6 months on from the surgery that changed my life, I found out I needed a  second surgery to fix a few things. I was 1 week post op when I felt so lost, I needed to write down my feelings. From there it accidentally turned into a story on how I came to terms with my situation in the first place, and reminded me of how far I have come. I hope anyone reading is reminded of how much they overcame, and I hope it helps others to make their choice, or give a little bit of insight on how far I went to avoid something that  saved me, just because of the stigma.

"My first memory isn't faking sleep so that my parents would carry me to my bed. It’s not playing with dolls or even the birth of my baby sister. My first memory is clutching my stomach and writhing in a pain that felt unknown and scary to me. It’s telling myself not to tell my mother, because it felt like it had to be a secret. Something I shouldn't bother her with.

Right now, I’m a 26-year-old woman with what you may know as a “poo bag”. You might know it as something elderly people have to deal with. Something you might have heard vague details about, or it might be something you never knew existed.

My large intestine sits on the outside of my body, and I shit into a bag. Sounds pleasant right?

The truth is, this “poo bag” is something I had tried to run away from since I was 12 years old. Worst case scenario, the end of my life as I knew it."

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