My colon has stage fright. Unfortunately, the stage is real life.

Can someone explain to me why anxiety triggers my butthole like it's launching a NASA mission? | have a big event, a meeting, an interview, a first date and my intestines go:

"Code red. Initiate Operation Liquid Exodus."

It's not a poop. It's not a bowel movement. It's a Category 5 emotional landslide. Like my colon decided to perform spoken word poetry through diarrhea.Like someone poured hot soup through a coffee filter made of shame. One minute I'm mentally preparing for my big moment, the next I'm gripping the sink, praying to gods I don't ever believe in, while my asshole sings the Star Wars opening theme in wet notes. Why? What evolutionary bastard thought this was helpful? I'm not running from a tiger. I'm just trying to give a PowerPoint presentation, not power-paint the toilet. And don't even get me started on the false endings. "Oh, it's over," | whisper, naive and broken. But no. It's never over. My stomach turns back on like Windows 98 crashing.

Anxiety doesn't whisper in my ear anymore, it whispers into my small intestine. It doesn't say "what if you fail?", it says "what if you fart and lose control of your social standing and pants simultaneously?"At this point, my toilet and I are emotionally co-dependent. It's not furniture. It's trauma support. We've seen things. We don't talk about them. The worst is that people think you're exaggerating. "You're just nervous," they say

Oh really?

Then why does my butthole sound like an exorcism in a puddle of ramen broth? Why am I sweating from the spine and calculating how far I am from the nearest bathroom at every moment like it's Survivor: IBS edition?

Anxiety poops aren't just a symptom. They're a betrayal. From within. By my own flesh.