Skip to main content

“My Body Kept Score”

Content Note 

This piece touches on body‑held trauma connected to PTSD, PMDD, and CPAM. It’s written from lived experience, not diagnosis, and explores how the body remembers what the mind was never told.


My Body Kept Score”


All of it shrouded in PMDD,

drenched, drenching,

my daughter and her son,

Maverick George.



Left side, left lung,

CPAM diagnosis,

hydrops,

mirror syndrome —

they both drowned before they breathed.



Swelling past 26 weeks,

preeclampsia,

a C section that was a disaster,

a birth that started with a collapsed lung.




Choking,

aspirating,

pneumonia after pneumonia,

RSV, holidays spent in hospital corridors.



Thickener level three,

partial lung removal,

constant monitoring,

permanent antibiotics,

screaming in pain,

the fear of choking every day.



A nebuliser almost given by a GP

that would have collapsed his lung.

Terrible hospital experiences.

X ray after X ray after X ray.



And then it settled.

For a while...



Until last April,

when his bowel impacted and we lived

in and out of hospital

for four months —

pain, discomfort,

pain, discomfort,

on repeat.

(my poor daughter and my amazing son-in-law)



Today he is happy, healthy,

a thickener boy with a full laugh.



But it still hurts.

It hurt me in a way I can’t undo.



Now another grandchild is coming

and I am so afraid,

not of illness,

but of the memories waking up again.



I’ve moved forward,

but it’s still present.

I don’t want to hand my fear to anyone else.



PTSD, maybe, for sure.

Or just the truth:

my Pandora’s childhood box flipped open

and no matter how hard I tried,

my body kept score.




Footnote: written as a voice note on 31st May 2025, when I felt like my metaphorical back was going to break and I couldn’t step into my happy future. It’s funny how everyone can have an infinite amount of trauma, and you can keep the lid on it for years, but when the vessel fills, it can’t be contained any more. (I spilled out) 



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Going Shopping in the Menopausal Way

  Going Shopping in the Menopausal Way A menopausal purchase is planetary. The sun must shine. The temperature must be just right. You must be neither dipping nor surging — just perfectly balanced in the hormonal moment. Because unless you buy exactly when the stars align, it will get returned. You’ll love it on the day. But if the scales tip even slightly — by the next morning, it’s on the fence. If you’re lucky, you’ll return it. If not, it’ll sit in your wardrobe for 28 days until the return window closes. Then it’s either sold on Vinted for a quarter of the price or left to haunt you. There’s a lot resting on a menopausal buy. It’s not just a purchase — it’s a mood, a moment, a miracle. I never realised this until I saw how small my wardrobe was. Not because the shops weren’t there — but because I wasn’t there when I got there. You leave the house feeling great. You arrive at the shops and suddenly… not so great. So the purchase is less than mediocre. ...

An electric toothbrush - love and hate. A poem about a mundane daily action

  An electric toothbrush— love and hate. 27TH NOVEMBER   I love my toothbrush, the circular motion, up and down, round and round.   Is it because I’m left-handed, or right-handed? I put it to the left, look in the mirror, rub my gum more than my tooth. One side sore, one side unclean. I loathe toothpaste. I hate it. I hate this smile. I hate the taste. But I love clean teeth— the touch of the tongue across the front, smooth, shining. Every three weeks, my sore gum returns. I forget what I’m doing, leave it whirling, mindless chore. I love my toothbrush. I love clean teeth. I loathe my sore gum. It’s a pattern I repeat, monthly, weekly, over-brushed, sore gum. When I’m old, really old, I won’t brush my teeth. Fifty years, twice a day, since I was nine or ten. Don’t get me started on toothpicks, tape, wax, gaps. But when I’m seventy-five— no more. I’ll rub the t...

International Women’s Day — We Don’t Share a Body, We Share a Lie

International Women’s Day — We Don’t Share a Body, We Share a Lie If we’re going to have an International Women’s Day, then let’s at least tell the truth about the one thing we’re all supposed to have in common. We don’t. We should rename it: International Unique Hormone Pattern Day. Because we were raised in a society that pretended everybody has the same period. Same hormones. Same bleed. Same reaction. Same PMT. Same everything. Copy‑and‑paste womanhood. Except now I can list at least twenty things that make one person’s cycle nothing like the next — and yet society made us believe we were all identical. Interchangeable. Predictable. “Women with women’s problems.” My best advice? Period Power by Maisie Hill. Learn your cycle. Learn your system. Know that you are unique. And don’t tolerate anything that feels wrong. That’s literally why we have the NHS. Arm yourself with fact information and go. I knew nothing about periods except that they arrived every month since I was 13 — until ...