There is a knowing that lives in the body. It arrives before the proof does-a prickle at the back of the neck, a tightening in the chest, a quiet voice that says something is wrong here, even when everyone around you insists you're imagining things. We are taught, especially as women, to override that voice. To be reasonable. Agreeable. Easy. To call our intuition anxiety and our clarity crazy. Chel Cartmill spent years doing exactly that. Spider on My Neck is the story of a woman who learned-slowly, painfully, and not without a sharp sense of humor-to stop abandoning herself. It is about the kind of harm that leaves no marks. The slow disappearing act of becoming who everyone else needs. And the moment the life you've been holding together falls apart in your hands, and you find there was a whole person underneath all along. It is not a story about a single catastrophe. It is about the small surrenders that add up-the opinions softened, the instincts second-guessed, the years spent managing someone else's comfort at the cost of your own. And it is about what it takes to come back: the slow, unglamorous work of learning to trust your own read on the world again. This is a memoir for anyone who has silenced a gut feeling to keep the peace. Anyone who has mistaken control for love, or attention for being seen. Anyone rebuilding from a season that nearly undid them, one honest day at a time. It is fierce and tender. Devastating and, somehow, funny. A book about trust-in your instincts, in the people who show up, in a God who was there in the quiet all along. Your body has been trying to tell you something. This is the story of what happened when she finally listened.
