I read this story today about Trust Women Week and the 1 in 3 Campaign. I was hoping it would get more traction than it did, because it spoke to me, and because the synchronicity was too much for me to ignore.
Hi, my name is puzzled and I had an abortion.
I had never typed those words, never thought I would, with or without my real name until last night. However, I have recently been on a very strange journey toward openness and self-examination which has pushed me well out of my comfort zone. (though not so far I'm ready to give up the relative anonymity of my nom de blog) :-)
I have shared many details of my life with the friend I’ve referenced in the above links, but had told him I needed to hold back a few parts of myself--that certain things were off-limits. This is one of those things I thought I’d never tell him. I couldn't imagine why I would, because it's a secret I've kept for decades. (insert wry laughter here)
I am finding that in direct contrast to the closed-off person I've always been, by opening up and trusting I am happier, calmer and less fearful. It makes no logical sense—giving someone information which could later be used to hurt me should make me feel less safe, not more, but life is complicated, and the journey, as well as my evolution, continues.
So I decided to take another giant step and tell him this story on January 22, the 39th anniversary of Roe v. Wade. Circumstances intervened, and Sunday passed without an opportunity to share it. Last night, the time was right, but I was afraid—my heart was pounding as I blurted out (can one actually blurt while typing?) a short version of what I am about to tell you. Though he is kind and non-judgmental, I worried that he would not understand. His politics are much more conservative than mine in some ways, he is a churchgoer, and he is adopted. All reasons I should just have STFU and kept my secret buried where it has been since I was fifteen. But I seem compelled to share (or perhaps over-share), so off I went.
Yes, I said fifteen. My first boyfriend. He was sixteen and had a car. I was younger than all the kids in my group, and thought I would never be cool enough or pretty enough to have a real boyfriend. I was at that awkward age, and my insecurities ran high.
Well, the relationship progressed through that winter and spring. Grateful for his attention, I let him go farther than I felt comfortable with, and eventually one of our evenings ended with me being date-raped in his car. I cried all the way home. Hurt and confused, I went in to talk to my mom. I can still picture her, tissuing off her makeup, as I stumbled over the words: “Steve raped me.” She paused for a second, resumed her ablutions, saying only: “Don’t tell your father.”
I continued dating Steve. Couldn’t really tell you why—who knows exactly what goes on in the mind of a teenage girl? We continued having unprotected sex. I was not stupid, I understood the risks, but didn’t know how to access birth control, or even condoms.
Of course, I ended up pregnant. I was at tennis camp when I first realized I probably was. I was throwing up all day long, and when one of the counselors confronted me, I shared my suspicions with him. The look in his eyes told me I should have kept it to myself.
When I got back, Steve took me to Planned Parenthood, where a pregnancy test confirmed what I already knew, and I got a referral to an abortion clinic. I knew and he knew it was the only option, although he was Catholic and his mother was very active in the pro-life movement.
The day of the procedure comes back to me in pieces—like a slideshow. I can remember the waiting room--staring at the pattern in the carpet--hands shaking. Jumping when the needle which would deliver the anesthetic to my cervix poked me, and the doctor admonished me to keep still. Most of all I remember the kind nurse who held my hand and spoke softly to me throughout the procedure. I even remember the shirt I was wearing that day.
The ride home is a blur, as is the rest of that day. I remember cramping, bleeding, but putting on a brave face to come out of my room and have dinner with my parents, because the lesson my mother had taught me, wittingly or unwittingly, is that we don’t talk about things like this. That some things are meant to never be shared with anyone. I got up the next day and went to driver’s ed., even though I was told not to drive for 24 hours, because I couldn’t think of an excuse and telling the truth wasn't an option.
I never did tell my parents. For good or ill this was before the days when parental notification became one of the strategies to make it harder for young women to get abortions. I never told my friends, though years later, after I graduated from college, I volunteered for an abortion referral service, and shared my story with the Director.
But why should I have felt ashamed? Why, more than 30 years later, am I still reluctant to share my story? Why should it have power over me? It should not, and this is another step in my journey. My friend? He accepted my story with grace and told me to let go of my shame and not worry about what I cannot change. Obviously my trust in him was well-placed.
So judge me. Go ahead. I can handle it. I am not ashamed.
Crossposted from firefly-dreaming and My Left Wing
Update: Holy crap! Rec list? I always thought if I made it here it would be for a profound political diary.