to you.

- Pennington

Pain Therapy


I’m slow just like an elderly person crossing the street, like any home turtle in the fish tank and basically similar to a suicidal giving up on life. Except, I enter the physical therapy office with an open mind and clear objective — to make gains, to obtain lasting results, to prosper and to walk on two feet correctly (again). I have a lot of work ahead of me, but that’s okay because I like work — and because what is life without work? Or sweat? Or tears? Or blood? Or pain?

And speaking of pain: I’m pretty aware that if they called it Pain Therapy rather than Physical Therapy — the majority of people wouldn’t show up. Related: This has been the most painful PT session (the 6th one so far) yet. I inhale and exhale like a pregnant woman giving birth wildly, but, with control. I shut my eyes tighter than my thermal water bottle, pinch my eyebrows together as in “what the fuck?”, grind my teeth with grit, mush my lips together in grumble and sometimes (whenever possible) I hunch my shoulders like a white collar man over a desktop — all because of pain.

Somewhere buried in my bones and muscles fibers, I’m frightened and I’m nervous about every PT session as if I’m starting a new job. But the fear remains in a way where I’m completely detached from it at the same time. I have a reason to be a scaredy-cat for each session there are unpredictable exercises given and new progressions occurring and of course — new pain to match. Today they measured my plantarflexion/dorsi and such and such with a Rulangemeter and a Goniometer. Trust, when I say it hurts when they hold my foot and bring it up to the measurement of where it’s supposed to be.

There are parallel bars where I’m to try and learn to walk again with as much equal body weight as possible without completely noticing the occasional shout from the aid saying: Bend your knee, don’t lock out. Control the movement. Then there are leg/tibia exercises and knee/hip/glute exercises all standing and putting full weight on my right foot and ankle. It feels highly uncomfortable like I’m stepping on stones, but I’m not afraid because I have to do what I have to do, and in a weird way I like pain. Plus, let’s face it, pain is temporary.

Then there’s my favorite, the thing that scares half my training wits — the wooden balance board. This one, I perform numerous exercises on. I dislike every one of them. Still, the bright side is it gets my knees to bend and it stretches everything out around the sides, front and back of my ankle along with my deflated calve. The only issue is, the pain is dangerously wicked, but with my training mentality, I’ve achieved my personal records already.

Then there’s me having to go up/down a step. There’s the prostep-prostretch where I squeeze my foot into it and have to move my foot up and down for a deep fucking stretch! Of course, there are ankle weights and more exercises and equipment I get to play and hurt myself with. Then more ankle exercises with manual resistance by my physical therapist (who I have a fondness for ah! — plus he genuinely says sorry when he senses the pain is unbearable on my face) and ankle circles and ankle pumps before I get my relaxing massage, electrode stimulations, heat and ice.

After all the drama calms down in the PT session, I digest all that has happened and how far I’ve come. I wish I could linger on those digestions. But I move on and take in how much longer I have to go. I dwell and dwell. Still, I’m thankful for my persistence, determination, stubbornness and self-made ego. I also enjoy when the pain and inflammation dies down, even though I know I’m going home to do even more exercises and be in pain all over again.

But more than anything, when I lie in the dark alone with thoughts to myself in the physical treatment room with towels wrapped around my leg in ice and heat — happiness seems to hide in the background and no matter how many times I push the thought out, it resurfaces again. I always go back to square one with: I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I’m going through this. I can’t seem to shake off this shock.




I’m traumatized.
I see young boys sporting fun, blazing on skateboards.
I look down sporting misery on a broken ankle replaying the record.
Has it not happened to them yet?
Is there a thought about breaking a fall or a near journey to regret?
About a plate and a surgeon drilling screws?
And how the cold will come on certain days and remain stuck in the hardware? Knowing this, would they have pursued?
I’m traumatized.
This was my freak of nature, a happy accident.
I listen as the longboard wheels taunt me on the street as if money was well spent.
I watch every skater tumble down in my head
Without control — I feel their bone shift from a hidden force warning red.
I can hear the break like a lonely branch being stepped on.
I feel the lost of life due to a split second – and months of a thousand recovery songs.
I’m traumatized.
But I want to believe I’m fine.
I’m not a snowboarder.
And I didn’t attempt a 50-50 grind like some type of adrenaline junkie explorer.
Now I can’t wait, yet I’m waiting.
I put 70% of killer pain on my foot for 5 minutes straight – devastatingly.
Two months and the physical therapists have me in a sneaker – functional training!
And is it crazy?
How all the sad parts and all the bad parts still make these moments breathtaking.




Finding the right physical therapist took a lot of time, which set me back just like finding the right surgeon (and personally I think he did a fine job and I want to get him and his staff a box of chocolates – is this too intimate?). Thank the Lord!

