This post was submitted by Katrina.

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This post, Best thing that ever happened to me, originally appeared on I'm Not Sorry . Net on February 8, 2012. [tweethis] Post!

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Since I had been diagnosed with high functioning autism as an elementary schooler and struggle with social cues, I assumed all of his abuse was my fault. I have a hard time with body language, and he knew that, given that he was my boyfriend for months before the first offense happened. He took advantage of me anyway. The first time it happened, I said, “I’m not interested in sex.” I wanted to wait until I was married. He backed me into a corner, forced me to take some very strong prescription pain pills that pretty much knocked me unconscious, and disrobed me.

He had sex with me in spite of my wishes. The term “rape” was definitely not a word I used often; I don’t think I even knew what it meant at the time. Early the next morning, I drove to the nearest Panera Bread, bought a cup of coffee, and sat in the booth looking out the window and cried. “What in the world just happened?” I thought to myself. I felt so disgusting that I thought everyone could read it on my forehead. All I wanted to do was take a hot bath. I came home and soaked myself in a tub for hours.

The horror continued throughout my last semester of high school. My abuser told everyone that it was something he really wanted to do with me, because he “loved” me. That was what I told everyone else too. I thought it was consensual. I finished my high school education completely oblivious to the fact that a felony had been committed against me. At 17, I just thought that it was unwanted sex. Secretly, I blamed my autism and myself: I thought it was “my fault” because I “wasn’t good socially”. To me, at the time, it wasn’t rape; it was just “bad sex”.

Something similar happened again a few months later when I started college. He kept prodding me for sexual activity. I wasn’t really interested at the time. “I really like you, but maybe later,” I said. It happened anyway. Several weeks later, in January 2006, I found out I was pregnant and my dad and I decided I’d have an abortion. This abusive man had sex with me repeatedly for two years before we finally broke up without asking my permission; and because of the intensity of the domestic violence present in our relationship, even psychologically, I could never freely say no. I am pretty sure a piece of me died then. I have spent the last four years trying to rebuild a life for myself.

Shortly after I turned 21 in 2008, a friend referred me to the rape center on my college center. Through the help of the Advocate at the center, I went from saying, “I had sex with him,” and finally learned how to say, “He raped me.” At the time, it was one of the worst things that had ever happened to me.

After therapy for about a year, I volunteered with the center and decided to raise awareness with a college group dedicated to the issue, until I resigned in late March 2010 due to graduation stresses.

Throughout my volunteer time, I realized that I wanted to help women who have experienced date rape (or any other kind of sexual crime, for that matter). In college, I became passionate about spreading awareness about the issues of sexual/domestic violence and abortion. Ultimately, music, my major at the time, became a field of study that I was pursuing only because I was nearly finished with it.

After I graduated college in May 2010, I spent a year in seminary in my hometown. I thought that a seminary degree would help me the most with helping other survivors. I left seminary, and started working as a Volunteer Advocate at a local nonprofit rape crisis center. Through that organization, I now speak publicly about my experience.

When I was in college, this was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. Almost 2 years after my last therapy session for the rape, I have turned the bad into something good. Through the rape, I lost my youth, but have gained the ability to live more spiritually, live life to the fullest, and have a deeper compassion for others. I’ve grown into a woman that I am proud to call my friend, autistic disorder or not.

Presently, I am hoping to become a social worker. My career goal today is to work in the area of policy advocacy for an organization that works to prevent sexual and domestic violence and strives to keep abortion legal.

Ultimately, I would like to professionally spread awareness about these issues in various communities and legislative bodies. I want to educate others and reduce stigma that surrounds talking about these serious matters. My experience with rape, abortion, and the role that my advocates and therapists played in my healing made a profound impact on who I am today, and I really like that person. I only hope that one day I can provide as much hope and compassion to others as my advocate and therapists provided me.

This post was submitted by Adele.

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This post, My Story, originally appeared on I'm Not Sorry . Net on February 8, 2012. [tweethis] Post!

