by B

November 26, 2019

Content Warning: suicide, suicidal ideation

This will be my fourth.

Number 3 was with my second most recent ex. Ridiculous, dramatic relationship, but I loved the man. Both of us had steady jobs and a drug problem. The predicted birthdate was the same as my boyfriend’s actual birthday. June 19th. I was 2 months in. Unsure what damage I may have already unknowingly done to this thing growing inside me, and refusing to let a baby take on the weight of our rollercoaster relationship and my fragile/forced sobriety – we decided it was best to terminate.

I did the pill this time, barely made the cut at almost 10 weeks. I thought it couldn’t be worse than a heavy period, that I wouldn’t even need to touch the Percocet they prescribed me. I was wrong and I’m not going to lie – it was painful. There was a solid 4 hours of I-can’t-move-it-hurts-so-bad pain. The boyfriend was understanding. Sweet, even. Did everything I needed, reassured me, researched the procedures and after care, got me everything I asked for and then some (flowers – Why?). The way he acted in this moment and the way he could calm me down from panic attacks are the 2 biggest reasons I stayed with him for so long when everything else was so bad.

For some reason I thought it was a girl and for some reason we decided on a name we would have given her. It actually helped more than it hurt. He named a star for her as a gift to me.

But here’s the kicker: about 4 months later I left him and about a year after that he killed himself. That leaves me with a massive pile of what-ifs that I can’t seem to shake, no matter how I try. Would a baby girl have been enough to make him think twice? If I’d had her would I look at her in awe as a part of him or… in pain… as a part of him?

I have to remind myself that bringing a child into that abuse and addiction wouldn’t have just been selfish, but – cruel. I left for a reason and I held on for a long time trying to make things better. But I question if he would have done what he did if he was a father. If we’d decided not to terminate – could that have been enough to keep him alive? I think it’s something I will always wonder.

Only recently had I thought I may want to be a mother. And I think this has everything to do with him and her. I don’t know.

#1: I was a 20 year old drunk and promiscuous college kid who wasn’t quite sure who the father was and didn’t want to tell the nerdy, lanky white kid and then pop out an adorable mixed-race baby. I was 12 weeks before I officially knew – surgical was my only option. It was quick, and near painless. The guilt ate me alive for a long time – being raised in the Catholic Church. Took years for me to rewire my brain so that I didn’t think of myself as a murderer.

#2: Still drunk, but done with school and picked up a drug habit. One night stand, decent dude. I let him know, we agreed, he paid and escorted. Bought me a drink after. This one was how it’s supposed to be, I think. A fixable mistake, no need to linger on or get emotional over. A cordial oopsies.

#3: Well, you know.


#4: I’m 28, I’m not on birth control and I made that very clear. Dude’s better judgment and common decency is off but he’s not the worst guy, my go-to for some D for a few months. We’re not together, never plan to be. We both have our vices and live as functional addicts. It’s a no-brainer, right? So why am I questioning it so much?

I’m getting close to the end of healthy conception years and this may be my last go at it? Maybe.

Because abortion number 3 and the events that have since occurred? Probably.

I don’t know. But I can say that I’ve ever been this deep in the rabbit hole of depression before. The suicidal ideation has become more like me planning a well deserved vacation with tons of R and R than a dismal last resort. And I can’t rightfully force something – someone, into existence and be like “here’s the pile of mislaid plans, hard luck, self destruction and sad sack stories that is me – now GIVE MY LIFE MEANING, CHILD!”

But I wish I could.

I know I made the right choice in each instance. I couldn’t have been more sure each time. But that doesn’t stop it from weighing on me. And maybe that’s okay.

I guess I’m allowed to feel whatever I feel. Sometimes guilt or shame, sometimes complacency, sometimes just – nothing.

Reading these helps. Shows me that it’s actually normal, common – even. It’s still taboo to talk about for most the population but look at all these stories!

Maybe I’m not a worse person for it, maybe I’m no more or no less selfish than the next person. Maybe I’m not an alien or a demon – just a human. Who’s made mistakes.


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