It seems like the second time was the charm of these circumstances. And I’m just happy enough to identify the madness and to be given the tiny miracle of opportunity to change things as soon as I can. It’s been a total of eight weeks (maybe more?) and everything still feels crazy to me.

The first real therapy session – mind you aggressive! – has actually set me to a default of the first stage of grief (for some): Shock! I was zombiefied after the session. And although I’ve been doing my own research and physical therapy work at home, I felt like one of those gym people who only perform 15 minutes of cardio and 15 minutes of strength-training and for them that was the hard part besides finding the nerve to get to the gym.

But more than that is how these people tend to LOVE the SHIT out of the stretching part of the workout session. You could see the joy plastered on their faces. It’s almost disgusting!  Nevertheless, it’s how I felt when the therapy session was over. No more pain from a stranger. No more looking like a fucking noob. No more wallowing. The massage and ice afterwards felt golden. It was the best part besides feeling like a 2 year old and taking my first steps with a walker. But then, the shock hit me on the way home.


I felt lost in a sky like the toddler who let go a second too soon because he doesn’t know any better – he hasn’t grown into life yet. Or like the lady floating on her own balloon in the picture above – not sure where she’s going? (Where am I traveling to?)

So, what is ORIF anyway? It’s a Fracture Fibula – Open Reduction Internal Fixation! Fixation, eh? I’m certainly fixated on this current situation – so much so I feel like a hot mess, like a pair of 10 year old sneakers, abused and neglected that can be found in a corner of a gym.

Okay, so I’m making gains, progressing like the way a slug does all the while looking back somewhat. I’m stuck in a very past-present condition. I’d love to put this all behind me, however I have to learn life lessons and look at the bigger picture of several things and get this balloon of the unknown off of me so I can feel somewhat normal and like I’m back in my element. I’m tired of floating. I don’t like the feeling of limbo.

And if anyone tells me to get the fuck over this, not only will I smack them with a fucking dumbbell – I’ll display the video of my surgery and in the process break their fucking ankle. Kidding! Almost. ;-)


Coincidence In Pending


You were clearing out a drawer for my trivial belongings. I was spending a lot of lovely days and nights in your apartment. Casual-friendly you offered me the key to your place. I was taken aback, and although I didn’t give an answer at this time, I understood why you had asked. I was leaving clothing behind and even left shower slippers. And you even went on to buy me tank-tops, a big package of shower caps and a purple toothbrush.

I know how it looked like to the critics outside. I know what your friends say about the privileges you were giving me. I know my friends reacted as if you were making me into your live-in wife. I remembered when you came with me to visit my ill mother – it was your idea – and she told me and you at separate times how much you adore me. Only a few knew we didn’t sleep in the same bed.

However, we knew the truth. We were friends. We drank coffee all day and ate all night. We rode local streets to the gym and bridges on hefty bikes. We rode the pale white of the moon. We rode the orange out of the sun. We were two loners coming together to feed the soul of one another. And in a single moment of fun, and of building memories – a happy accident occurred.

The skateboard slipped from under me quick as an apparition. My foot became caught underneath my bodyweight on the other foot and as I fell backwards I heard a pop that came from my ankle. I felt something in my lower leg shift out of place just when the whole world went mute. I knew I couldn’t get up and walk away from this. And if I may add – the sudden anger which consumed me at the price I paid for fun.

It didn’t seem like coincidence anymore. Not the DVD player I brought over a few weeks prior nor the brand new shoes I bought and never wore. They stood in your apartment, ready and waiting, just like the drawers. One empty drawer came to be three and an entire closet too with shelves made its home available to me. Now I had the key to your apartment and the key to your bedroom without any of us asking the other. I have night tables by my side filled with poetry books, vitamins, foot powder and other personal items. Everything was in pending and now we sleep on the same bed.

Who knew I was going to need major assistance with my broken ankle and surgery. Who could have predicted I wouldn’t be going back to my place because of old buildings and their beliefs of zero elevators. Who knew that the friend I became close with these past years who was my manager a decade ago – would be the bestest person to care for me as if I were one of his children.


Tales from the Ankle


The upside: My bone is healed and it healed properly. Thank the Lord! No hard cast. Now I’m in an Air Cast. The downside: There’s a lot of work to do in the wonderful world of physical therapy, and evidently, it’s rather fucking depressing. It feels like I’m starting from somewhere near the bottom. And surely, it could be worse.

So, yes, I’m thankful for my fibula fracture injury no matter how it comes across and makes me feel in the black pit of my heart. In time, I’ll get over the multiple depression humps of my life. But today is not that day. Until then, I’ll have to deal with everything as I have been – to the best of my ability.