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PP? I love the work you do. I happily give you my money through my employer’s United Way campaign. But you need to woman and man up, seriously. Because of your continued avoidance of that nasty A word the majority of Americans believe that your clinics are wrong and evil despite your impassioned words to the contrary. Cecile Richards, president of PP USA and the daughter of a woman who spoke her mind and had one of the best bullshit detectors ever? LEARN FROM HER. Get up in front of a crowd and say “you know what? Abortion isn’t that big a deal and we need to stop making it one. One out of three American women will have an abortion during her lifetime. Yes, we need to tighten up birth control but until a method’s 100 percent effective we need to have abortion available so guess what? It’s not going away.” I’m tired of reading about white middle-aged men–you know, those who are TOTALLY never going to get pregnant–planning mowdowns at clinics. I’m tired of earnest white women skirting around abortion because it’s like OMG I DON’T WANT TO OFFEND ANYBODY.

If you’re in the Richmond, VA area I want to do this and I’m dead serious. I want a group of women to confront the idiot protesters and scream NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS! NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS! Experience has shown me that your average anti is a humongous wimp when confronted. Those of us who are pro-choice need to do this, especially now. We need to take our passion, our outrage and our anger publicly and stop letting the PC police speak for us. We need to let women of all ages go in to get things taken care of without getting guilt-tripped. Who’s with me?

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This post, NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!, originally appeared on I'm Not Sorry . Net on May 28, 2011. [tweethis] Post!

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INS is a labor of love for me. I make absolutely no money from it, no one pays me to run it. The overhaul last September was the first time someone other than me worked on the site; INS is basically a one-woman show and has been since it was created in January 2003. Granted, its current platform is far easier for me to work, but in the end it’s still work, and being intrinsically lazy by nature sometimes I have to force myself to do the work.

I also have a life outside of things INS and lately it’s been busy. The biggest event going on right now is my and my husband’s decision to downsize and move into the actual city of Richmond–despite the Richmond address we live in the county southwest of the city. We found a beautiful condo in a circa-1907 house in the Church Hill section of Richmond and amazingly were able to sell our current house within twelve days of listing it (take that, real estate slump!). We’re three weeks away from closing and moving, and I seem to spend my evenings after work making piles for Goodwill as a four bedroom house apparently can hold a lot of crap. It’s a lot of headaches and hassle right now but it’ll be worth it in the end–our commute will be cut from thirteen miles to roughly two and a half; I’ll be able to get out and walk without worrying about being sideswiped by a soccer mom in a minivan yakking on her cell phone or having some perv try to pick me up as there’s no sidewalks in the ‘burbs; living in a beautiful, historic and friendly neighborhood in a place that has character and doesn’t look like a McHouse. Considering that when I met my husband we were about as low on the financial totem pole as you can get we’ve come a long way.

So once we’re settled in the new place and I can breathe again I can turn my attention back to INS. Again, if you’ve submitted a story I promise you I still have it. Maybe I’ll be all hipster and take my laptop to the coffee shop two blocks from my new place and use their wi-fi, heh heh.

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This post, Wow. Little dusty in here, isn’t it?, originally appeared on I'm Not Sorry . Net on April 26, 2011. [tweethis] Post!

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As I’ve stated before, outside of sports I don’t pay too much attention to TV. If I watch anything resembling episodic TV I usually do it on the network’s web site or on a service like Hulu. I prefer my fiction to be of the readable kind and have since childhood. However, also thanks to the internet I’ve found that I can do evil things like win bets with one coworker by convincing another that I was a total devotee of, say, Real Housewives of New Jersey without ever watching one second of the show. Forums and a good memory are wonderful things. Recently, though, two new shows were brought to my attention that are using the accidental baby plot line. Each only has a couple of episodes in, and the differences between them are quite significant.

The first, FOX’s “Raising Hope,” has possibly one of the most twisted premises for a sitcom ever. The main character, Jimmy Chance, is a young slacker who has a one-night stand with a woman who turns out to be a mass murderer. While she is in jail, she discovers she’s pregnant. She has the baby, a girl she names Princess Beyonce, but Jimmy gets custody … because she gets executed. Jimmy himself is the product of teen parents, and the whole show revolves around everybody really not knowing what to do with this baby, who’s been renamed Hope (ha, get it, raising Hope?). This show was created by the same guy who created “My Name Is Earl”—a friend of mine who was a fan of MNIE was the one to let me know—and while some of the comedic stuff falls flat overall I found it a pretty realistic if occasionally off-the-rails portrayal of your average white trash family (I lived in Kentucky for almost five years so I know my white trash). The baby doesn’t magically improve familial relationships or get Jimmy to take more responsibility in his life. Not that he doesn’t try, he just doesn’t succeed immediately. Apparently FOX has already called for the rest of the season and it’s getting decent ratings. If you’re going to go the accidental baby route, this is one of the more interesting ways I’ve seen it done, plus I laughed out loud at least three times per episode. Cloris Leachman’s character, though, is annoying. Betty White she’s not.

