I have come across the inspiration, again, to write about something that is extremely hard for me to write. It is real. It is painful. It is something that I am scared to tell you about.
It is a secret that I have kept for too long. It is a secret, that deserves to be shared. Hopefully, hopefully you can look past what I have done, and hear the message behind what I have learned.
As hard as this is, I know it needs to be done. My actions have directly caused the pain of one man in this world, and that’s not fair. My not talking about it, indirectly causes the pain of every single man in this world, that is just like this one man that I hurt so badly.
My courage to speak up. The small amount of courage that I have mustered up, is completely thanks to Opinionated Man and his post on HarsH ReaLiTy called, That Baby Isn’t ONLY Yours. His post reminded me of how very important it is to muster up the balls to tell you what I need to say, for men like him, that so many people shut down. He’s a guy, what could he possibly know about abortion?!
You would be surprised at what this guy knows! In fact, I actually started following this guys blog because he pissed me off. I don’t even remember what post I first read. But, I was like, man, what an arrogant asshat. He will even tell you he’s an asshat. But, he’s real. I mean so fricken real that it ceases to amaze me. It took a few weeks, but I very quickly fell in love with his blog. I get sucked into it for hours, reading post after post. It’s funny. It’s blunt. Sometimes, it’s hard to hear. But, it’s real. That impresses me. That, inspires me. This is far from the first post that his blog has inspired, but by far, it is the most important one that it has….
So, I’ll cut right to the chase. Like ripping off a band-aid….
I killed my baby.
I was 18 years old. I was just starting life. My dad had died about six months before. My mom was turning back to alcohol to try to numb the pain. My sister was back home again, struggling with raising her own child. I had a job that I killed myself working for, but my paycheck hardly proved that. I had a boyfriend that still didn’t have a job. In fact, he was on probation. He had not had a job for so long, that his probation officer finally put him in jail for up to a year. I was just starting life.
And, I found out that I was pregnant.
I was so stressed that I threw up every single item I consumed for nearly two months. I mean, even a glass of milk, would come back up within 20 minutes. I was scared to death to face the responsibility of motherhood. I didn’t know what to do. Where to turn. How to even start to attempt to survive through this. I had so many other things going on.
I wasn’t raped. I wasn’t even consistently on birth control. Sure, I was “on” it, but, I forgot to take my pill all the time. And now, I was faced with the consequences, alone.
Or so it felt.
I went to planned parenthood. A sinister place, I now believe. They told me all about the option to get an abortion. They gave me information packets, phone numbers, support. But, they never once told me about the option of adoption, or even the option to keep the baby. They never once mentioned the many resources that are available for women that were in my predicament.
But, I can’t blame them. I can’t blame my dad. I can’t blame my mom, or my sister, or even my boyfriend.
I alone made the decision to kill my baby. It is a choice that I have had to live with for the rest of my life. (Another thing they fail to tell you beforehand.)
I went to visit my boyfriend, in jail. I told him about the baby. I told him that we weren’t in a position to be parents. I told him what I was thinking about doing. I told his mom. I told my mom. I even told my best friend. Not a single one of them wanted me to make the choice that I did. Not a single one of them left me when I did make that choice. For that, I am eternally grateful. That is a support system of love that is desperately hard to come by.
A support system that I wish I knew the importance of before I did what I did. But, I didn’t.
Let me throw in here, that if you are facing this decision, really, really think this one through. I mean, if you’re going to do it, I won’t judge you. I CAN’T judge you. I will love you just the same. But, let me warn you, you WILL suffer for this decision for the REST of your life.
You WILL be a murderer. And you WILL have to live with that. FOREVER.
Forever can be an awfully long time.
I remember that day like it was yesterday. I was ten weeks pregnant. It would have been done sooner, but I had to save up the money. $400. That was the going price for killing a child back then. $400. Do you know how much baby gear that I could have purchased with $400?! I didn’t know. I wish I had known.
We arrived at the clinic on a summer day in late September. I threw up on the way. Twice. But this was nothing new. I had been throwing up all day, every day, for some time now. I walked in. It was a warmer environment than I expected. It wasn’t like a scene off of Hostel, like I had feared. It was welcoming. Safe. Warm. Comforting…. On the surface.
I filled out the papers. I sat there. Next to my mom and my best friend. I sat there and thought. My eyes teared up a few times. I hid them from my biggest supporters. Then, suddenly, I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t know how I was going to make it. But, I knew this wasn’t the way. I turned to my mom.
But, before I could utter the words, a nurse called my name. And I followed along….
I wish I had spoke up. But, I didn’t.
I had an ultrasound completed. A requirement for these types of things. They need to know exactly how far along you are.
I thought they would show me. I strained my neck as I peered around in an attempt to see. But, I didn’t ask to see.
I wish I had asked. Maybe, maybe if I would have saw the growing child inside of me. Maybe then, I would have spoke up. But, I didn’t.
