I Don’t Have Bowels and Other Fun Autistic Denial Strategies

So apparently—according to scientists, researchers, and people who insist on saying “gut health” like it’s a casual thing—it’s super common for autistic people to have bowel issues.

To which I say:
Absolutely not. I refuse. This is slander.

I don’t have bowels. I never have.
What I do have is a head.
And loosely attached to that head is... some kind of flesh scaffolding that is mostly uncomfortable on any given day.

That’s it. That’s my entire body schema.

“You Should Listen to Your Body!”

You know what my body says to me? Weird stuff. All the time.

It’s always like:

"Hey, your stomach might be hurting!"

"Surprise sensory overload from your own clothing!"

"Have you considered feeling inexplicably nauseated for 6 hours while also craving a bagel?"

And I’m like, no thanks. I’m ignoring you in favor of dissociating into the corner of this room like a sensible person.

I feel like the word “bowels” alone is kind of gross.  Just saying it out loud makes me recoil. “Bowels.”
What an undignified word.
It sounds like something that should be whispered in the shadows, not discussed openly in medical journals and casual conversation.

“Oh hey, did you know that 70% of autistic people have chronic gastrointestinal symptoms?”

Why would you tell me that?
Why would you ruin my perfectly good headspace with the knowledge that my digestive system might have a plotline of its own?

My relationship with my body:

✨It’s Complicated✨

My body is a temperamental, high-maintenance travel case for my brain.

It’s loud, itchy and temperature-sensitive. It gets hungry at inconvenient times and makes noises I cannot and will not discuss.

Most of the time, I’m just trying to float around as a consciousness blob while this meat machine insists on having “needs” and “reactions.”

Like, no thank you, I didn’t sign up for internal drama.

Doctors: “Let’s Talk About Your Digestive System!”

Me: “Let’s not.”

I’ve mastered the art of nodding politely while mentally exiting my body like a ghost at a séance. Meanwhile, the doctor says things like:

“How often are your bowel movements?”

“Do you experience bloating, constipation, diarrhea—”

STOP. IMMEDIATELY. 

Let’s redirect the conversation to something less horrifying, like… the collapse of civilization or literally any abstract existential dread.

If I ignore it, maybe it’ll go away. This is my approach to most body-related experiences:

Weird ache? Probably nothing.

Tummy rebellion? Not happening. I am not acknowledging it.

Mystery sensation in my lower abdomen? Don’t know what that is. Let’s pretend it’s just the ghost of last night’s anxiety trying to make contact.

I’m not saying I’m better than people who acknowledge their bodies. I’m just saying I am wildly uncomfortable with the idea that I’m walking around with squishy organs doing unspeakable things while I’m trying to concentrate on literally anything else.

Do autistic people have body-based challenges? Absolutely.

Will I talk about mine?
Never. You can’t make me. This blog post doesn’t count.