Contrast this to ABC’s “Better With You,” which was created by Shana Goldberg-Meehan, who brought us the glib juggernaut known as “Friends.” “Better With You” focuses on three couples in the same family—parents Joel and Vicky, married for thirty-plus years; eldest daughter Maddie, who’s been with her boyfriend Ben for nine years, and younger daughter Mia and her new beau Casey. While outwardly proclaiming her happiness with her situation with Ben—“it’s a valid life choice!” she exclaims numerous times—Maddie is obviously jealous when cheerfully clueless Casey, whom Mia has been dating for a mere seven weeks, proposes. Expecting their parents to freak out, Maddie is horrified when Joel and Vicky congratulate Mia and Casey at their first dinner together. During the ensuing conversation—which brought my only true laugh in any of the episodes when Maddie’s “valid life choice” claim is revealed to have been made into a family drinking game—Ben lets slip the motivating force behind the quick engagement. You guessed it—Mia’s pregnant. And again, instead of the freakout Maddie expects Vicky crows “we’re going to be grandparents!” as she and Joel embrace.

The show takes place in New York City. Mia claims to be an “inventor” while Casey plays in “an avant-garde metal band with performance art overtones.” In short, they have no money but of course have a nicely funky apartment with matched furniture as is par for the course for any New York-based sitcom. Joel’s fortunes have taken a massive hit in the recession, but in the second episode when Casey wants to buy an old firehouse (again, with what money?) Joel magically comes up with the money to renovate the place. And the message is sent—if a baby’s on the way everybody, even the biggest flake and ditz, will straighten up and “do the right thing.” Since they’re getting married Mia and Casey are portrayed as “taking responsibility” and being SOOOO romantic. But notice I said “getting married.” No, no quick trip to City Hall for them, there’s obviously going to be a “real” wedding of some sort. Then again the show’s not faring particularly well in the ratings despite an advantageous time slot so it might not get that far. And here’s another twist—Joanna Garcia, who plays Mia, had a long-running role in the sitcom Reba. What was her role? Reba’s ditzy daughter who gets knocked up and “has” to get married. You know her agent totally sold that angle when “Better With You” was being cast.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting to park your brain and get some laughs. I just don’t like it when it comes via situations that in real life are no laughing matter. Bringing a child into the world shouldn’t be glossed over as a romantic impulse. And speaking as someone who knows romantic impulse in my own life—my husband and I were engaged seventeen days after we met and married six months later—could “Better With You” and the quickie engagement have succeeded just as well had Mia not been pregnant? In fact, wouldn’t have that been more novel?

Oh, wait, that was Dharma and Greg, my mistake …

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This post, Oops, We’re Pregnant! (cue the laugh track), originally appeared on I'm Not Sorry . Net on October 13, 2010. [tweethis] Post!

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I first met Russell in 1989, when he was nominally my boss. Russell, at the risk of being politically incorrect, looked like every white man’s nightmare. He was black, six-eight, three hundred and forty pounds. Yes, he did play football, well enough to score a full college scholarship to a well-known football school which fortunately also had a good academic reputation. He majored in special education, taught in public schools for a couple of years, then got on with a private foundation for mentally handicapped adults, where I had gotten a job. We had a similar sense of humor so we got along immediately. About three weeks after I’d started, he invited me out to a nearby bar/restaurant for after-work drinks. He seemed preoccupied and I chalked it up to foundation bullshit, but in a back booth, one of the seats moved back so he could fit, he dropped a bomb.

Or, more to the point, his voice façade. This huge fierce-looking man, when speaking in his normal tone of voice, made Richard Simmons sound like Barry White. He’d taught himself the voice the rest of the world heard, he explained, because his father, just as large, would beat the crap out of him if he overheard the “faggot voice.” Over the years, the “masculine” voice had almost become second nature … almost. His boyfriends heard his true voice, a couple of very close friends … and now me. To be honest, I was flattered that he thought enough of me to confide in me, and saddened that he had to fake his voice. I told him about my cousin who’d come out in the seventies, what he’d had to endure, how my mom had always made him and his boyfriend welcome, and the conversation we had lasted so long we got thrown out of the restaurant so they could close and he ended up dropping me off at my house at dawn. And it cemented our friendship.