Let me introduce some to the subtalar joint. This is one thing I have to work on. It is responsible for the movement of the feet – in technical terms: Inversion and Eversion. Aside from this joint, I have to deal with all the other muscles that atrophied on the side of my right ankle such as the hips, glute, lower back, knee and quad.


Now, despite the work load I have for my ankle and certain parts of my body, I’m lucky that I’m a big fan of working hard. This isn’t my issue. My issue is being depressed and wanting results overnight because of what I’ve been able to do in the past – fitness wise. Patience and pacing myself has never been a strong suit of mine. And I would think that at the humble age of 32, (33 tomorrow), I’d have figured out how to take things slow when needed, but no. I have much to learn.

I have this self-imposed pressure. It’s me against me and I’m not sure how I feel about this: All the power to mobilize myself. It sounds inspiring to some degree, but with the time stamp I’ve placed in my head: I feel like time is running out. Okay. Day 1 of the Air Cast: It was this Tuesday. The cast came off and I didn’t care if there was pain involve. I was more scared of what was underneath the cast. Lots of dry blood. Lots of dead skin. Lots of calve deflated and missing. Lots of agony and stages of foot pain.

And for the rest of the day the thought of unstrapping and strapping the boot itself made me nauseous at home. So I did zero movement in my ankle. Day 2: I made sure to start moving my foot with the assistance of my knee just to get a bit of movement. At least 70-80 total reps (for 5 reps at a time – afternoon and evening) I performed and then packed it in ice like a dead fish.

Day 3: Which is today – I met the physical therapist. And let’s just say, I’m glad he’s not ugly to look at. However, I got the impression that everything was all rushed. I did not like that he expected me to perform circles with an ankle I haven’t used for 2 months. He encouraged me by saying, “You’re moving your knee, not your ankle.”

Then he manually took my ankle and moved it in circles and in an up/down motion. Okay, so aside from his manual assistance (and my failings!), these were the exercises prescribed to me which I did there at the place: Lumbar Bridging (Hip Thrust), Hip Abduction Unilateral Side-lying and Supine Knee Bent. 3 x 10 reps.


Reflection on these Exercises: I felt a super stretch during the hip bridges in my right quad that I gasped out loud. My hip/glutes were contracted (mind-muscle connection) with intense levels while performing the side lying. And as for the Supine Knee – well – I felt the discomfort in my knee, so keeping my right leg completely straight was a tad difficult. So all in all it’s working. ;-) But I’m sure anything would work if your muscles were immobile to begin with, no?

My plans for tonight is to have my friend help me by manually moving my ankle up/down and in circles for a few reps a set because my foot is so stiff I can’t do it on my own. As of now, my ankle is super achy and sore from the manual manipulation of earlier. Presently, this is going to be a slow and tedious, but very much needed journey. Stay tuned. ;-)


Different Stages Of Foot Pain


There’s a lot of reflections occurring between last week and this week, so expect more writing about my foot until I get to really weightlifting again. I believe these reflections are due to the realization that I may indeed receive a walking boot after they saw off this cast of mine next week. And although I’m grateful for all the help from everyone (on and offline), which includes powerful words, a place to stay, mantras, support, comfort and such – there’s still a part of me that isn’t entirely happy…yet.

There’s also a part of me that can’t be happy about the thought of using my foot again no matter how small it may be because it’s hard to believe. I’ll be a week shy from a full 2 months since this fibula fracture occurred. Time breezes.. but not when you feel isolated from the world and not when you feel like your independence is on hold and not when you’re dying to feel the full adrenaline rush that only the gym can provide.

I’ll soon be headed for another type of pain I once again am not looking forward to: Learning how to use my ankle, learning how to put weight on my foot and learning the steps on how to gain full mobility again. And I’m not sure how long it’ll be aside from the surgeon who claims it’ll take a few months and by a few months he means March.

So, although, again I’m grateful, I still feel like I have a long way to go. And sure, it may not be true. But I also don’t want to get my hopes high only to fall in a bottomless pit of infinite depression and disappointment later. In the meantime, I want to make sure I’m writing down all these stages for remembrance among other things to come.

Here’s the start of it: Before surgery I had foot pain that wouldn’t quit – partly because my ankle was fucked and partly because the emergency room I visited that night thought I was an animal off the street possibly and decided to put my broken ankle in a wet splint where they practically kicked me out the attending room before it was even remotely dry. So every day after that for two whole weeks my splint shifted differently making balancing extremely painful. 

And for those 2 weeks I was being given the run around due to private and public insurance, getting referrals, fighting with the middle man for the delivery of my wheelchair, and dealing with waiting lists, until my good friend worked his magic where my surgeon’s secretary squeezed me to get surgery because time was running out and as the more time went on the more fucked my ankle would have been.

