We found out when it tried to kill my brother,
a Marine, fit as fuck, built to last.
One minute strong, next fighting his own heart,
family genetics moving fast.
Then my other brother. Then my dad.
Same bloodline, same unwanted prize.
Cardiomyopathy running through the family,
quietly waiting behind healthy eyes.
They tested me in 2017,
then told me I was clear of the disease.
I walked away thinking I’d missed the bullet,
finally able to breathe with ease.
But what a fucking lie that turned out to be.
From 2018 they knew I carried something,
a different gene to the other two.
DSG2, pathogenic, stamped in my records,
and not one person thought to tell me it was true.
So I treated my heart like it was bulletproof.
Intense fitness, pushing until I felt sick.
Heavy weights, long sessions, big cycles of Test,
always chasing stronger, harder, quick.
Caffeine smashed like it counted as water,
marching powder on the odd weekend night.
All while something sat inside my chest,
waiting for stress to switch on the light.
Then 2025 brought a letter.
Regular testing, back on the list.
No explanation of what they’d been hiding,
just come for an echo, make sure nothing’s missed.
It stopped me going abroad for a while,
couldn’t fly until the scan was done.
The echo looked clear, no signs of disease.
“See you in three years, carry on, son”
Still no mention of the positive gene.
Still only half the truth in that room.
So I went back to lifting and TRT,
unaware I was training beside my own doom.
Then life fell apart and burnout landed.
Stress piled up while sleep disappeared.
My heart started racing at 160,
sat on my arse while the danger appeared.
Then came the blackouts.
Even sat behind the wheel.
One second present, next second missing,
nothing about that shit feels real.
Now I’m banned from driving, doctors checking,
wires and readings, questions and doubt.
My heart’s wired like an 80s washing machine,
all dodgy circuits and ready to cut out.
Prolonged QT on top of the rest,
strange rhythms kicking off in my chest.
Apparently my heart missed the simple instruction
to beat like the others and give it a rest.
Then on a train home came the real truth.
No doctor beside me, no careful chat.
Just me reading DSG2 positive,
thinking, you already fucking knew that.
A pathogenic variant, there in black and white.
Not a theory. Not something new.
They’d known for years while I pushed this heart
through every stupid thing I could do.
Now I wait for an implantable loop recorder,
a tiny witness living under my skin.
Then eventually an ICD,
ready to shock me if the bad rhythm wins.
Mad thing is, people expect me to crumble,
to sit scared stiff and count every beat.
But I’ve watched what this does to my brothers.
I know this bastard. We’ve already met.
I’m angry, of course I fucking am.
I was cleared, then left blind for years.
They gave me comfort without the whole truth,
now I’m left carrying the risk and the fear.
But I still crack on.
Still laugh. Still train within what I’m told.
Still take the piss when life gets serious,
because panic won’t make me grow old.
This family heart came with faulty wiring,
a genetic prize nobody chose.
They kept the truth buried inside my records,
but I’m the one living with what nobody disclosed.
So no, I won’t let it stop me.
I’ve never lived life on my knees.
The gene might belong to my family blood,
but this fucking heartbeat still belongs to me.