By Green Tea Drinker

Please note: the following piece discusses abortion and contains content of a sensitive nature. Reader discretion is advised.

I had an abortion. It feels a bit abrupt to kick off a conversation this way but I don’t know how else to start it.

It happened in October of 2020, my period was late and I was experiencing intense, bloodless cramps. My period has never been very timely, but it felt particularly ominous on this occasion. There was a sinking feeling, I knew something was seriously amiss. After two weeks of this and of ferociously eating pineapples in the hopes that the old wives’ tale of self-induced miscarriages would save me from having to go down the medical route, I finally took a pregnancy test. I bought a cheap brand, but couldn’t decipher the result so I booked an appointment at the sex clinic (same day appointments at the clinic! Benefits of a pandemic, eh). I think I knew what the nurse was going to say before she stuck that bit of paper in a cup of my piss.

To provide you with some context, I have never wanted to be pregnant and I have never wanted to have children. Honestly the thought of pregnancy and giving birth makes me feel uncomfortable. To me, it sounds like a violation of my personhood: an invasion of my body for a result that I don’t particularly care for. Don’t get me wrong, children are fine; the small humans can be amusing and good company. I don’t mind hanging out with a baby, I find the crackhead antics of toddlers entertaining and I feel a deep sympathy for the awkwardness of tweens. I imagine I could adopt, maybe. But one thing’s for sure, in the biological sense, I do not want children of my own.

I try to stay open minded because I am young and things can change, but I don’t see that type of family in my future. This is a point of contention in my life because my perspective is often challenged and even derided by the people I tell. I know that this is not done out of meanness, but that does not make it any less disrespectful. Thinking that you know me, my choices and my body better than I do because you heard that all Women want children by the time they’re 30 is insulting and actively untrue.

Ultimately, this article will not be about why I made my choice, nor will it be a discussion about the philosophy of abortion. I understand that people have differing opinions on the morality of abortion, and while I respect their perspective, I believe that any attempt to force one’s morality onto others in this arena is an act of violence. Women should have the right to choose what happens to their body. I am deeply grateful that I can legally and safely access this service, because there was only ever one choice for me if I became pregnant: abortion and I am secure in that choice.

Being pregnant was, and frankly remains, my worst nightmare. So, when the nurse turned around and said, ‘oh that took no time at all, yes, you’re pregnant’, I was sat in my worst nightmare with a very sweet woman in a dingy sex clinic in Streatham. She was worried about me and gently asked who I would tell and how I felt, but the decision was straightforward. So, as I walked home, I booked a telephone appointment which would be followed by the procedure itself.

For the next week, I told everyone relevant – my close friends, my parents, the father (who was overseas), and my boss. All of whom were kind, all of whom were supportive. All the while I was feeling a mix of emotions; I was furious with myself for not being on contraception after bad past experiences, and I was disappointed in myself for not being more careful. The feeling that overwhelmed me though, was fear. I was scared. I feared that somehow, I wouldn’t be able to get my abortion: that I was too far along (a biological impossibility), that it wouldn’t work or that some kind of civil war/apocalyptic situation would occur before my appointment and I’d be stuck like this. A prisoner in my own body.

I started getting morning sickness on the weekend before my appointment. This coupled with the bone deep fatigue that I’d been experiencing for weeks, confirmed my suspicion: that for me, pregnancy felt like a robbery of my bodily autonomy. I considered how I would kill myself if I was forced to stay pregnant, which sounds dramatic, but it’s where my mind took me.

I took a few days off work, went to the clinic around the corner from my home for the physical assessment and sat in the socially distanced waiting room. The scan was more aggressive than I anticipated, but the women there were all very calming.

I took the abortion pills they gave me orally – there is an option to take them vaginally, but for some reason that felt impossible to commit to. I was alone when I took them. As the pain set in, I went to lay down in the living room and watch TV: knowing that I would be in pain, but I had somewhat underestimated the extent.

It was shocking. I lost all sense of time, I felt like my insides were ripping apart, I had never experienced anything like it, I couldn’t cope with it. But where was I to go? You can’t escape your own womb. So I writhed around while my flatmate dutifully supplied me with fresh hot water bottles, water and salty crackers. She sat with me through the worst of the pain and checked in on me when I made pathetic little noises in anguish. The blood came after a while, in a rush of rich red, carrying heavy clots and tissue in a never ending stream. I didn’t know a person could lose so much blood and still be walking.

The father would call me when our awkward time difference allowed. My friends were kind and came to look after me, providing me with food, painkillers, affection and distraction. Though, it wasn’t possible to distract from that kind of pain, not really. However, I don’t know how I would’ve coped without their presence. The painful squeeze in my body, the soreness and rawness inside of me was vicious and lasted for weeks. The blood clots came and went in waves, some coming through at the size of my palm. Seeing them made my feel so tired.

The thing is, while everyone I have spoken to has tried to be kind, it is something I struggle to speak on. People turn the conversation into a pros and cons list for their own hypothetical choice.

“If I were you I would regret this.”

“I would struggle to make this choice.”

“You have to be prepared that you may change your mind.”

And while these are all fair avenues of conversation, I become irritable when they come up. I do not want to hear the debate that you think you would have if you were in my position. I do not want to debate the circumstances under which my choice would have been comfortable for you to make. I just want a space in which I am allowed to be okay with my decision and be heard when I speak about the trauma of this experience.  

For some women, like myself, the decision to get an abortion is an easy one, but that does not mean that the experience of having one is. Similarly, for some the decision to continue a pregnancy is simple, however the experience of being pregnant is not. The difference however, is that we do not minimise the experience of pregnant women. We empathise with their swelling feet, discomfort and even their fears. We do not silence them when they complain because pregnancy was a decision that they made. The same, however, cannot be said for women who choose not to remain pregnant.

I almost think it would be easier in a way if I felt more conflicted about my choice. I wonder if it would make people feel more comfortable if I felt regret. I feel like I would be awarded more sympathy, more humanity and more acceptance if I was troubled. I have been thoughtful, I have been careful and I have had this conversation with myself and others so many times. But, I cannot conjure grief from thin air. Even at the height of my discomfort, pain and distress, the overwhelming emotion was relief. This isn’t to say it wasn’t a serious choice, or a flippant or easy experience. It was just the right thing for me to do.

Despite the unwelcomed contemplation from some, I do want to talk about it. It’s difficult though, because I don’t really have a point to make or a specific lesson to convey. I just want to talk. I think I want to talk about how my toilet was stained red from all the blood. About how weak I felt. About how I was so happy my mother was calm and supportive. About how I am filled with anxiety when people discuss contraception in my presence. I want to talk about how I don’t (always) mind humour around it. How I was scared to have sex afterwards, both in a physical and emotional sense. How every time I feel nauseous, I panic. How even writing this now, I have fallen into a morbid cycle of thoughts around the potential that I somehow could still being pregnant: that by some twist of fate, I managed to mess it up and will find myself forced to share my body with something I did not choose to.

On a day when I felt I had the energy, I took out the bathroom bin and I remember seeing the flowery pink, lilac and white packaging of my pads through the thin bin liner. I stood and looked at it for a while. The girly exterior disguising the gore within felt like such a weird juxtaposition. I return to that imagery a lot, I felt truly at peace when I looked at it, tying up that bag and throwing it away felt like the closing of a chapter. I was wrong of course, it was just the end of the physical story. Emotionally, it is not so easy to package and dispose of an experience.

The author’s name has been changed

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