Russell maintained the façade at work, but he introduced me to his world outside of the job. He spent a lot of time in New York’s Greenwich Village—one of the reasons he’d gone to work at the foundation was because it had a Manhattan branch and he hoped to move there eventually—and was very involved in the gay rights movement. In those days those in the movement looked with extreme suspicion upon straights trying to help out, thinking they were either being condescending or looking for a cheap thrill, and despite the fact that I’m almost totally unfeminine I obviously gave off the “I like guys, thanks” vibes. Their conversations fascinated me, their stories sometimes made me cry. Everyone told of bullying, getting thrown out of their homes, discrimination at their jobs, legal blocks with partners, etc.. Some had even been married to someone of the opposite sex, had had children with them, which more often than not worsened the situation. “Yes, I just looove choosing a lifestyle that gets my ass kicked on a daily basis,” said one guy. “That’s what all the straights say, anyway.”

In September 1990 Russell began dating a guy named David, and it became obvious pretty quickly they were serious about each other. David was a nurse, also with a wicked sense of humor, and I was so happy that they had found each other. Russell was getting noticed in the foundation, and his dream job, the one in Manhattan, looked like it was going to materialize fairly soon.

In the spring, though, was when everything went to hell.

If there was an occasion for Russell to dress as a woman, he took it. He’d put on a sparkly dress, enormous pumps, makeup and an ashy-blonde Tina Turner wig and prance about much to everyone’s amusement. Towards Christmas of 1990, however, I noticed that his outfits had settled down. Instead of drag queen stuff it was business suits with skirts, smaller heels, lighter makeup, toned down hair. And whereas before it had only been at parties or gay pride things, now he did things like go to the grocery store dressed in women’s clothing. It wasn’t an everyday thing but it was odd, and in March I jokingly asked him if he’d lost a bet or something. He shook his head and took a huge shuddering breath.

“No,” he said. “I’m just being true to myself finally.”

And it all came out. To the rest of the world, Russell was a gay man. What he felt himself to be, and had felt since his earliest memory, was a straight woman. He had found some sort of underground magazine aimed at transgenders and had been writing letters to a few male-to-female transsexuals, and what they wrote gave him hope … and the courage to begin the process. He had money put aside, a surgery fund, and the new job in New York would pay enough so he could live there and save even more money. All he had to do now, he said, his tone confident, was find a psychotherapist and get the ball rolling. “I can do it now,” he said. “I have David and my friends, I have the support I need.”

And I promised him mine, even as I wondered how the hell a six-eight three-forty-pound black man could turn into a woman. Sure, he could lose weight, but unless they cut him off at the knees there was nothing they could do about his height. But he was so obviously happy and at peace with his decision it made me happy, and I swore to myself that I would stand by. “Do you have a name?” I asked.

“Rachel,” Russell said immediately. “I’ve always been Rachel. Rachel Maria.”

And so, in private, I began calling him Rachel. Publicly I called him “dude” but since I called everybody that regardless of sex I got away with it. That month was the happiest I’d ever seen him, but I noticed one thing very quickly—when he dressed as a woman David was never around. He hid his Rachel clothes and wig in the locked-off spare bedroom of his apartment, and when I saw him doing that the doubts I’d always harbored came roaring to the surface. I asked him bluntly who besides me knew of his plans and for the first time since I’d known him he was short with me. “Those who need to know,” he replied.

His cheerfulness began to fade. By this time I was working elsewhere and I found myself making a point to contact him every day, not knowing why, just feeling like I had to. This was, of course, long before cell phones and e-mail. And each day he had less to say. I went over to his apartment one April day; because of conflicting work schedules we hadn’t seen much of each other. After a few knocks he answered the door, dressed in Rachel clothes. He was crying and drunk off his ass—at two in the afternoon–and he almost broke my ribs hugging me. After sobbing incoherently for about a half hour, and me feeling more helpless than I’d ever felt in my life, it came out.

