the girl in my gut

i remember the way his eyes would light up when he saw my face break—
my mouth quiver, my eyes water—
the satisfaction that rolled over in his irises
when he saw the way i reacted to his words,
his touch.

after some time, i realized the more i reacted, the more he enjoyed it.
so i became numb.
emotions became void and meaningless—
something that puts me in harm’s way.

revealing the true feelings within,
turning myself inside out,
screaming to show the scars he inflicted—
he’d turn his head and not look
as he slashed through my open flesh
with his calculated words
and his twisted teachings.

i learned to control my face—
because the reaction of those looking at mine
became the new emotions, my reality.
i saw the anger in their peering, interested eyes,
the sadness in their shaking hands,
and the unsureness in their pressed lips.

it told me what mattered—what I can see, not them.

ppl always tell me i don’t have control over my facial expressions,
but when i’m with my family, it’s all i have.
my face would reveal what i was feeling,
and i’d be hurt for it.

any disagreement, any sort of questioning,
led to hours of indoctrination—
held to the couch w my brother,
told we can’t leave until he believes
we’re no longer “sinful people”
(which rlly meant “free thinkers”)

questions led to hissing.

silence led to judgement.

compliance led to peace.

pain led to purpose.

cries led to weakness.

weakness led to exposure.

exposure led to inflictions.

indoctrination.
painful lies disguised as truths—
words said through bared teeth,
each one squeezing my throat
while another poked at my heart
like it was the game ‘operation’

i learned not to cry.
and even today, a year since leaving,
i find it hard to sob.

i feel vulnerable,
like everything will start crashing down
the minute a tear slips.
because if it slipped around the wrong person,
they’d sneer, and say,
“you’re just a little kid. you have no idea what you’re talking about.
you can’t trust your own thoughts—that’s where satan dwells.”

and would lock me in my room
or wherever i was
until i stopped crying—
because my sobs were annoying to them.
“i won’t take you seriously until you can tell me calmly with words and without tears
why you’re being so dramatic.”

every time a tear fell
in a locked room
with an empty hug,
my gut would boil.

i learned from a young age
that he would tell you you only ran on emotion,
and not logic,
because you were a girl.
not an adult.
not a parent.
it was the hormones talking
the minute i talked about something passionate—
something out of my control,
primal,
like his “urges” around me.

the only time i would cry
was in the shower—
because there, no one could see my tears,
including me.

seeing my own tears—
my puffy face—
made me livid at my reflection.

i couldn’t stand the thought
of putting myself and my brother
through another “bible lesson”
because his ego wanted a boost
after seeing a lip quiver.

at least in the shower,
the tears slide along with the rest of the drops,
all swirling down a drain—
being sent out of the house—
anywhere but outside that door
where that man was
eagerly awaiting our pain like it was a teacher
and he wanted a lesson.

before i could be somewhere safe to cry,
my tears slide backwards—
instead of out, it was within.
they dripped down to my gut
where my rage boiled—
the temperature and gas,
the pressure and heat,
compounding until it would occasionally burst
in the most painful, isolating way—

the ultimate tear—
my shaky, pale, deathly skinny, cold-sweated little self
crying and rocking on the bathroom floor
for most of my childhood—
finding the hugs i never got
when my cries were too much,
or seen as an opportunity
for a fragile ego—
in the rim of the toilet,
and the grooves of the tiles,
and the sides of the tub,
the pasty half-smiles in the fogged mirror,
and the familiar hum of the bathroom fan.

the lock on that bathroom door—
the only room in the house i could truly be untouched—
respected me more than anyone else ever has.
maybe even more than i ever did.

because disrespect was all i knew.

that girl i was—
the one barely holding onto the idea of life,
pushed to stay for those
who never stayed for her,
and instead shoved her close enough to the edge
to make her wonder
if they wanted her to jump—

i barely recognize anymore.
but i feel her in my gut—
the same one scarred and scorched,
inside and out,
from the years living under that roof.

my tears held themselves back—
in fear that once sliding down my young cheek,
the wrong person would wipe it away.

so the tears slide back into my skull,
and dripped down to my gut—
where it boiled and broiled,
sizzling with every drop.

once a puddle is made,
the air tightens.
the space expands.
and the quake begins.

that anger, that sadness, all unreleased—
all waiting in the shackles of empty promises
and traps passed off as outlets—
fights back against my own flesh,
like a baby in the womb.

it claims the space
in an already sickly girl,
her bones groaning in spirit
as they twist and move to make room
for the uncomfortable presence
of a boiling sadness.

i always hated her—
whoever was boiling within me.

she had many names—
the devil,
my temptations,
my punishment,
my irritability,
the reality of my hope—
but no name fit.

because her real name was anna.

this whole time,
the presence born within me,
taking my tears turned internal
like it was their source of food,
craving and feeding on my unexpressed emotions,
was really me.

deep down,
fighting to take my body back.
my voice back.
my life back.

for so long, i hated her.
my parents held my mind captive
while their talons pierced my heart
and knee-punched my gut.

and with each painful word and action—
to me or to another—
all told to be my fault,
i hated her because she caused me pain
in a life already full of it.

whoever was living in my gut
wanted me to drown
just as much as those who “loved” me.
they held my head down
while they encouraged me to swim,
then would say god was pushing their hand
to keep me under—
and telling me to figure out what his message was,
while they watched the girl within me boil in silence
and white-padded captivity.

i was drowning in the water of their spirit
and the blood of my gut.

and when i was gasping for air,
i thought both were trying to end me—
but the girl within me bringing the blood out
was bringing it to the surface
only to show me that i am still alive.

showing, that despite it all,
my heart kept pumping.
even with parents who forced their hands on it
in a way that kept it beating
for everyone other than for me.

seeing the blood in the water
made me realize—
that it wasn’t just me drowning.
but the girl i could’ve been
(and always have been)
was too.

while her blood came from a state of pain and desperation,
for it to bubble before my eyes gave me all the hope—
all the proof—
to push towards the surface.

because when we both catch our breath
and are able to speak,
maybe then i would hear her—
and see whether she could offer me a life
where drowning wasn’t the constant.

and she did exactly that.
when i let her take the wheel—
her strength, her resilience,
from swimming in the boiling waters of my gut for years,
made peddling in life’s waters a breeze.

the water may be a cold shock to her,
but at least the air circulates,
and i can breathe here.

and people other than those who wanted me to drown
only to hoist me on their raft not just to get praised
would help me—
and not expect a thank you,
or a medal,
for doing the kind thing.

here we are to survive—
not seen to be the sole survivor.

and we look out for each other—
and not in a transactional way.

these waters may be rough,
but they have good moments.
and i learned anything is better
than swimming in my own gut
with my most loved ones holding me under.
at least here,
the monsters of the deep
can be fought off with surrounding help—
or fled from.
unlike those in the blood of the gut
who dwell indefinitely,
a door or two away
from wherever you run
within your cell they call a home.

Written 1 year and a month after I left the house that taught me not to cry.

This is for her—the version of me who boiled and burned, but lived anyway.
I developed Crohn’s when I was around 8 or 9 years old, from the stress of living in that household. Every pressure, every passing cruelty, every ritual pain-infliction was felt in my gut. It still is, to this day.

For my own sake, I had to leave.
I had to create a safe environment where I no longer lived in constant fight or flight.

The body has a funny way of protecting us—and I believe mine took drastic but necessary measures to ensure I survived. Including keeping me locked in the bathroom for hours, days, years...
The only place I wouldn’t be violated.

While it was painful, and ridiculously difficult,
I am grateful there was one place the lock on the door was respected.
And I am angry, but grateful, I spent my childhood in it.