I knew it as soon as I got that familiar wave of nausea.
Fuck.
I was pregnant. Again. Less than a year after the first time. And I didn’t have Kate Middleton’s royal vomiting disease this time. In fact, I’d been feeling so normal that I hadn’t even noticed I was pregnant, and I was already twelve weeks.
Fucking shitburgers fuckity shit fuckbag.
I don’t have a lot to say about this one, really. I only bring it up because almost every time I’ve read a personal story about abortion, it involves being emotionally scarred beyond repair, and it also only involves going through it once. It’s almost like you’re allowed to talk about it, but only if it was a one-off event that you will never forget and about which you will be tormented for the rest of your days. That is the price of admission for telling your story. Safe, legal and rare, remember? One is forgivable, but two? You’re pushing it. You’re taking advantage of the system feminists fought hard to protect. You’re a slutty whore from whoresville making us all look bad.
Well, I am the slutty whore from whoresville making us all look bad.
Yes, I felt like an idiot at the time, but I’m not paying the ‘shame’ price of admission to tell this story. I’ve had two abortions and I wasn’t emotionally scarred by either of them. It may not be the story people like to hear, but I’m still allowed to tell it. Because while I completely understand and empathise with the women who did struggle, and continue to struggle, with their choice to terminate, I know there are just as many women like me. Women who have felt nothing but relief. Women who have had more than one. Women who feel guilty that they don’t feel guilty enough. Those women have stories too. And I rarely hear them. So:
I’ve had two abortions, and I regret neither.
(PS – the second time, I got the general anaesthetic.)