In early adulthood,
long before recovery found me,
fear still lived quietly beneath my skin.
Though my mind holds no clear memories,
something inside me remembers.
A flinch.
A tightening.
A fear without language.
I believe now
that some part of me was wounded in childhood,
even if the story itself remained hidden behind locked doors.
The body does not always remember in pictures.
Sometimes it remembers in sensations,
in silence,
in the way the nervous system learns to brace
long before the mind understands why.
I loved relationships—
or perhaps I loved the shelter they seemed to promise.
To be chosen.
To be held.
To belong to someone.
And yet, inside my own body,
I carried confusion.
Pleasure and fear lived side by side,
woven together so tightly
I could no longer tell
where longing ended
and terror began.
My body wanted closeness,
while another part of me
stayed watchful, guarded, afraid.
Even then,
before I understood any of it,
my body was speaking
the truths my mind could not yet bear to remember.
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