My Skeleton Sobs

 Epigraph

"The body whispers in fractures; the mind shouts in terror."


–––

The tremor begins before dawn, in the quiet when the house holds its breath. My hand quivers as if the bones themselves are mocking me — tiny oscillations that feel like betrayal. I grip the edge of the bed. Not for support. To remind myself that I am still capable of weighing my own existence.

I rise. Each movement is a negotiation with gravity and memory. My knees hesitate, my spine leans sideways. I am aware of every hinge, every fibre resisting, quivering. I feel my bones as if they are conscious entities, reluctant to obey, remembering every neglected year.

The kitchen floor tilts beneath me. A trick of perception? No. My body refuses. My ankle locks mid-step. My left hip whispers protest. My back is a lattice of murmurs, creaks, and internal protest. I am negotiating with my skeleton, not the earth.

I bend to retrieve a fallen spoon. In that instant, the familiar terror returns: the left knee buckles, my spine stiffens. Time dilates. I almost hit the floor. The cup of tea on the counter shakes. My heart hammers like a funeral drum.

The near-fall leaves traces: trembling pulses in wrists, calves quivering, spine shifting minutely for the next hour. I stand, rigid, breath jagged. The house is silent, but my body screams. I do not scream. I do not move until I must.

Days pass. Weeks. Each movement carries suspicion. Every step on stairs is a calculation of risk. Every lift is measured. Ordinary acts — opening doors, reaching shelves, picking up books — are now feats of cautious strategy. My mind records every failure: a silent tally of betrayals. I become a conspirator against myself, aware that my body could strike at any moment.

Sleep is shallow. I wake feeling my skeleton dislocated from my intent. Limbs twitch, vertebrae sigh, shoulders slump in silent rebellion. Even lying down, I sense my body plotting its own imperceptible collapse.

I catch myself in mirrors and see a stranger framed by familiarity. Forward tilt. Rounded shoulders. A head that hovers uncertainly, searching for anchors that do not exist. The tremors are visible now — in hands, arms, legs. The near-fall is not an anomaly. It is a prophecy.

I sip tea. Ordinary tea. Warmth spreads, but only superficially. It soothes nothing within the marrow. It is a ritual, not salvation. The trembling continues beneath the surface, a reminder that awareness is the only temporary reprieve.

Memories assault me: running with children, climbing stairs, carrying weight without thought. I feel grief as a physical weight — a compression in my chest, a strain through my shoulders, a bending in my knees. Every memory of ease is now a ghost, a phantom of capability I can no longer inhabit.

The body does not forgive. It adapts in increments. I am learning to respect the increments, to anticipate them, to measure my own frailty. And yet, the dread persists — a quiet, gnawing certainty that one day, the next misstep could be irrevocable.

–––

These stories aren’t rare.
They’re just rarely told early enough.

Subhealth often hides in endurance.

Such signs are subtle, cumulative, and psychologically intrusive. They unfold over months and years, and ignoring them is to risk not only physical collapse but a creeping existential dread. They may include tremors and hesitation in limbs, micro-falls or near-falls, postural collapse and rounding of the spine, persistent micro-aches and internal tension and gradual loss of strength or coordination

Subhealth is the dialogue before diagnosis —
the body’s early language of self-preservation.

Listening sooner — through regulated light exposure, rest, micro-breaks, and attention to bodily signals — is not weakness. It is survival.

––– 

If this feels familiar, you’re not alone.
What matters most is noticing —
and choosing to listen, before silence deepens.

Lingzhi isn’t a miracle.
It’s a habit.
A quiet, daily way to care for the body —
before silence becomes suffering

Advisory

Lingzhi is a traditional food, long used to support balance and general well-being.
It is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease.
Individuals with existing medical conditions or those taking medication should consult a qualified healthcare professional before use. 


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