I went to another room. A colder room. And put on a hospital gown.
They filled me with drugs. To ease the “pain”. They had me watch a short movie. I don’t even recall the movie. The drugs slowly kicked in.
I was in a fog. Another world. The giant vacuum was inserted into me. Sucking the life out of me. Literally.
The vacuum sound was disgusting. The most horrendous noise one will ever hear. Ironically, it mimicked the sounds of a screaming child. A child being torn, ripped away, from every comfort it has ever known. Betrayed, by the one who was meant to keep them safe.
After it was done I was escorted to another room. A colder room. I was parked in front of a movie, alone, until the drugs wore off. This was a longer movie. A movie I also do not remember. When it was done I was reunited with my mom and best friend. Numb. Never able to undo what I had just done.
We went to McDonald’s. I ate. Slowly. Numbly. It was the first thing I had kept down for nearly two months. I went home. Numbly. Assuring everyone that I was fine. I had made the right choice.
I wish I had spoke up. I wish I had told them that I had just made the worst decision of my life. I had just chose to be a murderer. I had just killed my baby.
A month later my boyfriend did get out of jail. In 9 months less than the year I had feared. Four months later, I broke up with him. It was too hard. I still struggled for that perfect life that I wanted to bring a child into. A successful career. A happy home. He, still struggled to find a job. As the days wore on, I blamed him more and more for the decision I had made.
It was never his fault. I should have told him what I was going through. I should have spoke up. But, I didn’t.
I continued on like this for several more years. Numbly. Masking my pain with a false belief that I had done the “right” thing. Telling myself that I had made the right choice. That, I couldn’t bring a child into this world, into that relationship, that home environment.
To be honest. I wasn’t completely naive. I knew about adoption. I didn’t know any facts. Or any information. Or how open adoption worked. I just knew that there was an option to carry this baby, to birth this child, and then hand it over to a happily married, well off couple to raise as their own.
I couldn’t do it. I was too selfish. I knew, that if I had this child, I would never be able to hand it over. I wasn’t in the position that I wanted to be in when I brought children into this world. Plus, I didn’t want to get fat and stretchy and ugly. I was being selfish. At the time, I didn’t realize. I wish I had realized. But, I didn’t.
I wish I had spoke up. I wish I had told someone what I was feeling. Maybe, maybe if I would have said something they could have told me the truth about the world. Maybe, they could have saved my baby. They could have saved me. But, I didn’t speak up.
Years later, I would become pregnant again. I would be just as scared as the first time. But, I couldn’t do it again. I knew I could never do it again. So, along came my “first” child. I didn’t have the insane morning sickness like I did the first time. This time, the torment came after my child was born. The months of torment. The sleepless nights. The nights that I would lie awake, staring at my child, constantly making sure they were still breathing. I was sure that God would take this child from me, just as I had taken His child from this earth.
An eye for an eye, and all that. I was terrified, to the point of mental illness, that something would happen to my baby and I would lose him.
Still, I never talked to anyone about this. To talk, would be to tell them the horrible thing that I had done. I was too scared of their judgement for this. Too scared that they would validate exactly how I felt about myself.
A few years later, I re-connected with this past boyfriend. My first child’s father. As weird as it was, I didn’t reconnect with him though, but with his wife. She had hunted me down on Facebook and sent me a friend request. What could I do, but accept it? Slowly, we began to talk about those times.
Of course, she knew. She was his wife. She needed to know. And, she originally hunted me down on Facebook out of almost jealousy, because he had loved me so much. She has nothing to worry about though. There isn’t a person he could hate more than me now. I killed his baby.
I killed HIS baby, and never even thought a thing about it. I actually attempted to BLAME him for my own selfish decision.
You know what’s worse. What is worse than living with the fact that you are a murderer. That you took your own child’s life. Knowing that you took someone else’s child’s life. That there is someone in this world that wants nothing more than to be a parent. And you STOLE that from them.
This wife of his. This loving wife. Who through all of this, loves me like a sister, like a best friend. This amazing person… can’t have children. They, he, will never know what it is like to be a parent.
And here I am. With my two healthy kids. That I get to tuck in every night.
How fucking fair is that?!
You have no idea the torment that this reality causes a person. It is HELL. It is a pain that no drug in the world will ever take away.
He will NEVER be a Dad. And it is ALL my fault.
I wish I had known. If I had known, I would have respected his choice. I would have ASKED his choice. If he had made the choice for himself, it wouldn’t be my cross to bear. But, I didn’t ask. I wish I had asked.
So, to all those people that claim that it is our body and fathers have no right. You don’t know what the hell you are talking about. Fathers should have every right in the world, any right in the world, that mothers have. The father to my baby, my baby that I chose to kill, because it was my right, has to live with my choice every day for the rest of HIS life.
That is a choice that no one should have the right to make for another person. Not you. Not me. Not then. Not now. Not ever.