I had an abortion when I was one year out of college, living with my boyfriend of one year and attending a postbaccalaureate teaching program. My boyfriend (at the time) and I were in a very horrible, unhealthy, verbally abusive relationship. He drank a few six packs of beers every night, while I yelled and begged and pleaded for his affection. We knew, probably six months before we eventually ended our relationship, that we shouldn’t be together. Sometimes, though, and especially in relationships in which your lives are so intricately connected, it’s hard to do what you believe you truly need to do.
Which is when I found out I was pregnant. Immediately, my boyfriend suggested I have an abortion, and I wholeheartedly agreed. We both were living paycheck to paycheck, arguing almost every night, staying in a miserable relationship in the hopes it would improve, but unequivocally unable to take care of another human being. Thankfully, we lived in Bellingham, Washington, a very liberal town in a liberal state, so I was able to schedule an appointment with a Planned Parenthood five minus away from our apartment. I went in on a Saturday morning, was back home that very afternoon, and at peace with my decision. I was cared for by a team of dedicated staff members, including a counselor who made sure this is what I wanted to do, a financial advisor who helped me pay for the procedure, and a nurse who held my hand and talked me through the entire process as it was happening. In that Planned Parenthood, and at home with a boyfriend who was also benefitting from my decision to terminate an unwanted pregnancy, there was no judgment or shame.
Then, eventually, I left that protective and supportive bubble.
As more and more people learned about my decision to have an abortion, and as the political climate made abortion a more debated topic, I watched “friends,” and even family members, post on social media about women who choose abortion being murderers, and how they don’t deserve to live, and how abortion is evil, and how I would be going to hell, along with the other 1 in 4 women who have abortions in their lifetimes. These messages were nonstop, intentional and unintentional, and seemingly never-ending. I started to internalize those messages, and had convinced myself that while the decision was the correct one to make, I had to suffer for it. I had to hate myself, in order to prove to those around me that I was actual a good, decent, kind, and loving human being. I started self-medicating with drugs and alcohol, and my depression worsened when, a week after my abortion, my boyfriend and I broke up. I watched him move on and away from the judgment and shame I was forced to live with, because while he was an active participant in the decision to end that pregnancy, he wasn’t “the woman who had the abortion.” He wasn’t attacked for a decision we both made, but I was.
One night I drove home after a night at the bar, lost control on a dirt rode, and ended up flipping my car three times before landing into a ditch. My head hit the windshield and I was knocked unconscious. When I woke up I was hanging upside down by my seat belt, with a gash across my chest, three broken ribs, and a concussion. In that moment, I was actually disappointed. I knew the judgment and shame coming from people who claimed to be “pro-life” would continue, and I would have to continue to bear it.
Thankfully, a friend took me to a caring, kind, and understanding therapist, who made me realize that killing myself in order to prove I was worthy of living my own life on my own terms wasn’t really the way to go. I started being more unapologetic about my right to control my own body and my own future, and I cut ties with people who didn’t believe I had that right.
Still, I will never forget what I faced, and what so many women continue to face in this country. My abortion didn’t kill me, but the stigma of abortion almost did. That has to change, and it can only change if politicians stop legislating a woman’s right to choose.
