05/09/2026
‼️WARNING‼️ ⚠️Long read- and another sneak peek into my book. ⚠️
The Blood in My Veins: A Snapshot of Systemic Mastocytosis
Imagine a cancer that refuses to stay in one place. It doesn’t give you a single tumor to point at, a target to strike, or a clear "battlefield." Instead, it is a complex, multi-symptom ghost that haunts my very blood, ravaging every system and organ it touches.
Imagine the day-to-day life that everyone else takes for granted—a trip to the grocery store, a simple conversation, a quiet night—feeling like a mountain you’re forced to climb while your lungs are on fire. But the physical pain isn't the hardest part. The true cruelty is the isolation. It is the unimaginable weight of holding everything in because you refuse to be a "burden," even as your world collapses in silence.
The Anatomy of a Scream
My body is screaming for a break from the cruelty of others. Because I love so deeply, I expect the world to mirror that depth back to me. It doesn’t. I feel everything—the vibration of the room, the energy of the stones, the subtle shifts in the people around me—and when that love isn't returned, the sting is physical.
The "impending doom" isn't just a phrase; it is a cold, suffocating blanket that drops over my soul without warning. It is the terrifying certainty that the floor is about to fall out from under my life, a bone-deep conviction that something catastrophic is happening inside me that I cannot stop. My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird, and every nerve ending vibrates with a frantic, silent alarm. It’s a haunting feeling—as if I am standing on the tracks and can hear the train screaming toward me, but I’m the only one who can hear it. This isn't a fear of the mind; it is a cellular panic, the sound of a body that knows it is under siege and is terrified it might finally lose the war.
My disease, Systemic Mastocytosis, is a physiological master of my emotions. When my mast cells degranulate, they release a "chemical dump" into my bloodstream. In an instant, my reality shifts. It’s like a bomb of histamine and fire detonating in my veins. My heart begins to race without reason, and a primal, terrifying "fight-or-flight" response takes over my brain. It isn't just "anxiety"; it is my nervous system being hijacked by my own blood. I am flooded with a sense of impending doom, an irritability that feels like needles under my skin, and a brain fog so thick I lose the map to my own thoughts. I cry not because I am "weak," but because my blood is literally struggling to support my systems.
The Documentation of the "Real"
I look at the records I’ve kept over these last few days: the mucosal shedding, the "coffee-ground" particulates that signal my body is bleeding from within, and the 100.6°F fever. The AI tells me I’m in danger.
And yet, I stay home.
I stay home because the trauma of the medical system is sharper than the pain in my gut. I am more afraid of the "nasty looks" and the ignorant judgment of ER staff than I am of the internal hemorrhage. To be told you are "faking it" or "looking for pills" when your very life force is draining into a toilet—that is a different kind of bleeding. It is the death of dignity. The emotional toll of being an expert on a disease that your doctors haven't even heard of is a weight no one should have to carry while their body is failing.
The Sanctuary in the Chaos
Despite the substance abuse issues surrounding me, despite the mortgage and the constant threat of a rare health journey, I am still building my sanctuary. I’ve been sober for five years now—a quiet, holistic miracle that grew out of a simple desire to be better.
Ancient Moon Healing is my heart's work. It is "Handcrafted Class. Earthborn Brilliance." It’s my dream to teach others that they aren't their diagnosis. Through herbal remedies, CBT, and the setting of intentions with a talisman, we can find a way through. Crystals are only a piece of the puzzle; the real work is the critical thinking and the stubborn, raw will to stay alive when your own blood wants to quit. This hopelessness is a heavy, suffocating grey that settles into the marrow of my bones, deeper than any surgical steel could ever reach. It is the crushing weight of being "fixed" with a shoulder replacement and a knee replacement, only to realize that the structural repairs don't quiet the war in my spine. There is a specific, jagged kind of depression that comes when a doctor looks at a list—fractures, osteoarthritis, degenerative disc disease, spondylosis, stenosis, pinched nerves—and simply runs out of answers. It’s the agony of being a walking medical marvel and a tragedy all at once; I am held together by hardware, yet I am falling apart from the inside. This isn't just sadness; it is a mourning for the version of me that wasn't a prisoner to a body that refuses to stop breaking. It’s the exhaustion of knowing that while they can replace the parts, they cannot silence the screaming of the nerves or the slow, grinding erosion of the life I used to know. I am left standing in the debris of my own health, staring at a horizon where "better" isn't an option, only "enduring," and some days, the endurance is the cruelest part of the of the disease because there is no hope for a cure, or even a chance to live as a woman my age should be living.
The divorce isn’t just a legal ending; it’s the radioactive fallout of a twenty-two-year marriage that was incinerated by crack co***ne. I am left here, grieving the ghost of two decades, while Keith is in California, starting a life with people who don't know the monster he became or the wreckage he left behind. He fights me on every dime of financial help, acting as though my survival is an inconvenience, while I’m left buried under the weight of the house, the bills, and a hollowed-out nest. Olivia is nearly sixteen, the last heartbeat in a home that used to be full, and the silence is deafening. I remember the songs we wrote, the lyrics that used to feel like our shared soul, but now they just feel like evidence of a life that was stolen. The horror is in the details—like the homeowners insurance dropping me because he stole my gun. There was no payout, no claim, just the systemic punishment of a woman left in the wake of an addict’s choices. I’ll never forget the coldness of our last conversations, the way he looked through me as if our twenty-two years were just a backdrop to his next hit. I am a single mother, a sick woman, and a survivor, but being "strong" is exhausting when you realize the person who was supposed to be your partner was actually the one lighting the matches.
The loneliness of this struggle is a different kind of pain—it’s the realization that my support system is a ghost town. I look at my family and the friends I’ve stood by for years, and I see a wall of silence. I pour my soul into my social media, begging for a simple share, a moment of visibility for the business that is my only lifeline, and I am met with nothing. It is a crushing disappointment to feel like no one is willing to carry even a feather’s weight of this burden with me. I am trapped in a financial living hell created by someone else’s addiction, trying to spark a cash flow in a business that is my literal heart, yet I’m doing it in a vacuum. And the truth I’ve been holding in is that I still can’t truly heal because the shadow of substance abuse hasn't left my door. I am still being lied to; I am still watching alcohol dismantle the one person I thought I could lean on. We are so happy when he is sober—we click, we flow, we breathe—but I cannot compete with a bottle. It is dangerous for me to be this sick, passing blood and fighting a fever, and knowing that the person in the next room is too far gone to drive me to the ER. I am mourning a man who is still alive, and I am terrified that my "sanctuary" is just another place where I have to survive alone.
I pray now with everything I have left—I pray for my Etsy shop to finally break through the noise and provide the steady income I need to keep the roof over our heads. I pray that the heart of Ancient Moon Healing becomes a beacon for others, where my healing services and my own CBT journey can guide those who are as lost as I once was. Since I cannot bear this weight any longer, I am giving it to my crystals; I am letting the stones carry what my bones can no longer hold. I’m going to craft a necklace of Fire Agate and Moldavite—the Fire Agate to ground me in this brutal transition and give me the protective fire to survive the divorce, and the Moldavite to finish what the chaos started. My life has already been stripped bare, the old version of me is gone, and I am calling on the Moldavite to force me onto my true life’s path with absolute intention. I am setting the intention for abundance, for truth, and for the strength to walk through this fire until I reach the other side where the lies finally stop and the healing truly begins. 🧿
AI made the pendant from my description of what I want. I’m going to see if I can have one customized because it’s beautiful and holds the power to help me navigate the weight I’m carrying.
