I hide her. Deep beneath an apron of fat I wear to protect her and her trauma I hide what remains of my abdominal yoni. She was used once and then had her lips sewn tightly shut. When I peek at her, she shows her left side, healing and coping as best she can. But her right side is sunk deep, sour and pissed off. She throws out adhesions to my uterus, my ovary, to any part of me that is woman and pulls them to her, trying to get me to listen. Whenever my right ovary bursts out an egg, my scar makes her scream in pain, as if saying, “No! Do not do anything that will get me cut again!”
When I touch her she winces. I massage her and I feel her pain burning away, even now 6 years later. She is tight, holding together, afraid of letting all she has stored spill out.
Only my firstborn was born through my belly. For him, I went into the hospital unprepared for the battle I never knew awaited me. For my second birth, I went in armed to the teeth with knowledge, both of an obstetric and soul nature. I emerged a Birth Warrior, triumphant. A Victory Birth After Cesarean. Last August I went into the fray once more and again dug deep and blissfully birthed my first daughter.
And still, my scar simmers and stews. Still so furious, hidden, and alone.