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Unraveling the Trauma That Lives in the Immune System
Today I sat in the park, singing bowls beside me, body heavier than yesterday.
The solstice sun still high, but my walk here was slow. My legs ached.
My energy fragile.
My immune system has been fighting.
Lyme. Swelling. Exhaustion.
And, I suspect, something deeper.
Last night, I asked myself why I’ve been craving alcohol every night with dinner.
It’s not about getting drunk. It’s not even about altering my state.
It’s more like a soft slide into just a little less consciousness—something to take the edge off of being here.
And when I truly asked why, I heard two numbers loud and clear:
12 and 13.
What Happened at 12?
When I was 12 or 13, a man exposed himself to me.
It was shocking. Violating. I didn’t know what to do with it.
I wasn’t protected. I didn’t feel safe. I didn’t feel like I had a voice.
Around the same time, I was making jewelry.
Exploring my creativity.
Expressing myself through beauty and sacred adornment.
My light was rising—and then it was punished with trauma.
What Happened 12–13 Years Ago?
I was making jewelry again.
Tapping back into my creative channel.
Beginning to reclaim my magic.
And then—another rupture.
A man in my life punched a hole in the wall in front my daugher and I.
Not once. Twice. A year apart.
The second time, I was done. I left. I saved us.
But even in asking for help—even in speaking up—I felt like my voice wasn’t enough.
Still not met.
Still not fully protected.
The Pattern is Clear. And My Body is Done.
Twice in my life, when I opened to beauty, art, and feminine self-expression—
the masculine responded with violence or threat.
And both times, I went into survival mode.
Not just shutting the door on the trauma—but shutting the door on my own brilliance.
Because when there’s no protector, the body becomes the guard.
And now my body is saying, “I’m tired of being the only one protecting you.”
This Isn’t About Alcohol. It’s About Safety.
I’m not reaching for a drink because I’m weak or broken or spiritually off-track.
I’m reaching because my nervous system remembers.
It remembers what happened when I let myself shine.
It remembers the silence.
It remembers the shame.
It remembers being 12 and thinking: “No one’s going to save me.”
But now—I’m 46.
And I can save me.
My immune system is asking for something radical:
Stop sacrificing yourself to keep the peace.
Stop going unconscious to tolerate the intolerable.
Stop dimming to survive.
The Awakening is This: I Am My Own Safe Space Now.
There is no man I need to prove myself to.
No doctor I need to convince.
No system I need to bow to.
I am my own sanctuary now.
And if that means crying in the park, swollen leg and all—then so be it.
If that means pouring the IPA back into the Earth with a blessing—I’ll do it.
If that means laying down my need to push—I’ll listen.
This isn’t weakness.
This is return.
Return to the self.
Return to the body.
Return to the sacred flame of my own protection.
A Prayer for All the Girls Who Thought They Had to Be Small
To the girl who thought her creativity got her hurt—you didn’t do anything wrong.
To the woman who had to parent herself through trauma—I see you.
To the part of me that still wants to disappear—I won’t shame you, but I also won’t let you run the show.
We are home now.
No one gets to silence us.
No one gets to dim us.
No one gets to convince us we need to be unconscious to be okay.
A Closing Mantra
(Feel free to speak this aloud. Or write it on your mirror.)
I am safe to shine.
I do not have to protect myself by shrinking.
My body is wise. My creativity is sacred.
I am my own protection now.
~
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