The Truth Hurts:

I’ll tell you the truth. I’ve had four abortions, but don’t murder me just yet. Actually, I had 3 abortions and one self-induced miscarriage.

My first pregnancy was pure stupidity. He was sixteen. I was seventeen. I knew the moment after he came. I sat up and whispered, “I’m pregnant. Just now. I felt it.” I ran to Planned Parenthood almost every day until the test came back positive… and, it did… come back positive. 

I told my boyfriend I wanted to keep the baby and I watched the blood drain from his face as he slid his back down the wall, pleading, “I’m too young to be a father.” His friend took my hands in his, ”Think about everything you’ve worked so hard for that you’ll have to give up. Look at him. What kind of dad will he be? Terrible.”

I looked at my boyfriend, “Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll do it for you.”

My boyfriend stood by my side as I lay on a table staring out through a crack in the blind. The doctor told me I was a good patient. A lot of women scream. My scream was silent… or away from me… somewhere out there… through the crack in the blind.

I got pregnant again by the same boy. This time, I was eighteen, and on the pill and never missed a day. Unlucky, I guess. Fertile Myrtle. 

My boyfriend broke up with me to see other girls but said he would give me money for… you know. All I knew for sure, I did not want to be awake. I lay on the cold, metal table counting backwards from 100. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to yell for help. I passed out. Afterward, he, the ex, drove us back to his house and complained he was tired, so I left. 

While driving home, I came upon a cat, hit by a car. I raced back to my ex-boyfriend’s for help. He tried to hold me back at the front door. Another girl was standing behind him… his date. I asked for a box, or something, anything. She handed me a towel. The cat died on my lap outside the veterinary hospital. I tucked the small bell from his collar into my pocket. I used to wear it around my neck as a reminder.

I left town to stay with my mom and stepdad for the summer. One night I pounded on their door and told them everything – purged myself. My mom and stepdad took me in their arms and held me. 

Months later, when I returned home to my dad’s, he too took me into his arms. My heart shattered as I watched him cry. 

Little did I know, I was pregnant again. This time, by a friend who had helped me laugh and smile that summer as we rode his motorcycle along curvy backroads. 

Again, I was on the pill. 

I would NOT lay on that table again. Oh, no, I would not! 

A friend once told me about a girl who snorted a lot of cocaine and punched herself in the gut until she miscarried. In a frenzy, I did the same. In a final, desperate attempt, I hurled myself over the back of a chair. I bled.

History has a way of repeating itself and the original ex-boyfriend and I got back together. He was eighteen. I was nineteen. He joined the military and I was excited for him, for the possibility of his changing and gaining stability and structure. When I learned I was pregnant yet again, he said he was ready to be a father. He’d forgo going into the military, get a job, we could marry and raise our child together. I could not bring myself to stand in his way. He had been drinking heavily and doing drugs. I wanted him to go to boot camp, to get clean and sober. 

I told him I did not want to have a baby. I lay on the table again. It was the same table where I experienced my first abortion, and I slipped out through the crack in the blinds, again… numb. 

I married my ex, by the way. He became a drunk, an abusive one. We divorced.

I swore off sex and love and all things related to contact, connection, or comfort. I punished myself more than you ever would. I punished myself more than any church or god. 

It’s been almost eight years since anyone has held my hand or kissed me. Eight years since anyone has looked at me with yearning. My childbearing years are behind me. Karma? Or, a self-made prison? 

All these years later, I ask myself, why should I continue to suffer?