He had written letters to David and his friends in New York detailing his plans to become a woman, asking for their support. He’d left David’s in his car and gone to work; he’d come back to his place to find the stuff he’d had at David’s apartment dumped in front of his door. On the back of the letter David had written “if I’d wanted to be with a woman I’d be straight and you’re fooling yourself if you think you’ll ever pass.” A couple of his New York friends had apparently taken it upon themselves to speak for the group. They accused him of being disloyal to them and echoed David’s statement that he’d never be able to pass. “You’re a great queer,” wrote one, “but you’ll make a shitty she-male.” No therapist was willing to begin the process, telling him the same thing—that he would always look like a man in drag, he would never be able to transition successfully. The physical size that had brought him safety from taunting in high school, had enabled him to get a good education, was now—literally—a huge liability. Not even facial feminization surgery would be helpful, he was told. He’d thought about moving to San Francisco or someplace like that, where he wouldn’t be known, but the few contacts he’d made out there had the same opinion.

“I’m trapped,” he repeated over and over. “I’m trapped and I can’t get out.”

In further talking I’d found he’d only gotten in touch with two people in San Francisco. I said that maybe he should go out there and investigate further. “There has to be somebody that’ll do it,” I said, and found myself repeating it over and over.

The day wore on and he sobered up. He took a shower and I ordered a pizza and we watched “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.” When the movie was over he suddenly picked up the phone book. “I’m gonna go to Cali,” he said. “I’m gonna go there and do just like you said, find somebody.” He called one of the airlines and got a round-trip ticket to San Francisco that would leave the following Monday. He gave me another bone-crushing hug as I left.

He called me once from San Francisco, a couple of days after he got there. He sounded upbeat—he’d found a possible therapist and was going to have a consultation later on in the week. “Stay tight, girl,” he said, his customary sign-off.

He flew back Sunday, April 21, 1991. He called me from Newark airport. “I’m here, talk to you later,” he said on my answering machine. He picked up his car, drove to his apartment, dropped off his stuff, dressed as Rachel, left, got back in his car and got on the Garden State Parkway, heading south. There was construction going on at an exit, lots of concrete barriers around. The police found a large black man dressed in women’s clothing in the smashed Monte Carlo and a concrete barrier split in half. It was estimated he’d hit the barrier going at least 110 miles an hour.

It was called an accident, made snickery headlines for a couple of days about the dead guy found in drag. His family spitefully dressed him in a man’s three-piece suit—the damage had been done to his torso—for the wake. His boss at the foundation and I were the only non-relatives allowed in the funeral home, and I was the only white person. “There’s that little white girl he hung out with,” I heard someone sniff. “What they call them? Fag hags?” The funeral was family only. He was cremated. I never found out what was done with his ashes. I did find out that the therapist in San Francisco had basically laughed at him and said “trust me, it’s easier just to be gay.”

I know there’s a campaign out to wear purple on October 20 to honor gay youths who committed suicide after bullying. I can’t bring myself to do it, for the gay community, who are supposed to be so tolerant, can show vicious prejudices when someone goes against what they believe in. If you’re going to change your sex, you better still be gay. If Russell wanted to be Rachel, she’d better want to date Roberta. Of course I know it’s not always like that but those reactions from almost twenty years ago still linger in my mind. And I hate it when people giggle when a transgender speaks about “being trapped in the wrong body” for Rachel was truly trapped in Russell and he set her free the only way he knew how. Neither of them is at rest or at peace. They are dead because no one allowed them to live.

Russell Marcus/Rachel Maria Beauchamp
June 23, 1962—April 21, 1991

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This post, Requiem for Rachel, originally appeared on I'm Not Sorry . Net on October 11, 2010. [tweethis] Post!

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INS 4.0 is still very much a work in progress, so don’t be surprised to wander into the occasional proverbial brick wall in the next few weeks. Again, to those of you who submitted stories before the makeover, I still have those and they will be posted. For those who have submitted on the handy-dandy new submission form, I’ve got those too. Once all is done, however, visitors will be able to happily whiz around the site, pinpoint stories that interest them, and admire a site that was formed by someone who knew what the hell she was doing (she not being me, obviously). If you have any questions about the new site or suggestions on what you might like to see feel free to post them here or on INS’ Facebook page. In the meantime, enjoy the shiny!

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This post, It’s HEEEE-EEERE!!!, originally appeared on I'm Not Sorry . Net on October 8, 2010. [tweethis] Post!

