Bliss

Why I’m Addicted to Massage

It’s all to do with a hormone that my brain produces which propels me into heaven

I got a massage today and learned something new. My masseuse told me that massage produces oxytocin. Who knew?

Naturally, I did some research, and she’s right.

For a hormone, oxytocin is pretty famous. It’s often known as the ‘cuddle chemical’ — the hormone that helps mothers bond with their babies.

I didn’t know until today that my brain also produces it when I’m getting a massage. No wonder I love being massaged so much.

My mother told me that when I was a baby in India, my ayah (Hindi for nanny) would massage me with oil every day. That’s what Indian mothers do, apparently. (A bit more about me.)

Mum said I was a ‘very good’ baby, and I can see why — all that tactile goodness and baby oxytocin must’ve really led to contentment.

Cravings

The downside, though, is that I reckon that my wonderfully kind ayah set me up to have high skin-hunger needs. So, in these times of celibacy, I still crave touch and happily pay the lovely Lucy to massage me once a month.

As soon as her hands touch my back, I go ‘aaaah’ and I’m off into the realm of bliss.

And now I know why. My brain’s producing oxytocin, my second-favorite neurotransmitter. Dopamine is number one. A story for another time, perhaps.

Oxytocin is the hormone that’s released during childbirth, helping the birthing process — and it’s also the hormone that’s released during breastfeeding, allowing the mother’s milk to come down.

I remember the feeling well — the sensation of the milk moving through my engorged breasts and relieving the pressure that had built up between feeds. My darling daughter Lili was also a good baby and a great feeder herself.

Some women report becoming hyper-aroused during childbirth and can even experience orgasm in the birthing process — and now I know why!

Their oxytocin production must be off the charts.

I know a man who’s addicted to massage and often has two or three massages a week — and not always for the so-called happy ending.

Clearly, he’s addicted to the oxytocin that’s produced when a masseuse puts her hands on him.

I know the feeling. That first touch on my back will often send me into a state of bliss — right away.

When I lived in Northern Thailand about six years ago, I got a massage once a week; it’s so cheap up there and I developed something of a habit.

The first time, however, some time back in the ’90s, the massage was so painful that I yelped. It was in Bangkok where I’d gone with my husband du jour in a desperate attempt to save our failing marriage.

Peter and I lay, side by side, on mats at a massage place, and my tiny Thai masseuse just laughed when I shrieked with pain, and seemed to go in harder with her teeny, bony fingers and sharp elbows. I was bruised afterward and swore never again.

But the oxytocin drew me back

With its promises of bliss, the happy hormone propelled me back again and again, and over the years I’ve built up a certain kind of tolerance to the pain.

I can bear it, knowing that I’m going to feel fabulous afterward and it’s doing me such a lot of good, moving the fascia around my body and relaxing me big time.

I’ve had many different types of massage over the years, but deep-tissue Thai is my favorite.

One time, in the early 2000s, on my second trip to Thailand, I got a massage in my hotel room for three hours.

The time passed quickly and I was so blissed out by the end of it that when my travelling companions came to my door and asked how it went, I burst into song at the top of my lungs, singing, ‘Heaven — I’m in heaven!’ a slightly wonky version of Fred Astaire’s song ‘Cheek to Cheek’.

The tiny Thai woman, though, had unfortunately taken a little of the joy away by asking if I’d like a ‘happy ending’. I politely declined.

Sex for the Thai people is a little like having a cup of tea. It’s such a part of the culture, a masseur would not even be fazed about asking a question like that.

One of the best massages I ever had was on the marble floor of the masseuse’s home.

She was the sister of my friend Chao who I wrote about in this series on Medium.

Chao was my tuktuk driver who drove me to work each day at a treatment center where I worked as an addictions therapist. He became my friend and travelling companion, taking me to all kinds of places that tourists don’t normally get to in Northern Thailand, Burma and Laos.

His sister, a masseuse whose name was Porn, clambered all over me on a soft mat on the floor of her living room, and afterward I was in such blissed out I got a tear of gratitude.

I was so thankful that I overpaid her by quite a bit, and gave her a big hug.

Chao knew all the best massage places in Chiang Mai and took me to some of them.

The diminutive Thai massage therapists have a particular style that ends up with their doing a type of chiropractic manipulation and popping your spine.

At first I didn’t know how to truly relax into it, and it didn’t work so well, but once I got the hang of giving myself over to the sheer delight of the massage, I was able to reap the benefits.

I always get a little bit high from a massage and have to take extra care when I leave the premises, and crossing the street.

It’s like being slightly stoned.

That’s why massage is so addictive.

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