Two weeks ago I went to a Naturopath and paid over a hundred dollars for her to tell me information I already knew.
(Sidenote: I feel there will always be hope for the world economy when there are people like me – tired, body-sore and soul-stretched – who are willing to toss money over in the hope for a little alleviation.)
I’m not ‘sick – I just have some “adrenal gland fatigue” that has been addressed by the way of some witches brew of herbs with a hint of aniseed to really land the last disgusting punch in the aftertaste. But once I sat down I started to feel a tingle start at the top of my vertebrae, and pass up into my neck and down through my body. I’m sure you’ve felt it at similar times: when you’re first touched by a masseuse’s hands, when your doctor places his fingers into your neck to feel for swollen glands; that tingle when, for once, you turn yourself over to another’s care with the hope that they can make it all better. At least, temporarily.
And then we talked about foods; again with my carb reliance. How I need to get more protein. The 20 year old inside of me laughs – is still laughing – whenever talk turns to food and I sit there, nodding keenly along with the Naturopath’s wisdom when at that age I knew every single calorie chart known to man. What is the calorie count of a medium sized red apple? Two slices of wholemeal bread? A Mars Bar? I knew it all.
The 29 year old, though, has forgotten. And for this I suppose I should be pleased.
So after an hour when I was sick of talking about myself, and she was looking at her watch, she went off to mix the awful brew and also make up some sleeping drops – not a sedative, she emphasised. Just a ‘tonic.’
A tonic which brought on such strange and sometimes disturbing dreams I stopped taking them after a week. As I did the brew.
But the ‘tingling’? That sense of peace and temporary abdication of parental duties?
I’d pay for that again.