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Within a day or two, I started feeling very tired and sick to my stomach all the time. After a week, I was very irritable (especially towards Louie) and was puking occasionally in the mornings. I passed it off as a stomach virus. I even drunkenly took a pregnancy test, it turned up negative. Naturally, I thought it was the flu.

Two weeks after moving out, things got worth. I was sick and hungry all the time. I was gaining weight and my breasts were swollen and just feeling horrible. Honestly, in the back of my head I knew I was pregnant. I just never really wanted to believe it. Every day on the way home from work I passed a sign that read “Free Pregnancy Testing”. The place was called the women’s health center or something. I can’t remember.

I’m almost positive it was a Thursday, and I was driving home from work when I actually had to pull over to vomit. I came up to the sign and figured I might as well get my free pregnancy test, still wanting to think it was just the flu. And I didn’t want to shell out another 20 bucks to get a negative result again. They were open. I walk in to find Jesus country. I told the woman what I was there for and she had me fill out all sorts of ‘voluntary’ paperwork. Then she asked me what I felt about abortion and I told her, if pregnant, that was probably my path. I knew I could’ve taken the easy way out and said that I was against it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I knew the whole entire idea of the place was to convince young girls that abortion was wrong and blah blah blah.

The woman said she would give me the free test if I were to just watch this video for her. I agreed. I still wanted that free test so I could prove to myself I wasn’t pregnant and get out of the damn place. I took the test and she put the video in. It was AWFUL. Pictures of back alley abortions, stories about girls who had died after infections result of abortions (which, by the way, were most likely all fabricated. at the end of the video, there was a disclaimer that said: all testimonies based on true stories. copyright of some church), and horrible horrible pictures. I played Tetris on my phone for the most part, but it was like a train wreck. I couldn’t stop watching. After the video was over, the woman let me look at my test results, after she looked. She had the hugest fucking smile on her face and she showed me the thing and screamed “YOU’RE HAVING A BABY!!!” I almost pissed my pants. I never wanted a cigarette worse in my whole entire life.

After she spent an hour showing me all the baby supplies she had and giving me brochures about how birth control and abortion was bad, and how Jesus and God and Christians can save me, she asked if she could pray for me. I was probably a good foot taller than her, and I looked down at her and said “Honestly, I’m probably a lost cause”. But she prayed for me anyways, and prayed that ‘Guy’ would be a good daddy and all that stuff. She even gave me a little pin that was supposed to be my baby’s feet at so many weeks because that’s how long we figured I probably was based on my last period. Long story short, it was the most awkward and uncomfortable experience of my life.

So, now I’m pregnant. This was May 2005. I drank myself retarded that night. I almost hoped I would drink and smoke enough that the thing would just give up and get out. Horrible, I know, but I was terribly overwhelmed and had know idea what to do or how Guy would react to all this. Or how I would react in the long run. I was crushed. I knew I would have an abortion from the very second I found out. That wasn’t it. I was just so disappointed I had put myself in that situation to begin with. That I had even allowed myself to get pregnant in the first place. I told my boss and Louie and Lias, and that was about it.

For the next couple of days I tried calling Guy to tell him I needed to talk to him and he just never called back. He probably thought that I was just wanting to cry and get back together or something stupid, who knows. After a week or two of him not returning my calls, I finally called and left a voicemail that said “Guy, this is Ruth, I’m pregnant, go ahead and call me back. Thanks.” It worked and he called back. He asked me what I wanted to do and I jokingly said that I was going to have the baby so we could start a nice little family and he almost believed me for a second. We met up at my new place a few days later to really talk about it.

Guy was really mature and good about it. He said he would pay for the whole thing and all I had to do was make an appointment and he would get off work. When he came to my place, we really barely looked at each other and I cried and he just apologized. It got really weird and I got very emotional, which at the point in time, I was ALWAYS emotional. It was hard seeing him for the first time under those circumstances because I was still a bit hung up over him AND on top of that I was pregnant with his kid. About 3 months pregnant. He left and I sat and cried forever and eventually passed out.

I made my appointment the next day. Cape Coral hospital, Dr. Waterman. I told my boss what days I needed off work. I called Guy and told him. He said he would get off and he would take me and pay and everything would be okay. The appointment was about a week or two away. By then, I was REALLY getting sick all the time and just feeling awful. All I wanted to do was eat and sleep. Everyone hated me because I was so irritable. Every once and a while I thought about not going through with that, but I dismissed those thoughts pretty quickly. I had no right to have that child. I drank A LOT. I got horribly depressed. I felt like all the time there was this alien inside of me and all I wanted was to get it out. I didn’t move or talk or think properly, I hated everyone and everything around me. I gained close to 20 pounds and I wasn’t even four months pregnant.