But for those 2 weeks before surgery everything was horrible as there was increasing pain each day in my foot. I felt the splint jab deeply into my ankle bones, mostly on the outer side that sometimes felt crippling to the rest of my body. I took some pain medication, but nothing besides over the counter stuff because I knew the closer surgery came the chances of me taking something stronger later. And I fear of ever becoming a drug addict because I seen my mother be a really good one and recovered far too late in her life. And let’s be realistic, who wants to commit the same family patterns and dilemmas?

Besides the jabbing pain in my ankle bone that shot straight up my leg, my foot was swollen as if someone dropped a iron mallet on it – so most times my foot felt compressed and along the way I was being driven mad mentally. At all times my foot had to be elevated because that’s the only relief I had aside from music, reading and writing. (Okay and maybe Wendy Williams.) The last type of foot pain before surgery was just how mushed together my toes were – a vision sprouted in my brain of multiple garden snakes chokeholding my toes and I wondered: if I could ever use my tiny little piglets again.

After surgery I did my best to document my foot pain in a list of stages I experienced because I wanted to be familiar with all the different pains. I also have this thing where I enjoy analyzing body pain – it’s one reason pain is tattooed on my forearm, however with analyzing pain means bringing more pain to oneself. Good thing I braced myself and was ready.

I guess one has to not only be afraid of pain, but actually enjoy it to an extent. Still, I wanted to be in tune with my body and I wanted to listen to what it was saying to me. This was definitely an experience and still is. Here’s the list:

1. Lazer pain on the left side of inner ankle bone. Dull pain on the right outer ankle bone.

1st week: The fresh Lazer pain was from the surgeon having to open the other side of my ankle (the inner left part). This pain felt new, razor-sharp and super fresh. The right outer ankle bone was dull with pain because as I said 2 weeks before surgery the splint would dig in there with a dull knife which I became used to.

2. Pressure-pain

2nd Week: I assume this was from the combination of nerves, blood, fragments being fixed and everything having been manipulated while I was asleep on the operating platter.

3. Swollen pain

2-5 Week: The obvious, blood rushing through the foot and blowing up like a fat fish.

4. Muscle spasms in calve, foot and toes

3-4 Week: The inactivity was killing me here and the lack of blood circulation too.

During this time I OD’d on vitamins, potassium and lots of water. It seemed to work at moments. But to really fix this situation, what I did was stand up on 1 leg for a 1-2 minutes at a time and allowed even more blood to flow and despite how painful it was it provided relief.

5. Foot feeling warm as if someone is putting warm water over my cast

Week 4-5: From my understanding they claim this may happen when nerves are compressed. Also this feeling can be due to muscle inactivity and lack of circulation.

I found the warm feeling however to be a form of healing, as my foot felt so good during this time. It felt more like a body-spiritual experience.

6. Foot hurting in the back of my ankle

Week 5-7: Just elevated my foot for long periods of time. I didn’t find any concrete evidence on what causes this.

7. Tiny click that goes on/off somewhere in the ankle, I think on the right side when I moved my knee or foot to move, whether it was to get out of bed or holding my leg up, etc.

Week 3-4: Also not sure what caused this. The good thing is it went away.

8. Toes became white due to lack of circulation. Tingle, pin/needle sensations as if my foot was asleep. Toes felt super cold.

Week 4-5: It felt like drama, like death. Also claims lack of muscle inactivity and loss of blood circulation.

9. Knee hurting.

Week 5-6: I assume lack of knee movement and the way in which the hard cast pulls on it. I decided to start light stretching and move it a few times throughout the day.

10. Bottom of heel hurting as if I’m stepping and digging onto a hard pebble and am rolling on it like a pin.

Week 5-6: Feels like intense drama. Not sure what caused it. Foot in elevation mode.

11. Compression pain

Week 4-7: It feels like a person is taking their hands and trying to make my foot small by compressing and squashing the crap out of it. This feeling is odd and it’s very uncomfortable. Medication doesn’t heal it, therefore I just assume it’s a part of the body healing on its own.

I can only hope that this could be beneficial to someone who ever has to go through this in some way as a form of what to expect pain wise. I remember searching for a weekly stage of what I’ll be going through with this ankle/foot of mine and only remember seeing people speaking of muscle cramps within the 3rd-6th week. That wasn’t enough, so I documented what I could and slightly researched after to make sure I wasn’t the only one who felt such pain or try and find out about nerves, Fibula Fracture, etc.

I had written enough. Originally I wanted to write about how I overcame the pain, pressure and swollen crap, but I thought to document and reflect with the world of my blog. To be continued with my body challenge of the month and how I coped with getting out of the stages of pain.