My swag bag from the Netroots conference contained a little booklet called 1 in 3 that included women’s stories of abortion. The intention of the campaign that is behind production of the booklet is to ”…end the stigma and shame women are made to feel about abortion. As we share our stories we begin to build a culture of compassion, empathy, and support for access to basic health care.” I realized I had never really shared my experience with abortion with anyone, so thought I would check out the website and contribute a story to help this campaign accomplish its goals. That was my only intention.
Weeks later, encouraged by all the women around the country who were standing strong against attempts to erode women’s rights to safe health care, and all the stories already on the 1 in 3 website, I sat down and typed out a simple outline of what happened to me around thirty years ago. I was fairly matter-of-fact, not diving too deeply into the details. I wanted to keep my story web and reader friendly so it would be read and used in the way the campaign intended. (You can read my story here.)
A few days after I sent my writing to the 1 in 3 campaign, I went out to their website and found that they had posted my story. I read it over to see if I had missed any glaring errors, mostly checking spelling and grammar, and to see if the campaign had edited my text at all (ah, the ego of the writer: happy to be published, worried about minor changes creating major misinterpretation).
As I was reading it, I started to cry. I cried off and on all afternoon. I cried after I thought I was done. I had never cried about my experience--ever. I couldn't believe I was crying now.
I sucked up the tears when my kids came home and spent the rest of the day on the edge of crying--feeling tender. One of my children asking me for anything could just about set me off. I was spent. I didn’t want to give to anyone for a while–I felt like there was no giving left in me.
I stayed in that state for days. At one point I went from tender--always wanting to cry, touched by the dumbest things--to profoundly sad. I thought I had moved on from my experience.
Telling and reading my own story didn’t cause me to regret the abortion (I never have) or fall into thinking about what might have been; I was finally feeling the full weight of the negative energy that surrounded me at the time. I felt the lack support or comfort or reassurance from my boyfriend or my mother or the health care community. I was angry at how my boyfriend didn't have to suffer what I did or ever be held accountable or made to feel like a failure. My (not his) pregnancy and the abortion that followed made me, in my mother's eyes, an outcast and a criminal. In my boyfriend's eyes I was inconvenience. Neither of them wanted to spend time with me or help me.
Up until now, I thought I was simply being strong by not talking about what happened or demanding more from the people around me. I knew it was the right decision, and I was done. I put the fear I had felt aside and kept going. In reality, I was simply suppressing what I felt in the way I had been taught. My emotions weren’t valid. I done this to myself and what did I expect?
Sharing my story brought up all the emotion that goes with being ostracized neglected, and alone. I got pregnant (not we, not you two), I (not he) didn’t think about what I was doing or the consequences. I (not he, not we), needed to declare lesson learned and move on. And I know now that even if I had chosen to have a baby, I would have suffered the same criticism, and lack of support. Yes, my mother would have embraced a baby, but constantly reminded me of my irresponsible, unwedded state of being and the damage I was doing to my child.
I’ve been angry at my mother for years. Now she is over 80 and needs me. Some days it takes everything I have to put aside that anger and disappointment and be there for her in a way she has never been for me. Telling my story--finally getting to that tender place, shedding all those held back tears, and learning that I'm not alone--has actually made it easier. She’s an 80-year-old human being in need of care. She really can’t hurt anyone any more, and it won’t hurt me anymore to help her; it will enrich me. That’s healing and growing. I have a friend who says the best revenge is to strive to do better. It’s a good tactic, I think, so I am.
And in the spirit of doing better, I am raising my children to feel good about themselves, to feel free to talk to me or ask for help or find ways to get help without judgment. I don’t want them to ever be neglected or alone when they are making tough decisions or are in need of healing. I want them to have access to information and safe heath care and to benefit from a high level of support from me and everyone around them. Always.