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Fearful Regret
Pro choice was an understatement. I volunteered at Planned Parenthood for two years, my burning passion to help women fueling my day to day duties.
My mom had recently passed, and I was trying to find myself, trying to make a difference and make her memory proud. But in that time, I got pregnant.
I was scared. I tried to talk to my fellow pro choicers and was met with apathy. I tried to reach out to my boyfriend. Apathy. I tried to reach out to pro lifers and was met with hostility and judgment. I was alone.
There were two weeks between those fateful two pink lines and my abortion. Two weeks for me to sketch a face to go with the beating heart inside of me. Which didn't make sense. I didn't see this as a baby. I didn't see abortion as murder. Nonetheless, I named it. I envisioned a baby girl. I played out fairytales in my head. Maybe this was the Universe giving me a second chance at a family after taking my parents and leaving me with no one.
But I wasn't strong enough. I didn't have support. I couldn't even pay my bills. The reality shook me like an earthquake and left me broken on the floor.
The appointment was impersonal at best, but this wasn't a french manicure at a spa. It was a medical procedure. In my experience, doctors are nearly always cold. They always make you feel like a number.
My heart wrestled my head the whole time. I didn't want to lose my chance at a family, but it was physically and emotionally ripped out of me. And with my permission no less. I saw no other choice, saw no way to avoid this. I wanted to jump off that table and just run. Run until I couldn't breath. Run until I was far away from this ice cold reality. But I didn't. I laid there with tears rolling down my face and sharp pains shooting through me. I laid there and let the blood of my innocence trickle between my thighs. I laid there and tried to reassure myself that this was the best thing.
It only lasted about 10 minutes, but the sound of the suction rang in my ears for days. Sometimes I still hear it. The anxiety that welled up in my chest created a weight that I have yet to fully gain the strength to lift.
I spent the next several years still mentally on that table, trying to convince myself that I hadn't created a hole in my heart. I became resentful at people with children or pregnant women, cringed at the sight of baby clothes, and yearned to fix my mistake. I grew weaker and weaker.
I became pregnant, I had a baby, but it didn't take away the pain. Even if the energy, or spirit if you will, is the same, it didn't replace the loss. I had to put on a poker face for the protesters, even for people I considered my friends. I had to stay strong. But I couldn't. There was no fight in me. Eventually I left my volunteer posts. Eventually I left a bad relationship with the baby's father. Eventually I began rebuilding myself. I still trip on the cracks. My heart still breaks when it's triggered to remember that day. But my healing has begun. And that's all I can ask for.
My mom had recently passed, and I was trying to find myself, trying to make a difference and make her memory proud. But in that time, I got pregnant.
I was scared. I tried to talk to my fellow pro choicers and was met with apathy. I tried to reach out to my boyfriend. Apathy. I tried to reach out to pro lifers and was met with hostility and judgment. I was alone.
There were two weeks between those fateful two pink lines and my abortion. Two weeks for me to sketch a face to go with the beating heart inside of me. Which didn't make sense. I didn't see this as a baby. I didn't see abortion as murder. Nonetheless, I named it. I envisioned a baby girl. I played out fairytales in my head. Maybe this was the Universe giving me a second chance at a family after taking my parents and leaving me with no one.
But I wasn't strong enough. I didn't have support. I couldn't even pay my bills. The reality shook me like an earthquake and left me broken on the floor.
The appointment was impersonal at best, but this wasn't a french manicure at a spa. It was a medical procedure. In my experience, doctors are nearly always cold. They always make you feel like a number.
My heart wrestled my head the whole time. I didn't want to lose my chance at a family, but it was physically and emotionally ripped out of me. And with my permission no less. I saw no other choice, saw no way to avoid this. I wanted to jump off that table and just run. Run until I couldn't breath. Run until I was far away from this ice cold reality. But I didn't. I laid there with tears rolling down my face and sharp pains shooting through me. I laid there and let the blood of my innocence trickle between my thighs. I laid there and tried to reassure myself that this was the best thing.
It only lasted about 10 minutes, but the sound of the suction rang in my ears for days. Sometimes I still hear it. The anxiety that welled up in my chest created a weight that I have yet to fully gain the strength to lift.
I spent the next several years still mentally on that table, trying to convince myself that I hadn't created a hole in my heart. I became resentful at people with children or pregnant women, cringed at the sight of baby clothes, and yearned to fix my mistake. I grew weaker and weaker.
I became pregnant, I had a baby, but it didn't take away the pain. Even if the energy, or spirit if you will, is the same, it didn't replace the loss. I had to put on a poker face for the protesters, even for people I considered my friends. I had to stay strong. But I couldn't. There was no fight in me. Eventually I left my volunteer posts. Eventually I left a bad relationship with the baby's father. Eventually I began rebuilding myself. I still trip on the cracks. My heart still breaks when it's triggered to remember that day. But my healing has begun. And that's all I can ask for.
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