At the tender age of 17, I walked across this bridge, alone, into Downtown Pittsburgh, with $300 in my pocket that my mother had given me to get an abortion. I went into the Fulton Building (in the picture) and did what I was told to do. I didn't have a choice - if I did, I wouldn't have chosen abortion.
Friday, January 18, 2013
7 Quick Takes on Being Postabortive
--- 1 ---
Just when you think you are going along just fine, doing well, trudging on, WINNING... you're knocked so far down you start to believe you may never get up. Through blurry, tear stained eyes, a bleary mind, and a heart that is testing the strength of the stitching holding it together, you wake up the next day still alive. Now what? I hope that one of my "7 Quick Takes Friday" posts will be a joyful one - today is not that day. Today is the day I just spit out what's on my mind in the hopes that it helps someone, somewhere, or just me.
--- 2 ---
Last evening, I had the privilege of helping with a task that I had initially suggested and was grateful that the suggestion was received. I stuffed bulletins at my parish with a quote from JPII speaking with women who have had abortions and information on where to go for help for postabortion healing. Aren't I just a success story? I sat there and placed each insert in however many bulletins until I ran out. I tried to pray as I did so. Then the doubt crept in. Who the hell am I to sit in my parish rectory, all holier than thou, stuffing bulletins from my new-found high horse?
--- 3 ---
I decided to go over to adoration when I was finished, grateful for the opportunity, and the idea that I was so near by to Him all that time just had me quite giddy. I wasn't prepared for adoration, no journal, no book, no rosary... just me. I sat there and asked for forgiveness and offered thanksgiving and then asked for help. I'm not sure what I got. I began to think about a lot of things and my parents in particular, and things I haven't thought about in a long time. Long story short, with tears streaming, face down, I left adoration and went to my car where I was able to lose it completely. I was alone and I cried and cried and cried, drove home, poured it out to my hubby, cried some more. Cried myself to sleep.
--- 4 ---
I hope that next week on the March for Life, prayers are said for the walking wounded who abortion has scarred for life. Millions of women and men, millions of stories, millions of reasons, excuses, and lies, millions of children in heaven waiting, albeit in paradise, for their parents to come. I hope that the people who line the streets with those pictures of ripped up and torn up babies realize they are preaching to the choir at the March - and are hurting more than helping at that point. You, with the ugly signs, you will cause me to doubt the mercy of my Lord and Savior - that's what your signs do.
--- 5 ---
Why do we need prayers? Abortion is an evil, despicable thing. I will never forget it, though I beg to. I want the memory to leave me. If I could cut out the part of my brain where them memory festers, I would. I want the pain to stop, the never ending, always there, throbbing at different intensities but always there, pain of what I did, of what I had, of what I don't have, of what could have, would have, should have been. I want the sound of that machine to be gone forever. I want the sound of scraping metal on metal surgical tools on a tray to leave me. I want the memory of that abortionist's face, only from profile because he never once looked at me, to disappear. I want the cold feeling of the speculum violating me in a way I never even knew existed until that moment to go away. I want the memory of the cramping, and pulling, and tugging, and "just a little pressure, now," to stop. I want the tears I remember silently rolling down the sides of my face to dry up. I want the feeling of the "counselor's" hand in mind to leave me. I want her words of, "it's going to be okay, it's almost over," to never enter my mind again. My body was not made for this violence. Those precious parts of me that He created to bring forth life were now and forever damaged and made into something else entirely and over and over and over again for a long while the damage resurfaced. And now, despite the blessings heaped upon me in my mostly charmed life, the pain remains, the emptiness, the despair, the loneliness, and hopelessness at times when I'm so not expecting it.
--- 6 ---
In 1987 there was no ultrasound. I was fed the "bunch of cells" lie and I tried to believe it. Now, I know how big that lie is. Now I'm not only tortured by the pain of my memories of the abortion, now I have the added pain of exactly what was taken from me in my face every day. Now I can see online pictures of the abortion procedure room, and that machine, and the jar that my Grace was deposited into. I can't enter a doctor's office to this day without flashing back to that "treatment" room. Same tile floors, same ceiling, same smells. I don't know how to put this all away in some nice little box on the shelf and be rid of it. My anger turns to Him as I ask why? Why did you make me go through this? Why did you make me bring it up - now? Why did you make me feel like I have some part in stopping the violence to happening to someone else? Just leave me alone with it, where I can stuff it down inside me and never act on it. Why do I write about it and talk about it? Why am I going to the March for Life next week? What's the point?
--- 7 ---
That's it. That's all I've got for today. Hopefully the fog will lift throughout the day today as I go about my vocational duties and chores. Hopefully I keep the demons at bay. Hopefully I'm reminded of why I'm here and what the point is.