Bloodline Bruises: Healing for Family Trauma and PTSD
- Michele Thompson
- Jun 5
- 3 min read
From Tear-Stained Pages to Beats That Breathe
My journey into songwriting starts with a stack of battered journals. On quiet nights, I flip through those pages, and the entries that still make me cry become lyrics waiting to be sung. As a healer and an artist, beyond my candles and intention boxes, I believe music is the language every heart understands, no matter the genre. I pour each verse into the universe, hoping the words of this song—and every song I craft—resonate with anyone who needs a lifeline of hope and encouragement. With the help of AI, the beats make the bars come alive.
I never planned to write a song called “Bloodline Bruises.” Yet every sleepless night—heart pounding, sweat pooling, mind replaying family arguments like broken vinyl—pulled me toward that title. Growing up autistic, ADHD, empathic, and haunted by post-traumatic stress, I learned early that kin can hurt deeper than any stranger. The same DNA that wrote my eye color inscribed scars on my nervous system. “Bloodline Bruises” is my testimony and my antidote: a hip-hop lament that transforms inherited wounds into rhythm, rhyme, and—ultimately—hope.
PTSD doesn’t start with bullets alone; sometimes it begins at the dinner table. The brain’s threat alarm never powers down when trust fractures at home. Flashbacks morph into daydreams, avoidance becomes instinct, and hyper-vigilance gnaws through every smile. In families, PTSD is a silent ripple: one person’s nightmares leak into everyone’s mornings. Parents mislabel meltdowns as misbehavior, siblings mock stimming as drama, relatives dismiss shutdowns as laziness—adding fresh layers of shame on top of the original trauma.
“Bloodline Bruises” traces that cycle bar by bar:
Verse 1 captures the kitchen-table crossfire, where sighs slice sharper than cutlery and laughter hides judgment in its echo.
Verse 2 plunges into night-watch insomnia—sheets soaked, memories looping, self-blame beating louder than the bass.
Verse 3 climbs toward a fragile dawn: I stitch my fractures with beats, rap to the moon, and promise myself that purpose is louder than funeral sound.
Writing those words was therapy, but therapy beyond art still matters. Trauma-focused CBT and EMDR can re-wire flashbacks; somatic experiencing reins in the body’s earthquake; peer groups swap isolation for solidarity. On gentler days, I grab Black Tourmaline, press it to my sternum, and breathe until the stone warms—an energetic reminder that grounding is possible. Music, crystals, counseling: together they build a scaffold sturdy enough to climb out of generational hurt.
Healing, though, is never a solo act. Families who learn to listen instead of lecture become co-pilots on the recovery flight. Asking open questions (“What does safety feel like for you today?”) beats blanket statements (“You’re too sensitive,” "Stop Stressing," or "What's wrong with you?"). Setting sensory-friendly spaces—dimming lights, lowering TV volume—turns home from minefield to refuge. And when relatives can’t meet those needs, chosen family—friends, therapists, online communities—step up as surrogate roots.
“Bloodline Bruises” isn’t just a song; it’s a call to name the wound and still choose tomorrow. I lost relationships to misunderstanding and stigma, but I gained a mission: to soundtrack survival for every neurodivergent soul choking on unshed words. Press play when claustrophobia creeps into your ribcage. Feel each kick drum remind you that your heart still knows the beat. And if tonight feels impossible, dial 988 (U.S.) or reach out to your local crisis line—because your melody isn’t finished.
I’ll keep crafting lyrics under porch-light halos, keep turning family pain into communal power. May the track echo through your earbuds like a promise: Blood draws blood, but music draws love, and the bruise can bloom into something brave.
