body, please stop keeping score: a series
body, please stop keeping score: a series
an exploration of trauma, ancestral healing, and chronic illnesses— part one
i debated releasing this series on my substack because i was too scared about how to properly name my fears, my traumas, my shame and turn it into a teaching tool, or a way for others to relate. but i also realised that this is what i need to put out right now because I know many of my subscribers and pals belong to the same communities that i do, and I’ve been wanting to unpack all of this in the form of writing. it’s how i process things best, despite my mind overthinking itself into ruin.
so, I decided to create this series whenever I am particularly in pain, or am unpacking some intergenerational or personal trauma, and need to ask the world: why?
i would not proceed if you are particularly sensitive to subject matter pertaining to trauma, mental health, suicide, chronic illness, queerness, and abuse.
like other series that will come out periodically in my substack, this first “issue” will be free, and the rest will be behind a paywall (I know, but it’s a lot of stuff that tends to be potentially triggering and if you enjoy my writing, it helps to support me through that!)
a couple weeks ago, i confessed to my fiancé that my body felt like it was breaking down slowly, and poured my heart out as i heard myself spewing out months of dysphoria into his ears. after years of privilege and caretaking, essentially acting like a giant baby (i prefer being Baby TM) and having someone take care of me: i was finally learning how to provide and take care of myself.
i think it’s fair to say that the realities of multiple comorbidities existing in one flesh vessel didn’t hit me because… I was nurtured by caretakers, avoided the problems (therefore making things worse) and/or burning on fumes that were fuelled by value-based motivations. none of these situations are sustainable for the future, for the families i love, for my own personal health. my mother often says that if i don’t have my health, i don’t have room for anything else. that taking care of myself should be a priority because i won’t be able to take care of anything/anyone else. and there’s a bit of truth to that, i suppose.
but one of the most crucial reasons i’ve made it an increasing priority over the years is watching my family age while navigating illness.
maybe i was just too self absorbed when i was younger (which, fair assessment) but i didn’t understand the burden of chronic migraines until i, too, suffered from them. the flicker of red rage, the mere thought of violence finally flashed through during a particularly gruesome headache in the middle of a road trip as my juvenile pug started wailing all the way to the depths of Hades and back. now the explosions of a short tempered fuse from when i was a child made sense. the excruciating pain, with no sense of relief short of knocking myself out compounded with the screeching dog in the back seat of the car was almost enough to lose rational sense. i did not harm my dog, though it certainly crossed my mind, and i would never do it— but in a moment of desperation, a Hail Mary for someone with less control over their baser impulses? yeah, i finally empathised with the childhood abuse i suffered, and through my own chronic pain, i contextualised it. it doesn’t make it right, but i understood.
having violence modeled like that, however banal it seemed at the time, made an impact on me. talking about these incidents was taboo, and resources regarding mental health and illness were never provided. family friends were psychiatrists or psychotherapists, but admitting that someone in our house could be diagnosed with a mental disorder was not an option. not all of it was physical, and most of that stopped when i was a little older. but the external pressures started to become more difficult to deal with mentally. i was afraid of being a disappointment and nothing seemed to be good enough. (lol do I have another post about this coming later!!!) honestly? i could have used a therapist years ago, and maybe if mental health resources had been accessible, perhaps I would have been diagnosed with ADHD and anxiety much earlier in my life lololol. (yes I am aware that was a run on sentence and frankly, idc. this is my newsletter!)
no more could have, would have, should haves.
one of the most soul-crushing experiences in my life was realising that marginalised populations are born with the pain of their ancestors embedded into their very chemical and physical makeup. that the stress that our ancestors went through is written into our DNA, and what can we do about it? are we destined to give into our genetic trauma, these codes that were prescribed through us without our own volition and asking for them?
a continuous theme in my life, that many of my own peers joke about to an almost alarming rate is this sweet embrace of death. for those of us belonging to marginalised populations, being alive often feels more painful than the idea of disappearing from mere existence. but all the more reason to live, to— if not break free from the chains of intergenerational trauma completely— gently process and work our way through the taboo, through the shadows, in order to illuminate what was, and has been there all along.
i accept that people fuck up. and furthermore, that hurt people hurt people. but what is our way forward if our generations have these wounds that continually show up in the present as faded scars— but ones that are eternally omnipresent?
the only way we unpack and move past our intergenerational trauma is to acknowledge it.
by naming our pain, we start to make connections and can begin a path towards healing.
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