The Ripple of a Bruise
Betrayal Beneath the Skin
It began with tiny, pale marks on my forearm — whispers of warning beneath the skin. I brushed them off at first. No falls, no knocks, nothing to explain them. But then another appeared on my wrist, one on my thigh. Each one a punctuation, a subtle alert I could not translate at the time.
I watched, counted, documented. Each bruise a word, each color a sentence, each spread a paragraph in the language my body refused to speak aloud. The ache behind my eyes, the slight dizziness when standing, the persistent fatigue — these signals threaded through my days unnoticed by the world, yet unbearably clear to me.
Short, fractured sentences started appearing in my mind as the awareness grew: not normal. watch. subtle. urgent. My pulse thumped in rhythm with each new mark, quick and shallow. Limbs trembled unpredictably, responding to commands only partially. My body had begun to speak, in micro-fissures, in minute betrayals.
At the doctor, blood tests measured platelets, clotting factors, iron. Numbers read as neutral: borderline. I heard neutrality, but felt betrayal. My body’s whispers had been quantified and sanitized into statistics I could not ignore.
I adjusted everything. Sleep, hydration, diet, gentle exercise. Every movement measured. Journals thick with observations, patterns noted, triggers mapped. Still, the anxiety remained — a low thrum beneath every action, a reminder that the system had eroded quietly, silently, before I even recognised it.
I learned to anticipate, to interpret, to listen. Bruises became a lexicon of caution. The marks multiplied, waned, returned. Sweetness in foods — a comforting poison — now carried weight I could feel in my pulse, in the shimmer of skin where life betrayed itself.
Evenings grew long with rumination. I touched the bruises, felt their edges, traced their stories. Fragmented thoughts collided with observation: why? how? safe? The answers never came, only the continued subtle dialogue between skin, muscle, and blood.
Now
I navigate this invisible terrain with vigilance. Each day, each
bruise, each faint pang is a signal — not a story resolved, but one
ongoing. My body speaks in whispers, and I listen, even when the
language bends and trembles under my fingers.
–––
These stories aren’t rare.
They’re just rarely told early enough.
Most decline begins in silence —
a skipped check-up, a cough you dismiss, a breath you pretend is fine.
She didn’t need saving.
Just a warning sooner.
––– Pause Here –––
If this feels familiar, you’re not alone.
Most illness doesn’t start with a bang.
It starts when silence becomes habit.
Lingzhi isn’t a miracle.
It’s a habit.
A quiet, daily way to care for the body —
before silence becomes suffering.
Lingzhi is a traditional food taken to support general well-being. It is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease. For personalised advice, please consult a qualified healthcare practitioner.
#SubHealthStories #HealthIsAHabit #HappyHealthyLingzhi
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