The decision to become two people instead of one is monumental. Sometimes it’s the right time and sometimes it’s not.
This is one of the times that it’s not.
The pro-creator of this little lump lives in the middle of the desert 1,700 miles away from here, and I am one million miles away in my own head. On the verge of World War Three, the deification of Kim Davis and President Trump, this is not American soup for future family.
Over the last year I’ve spent months researching and writing about women’s reproductive rights, contemplating the burden and responsibility of motherhood, the relationship between our bodies, our religion, and our government. Now, I’ve unexpectedly become the theoretical woman I’ve thought so much about.
Pregnant, unprepared and uninsured. I am a version of myself I’ve never met.
Lucky to have a choice? Fortunate? Relieved? Abortion. That ugly word that hisses like poison from the gums of the righteous. A practice employed for thousands of years yet still bears the yoke of shame. Abortion. A word still so stigmatized, it’s only whispered in public.
This is my experience. I have roughly a week to tell it. Right now it’s real. Things are happening. I’m going to talk about them. For myself, for other’s on the frontier of unmotherhood, to fill a gaping silence surrounding the experience of a woman pre-termination.
Updates daily. Comments permitted. Let it out.