Jessica Woodville | Memoir & Musings

They hooked wires to my chest like I was some broken machine,

searching for answers in volts and rhythms.

But no monitor could measure

the years I’ve spent bracing for impact.

They said my heart mimicked a heart attack—

a syndrome named for sorrow.

Takotsubo, like a pot for trapping grief.

Mine was full.

They told me to drink more water, to breathe slower.

As if healing were that simple.

As if the body doesn’t remember

every slammed door, every scream,

every time I played dead to stay alive.

This isn’t anxiety.

This is what happens

when a body finally shouts

what the soul has whispered for years:

I’m not safe.