The day before my appointment Guy wouldn’t answer his phone. I was paranoid. Lias and Louie spend the day with me and I just didn’t know what to do. I was so worried he was just going to bail and I was pretty much at the point were another week meant that legally I might not be able to have the abortion. I was scared shitless. That night going to bed I wrote a long letter to Guy without the intentions of ever really giving it to him. I cried and cried and cried. I’ve known fear, but this really was the worst.

I woke up bright and early that morning but never left my bedroom. May 30, 2005. I kept my phone right by my face so whenever/if ever Guy called, I’d be ready. My appointment was at 1:30 I think. He finally called at around 10 and he sounded just as nervous as I did. He would be at my apartment at 12, asked me if I needed anything and we hung up. I put some sweats on and lay in bed until he got there. Louie answered the door when he got there. He sat in the living room while I washed my face and brushed my teeth and we left. It was a little weird in the car. We asked each other how we were doing and blah blah blah, talked about our jobs but really avoided the situation at hand. It took us a little while to find the place and eventually I had to call and get directions.

When we finally found it, it was in the ob-gyn and birth ward or whatever and I started freaking out. There were a few other girls in there, mostly older women, for pap smears or whatever. I checked in. I had to fill out 5 different pages of stuff, health problems, whatever. I was shaking. Guy constantly asked if I was ok and I nodded my head. Gave the paperwork to the woman behind the desk and sat down in the waiting room. One woman alone in the waiting room and one couple.

The called me back to take a blood sample from me to see if I was RH negative. That was it. I started bawling. I wasn’t sad or regretful, just terrified. Absolutely terrified. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Right before she drew my blood, she asked me if I ever had problems with it and I cracked a joke between my tears. Guy stepped up and held my hand and kept rubbing my back and telling me it was ok. I knew it was ok. I knew I was doing what was right but it didn’t matter. I thought I was scared before, but I can’t explain the feeling I had then. Out of body experience.
The sent us back to the waiting room with the other people in there and I just sat there and cried. Guy held my hand and held me in general and kissed my forehead and just kept saying it was ok, it was ok, I was going to be ok and how strong I was, how proud of me he was and it was ok. It was repetitive and cheesy, but helped. It really helped. Honestly, looking back, I wouldn’t have been able to do it without him. We probably sat in that waiting room for 15 minutes but it felt like YEARS. I just remember looking at everything around me and taking EVERYTHING in and just having no idea what to think or do. I just cried. I couldn’t think. It’s like when you wait for SO long for something amazing to happen and it finally does and you don’t know what to do with yourself. Except, it wasn’t something great that was about to happen… It was just something I had to do. I kept crying and Guy kept holding me. FINALLY, they called us in.

We went back in the actual doctor’s office and he told me all about it. He would do an ultrasound first, and then use a vacuum type thing to get it all out. It was all soft tissue and there were very little chances of anything bad happening to me, not to worry. I just kept crying, Guy just kept holding my hand, rubbing my leg, telling me it was ok. It was ok, it was ok, it was ok. I knew it was ok. He told me about birth control and Guy told him I couldnt take it because I couldnt really talk at all. I signed release papers and my hands were very shaky. Dr. Waterman told me I would get shot that felt like a couple of martinis and then they would go ahead with it and it would be over, if I was RH negative I would come back tomorrow and get a shot so my blood wouldnt do something weird, I would take some antibiotics and another set of pills to make my vagina go back to its normal size because after an abortion it expands a little, just like giving birth, etc., etc, etc.
,p> WHAT THE FUCK! I thought I was going to be put under. I thought I was freaking out before, but then it hit me. I would be awake for the whole damn thing. I freaked out. The doctor left the room and Guy just held me. I was a mess. Dr. Waterman came back a couple of minutes later, “are you ready?” better now than never I said and we went to the operation room.

The nurse sat me down and took a year and a half to find my vein and gave me three or so shots. I felt a little drowsy after a couple of minutes but I knew what was going on. My vision was fine. I was still crying. She told me to take my pants off and if I wanted I could go behind this little curtain and I said, “Everyone in this room has already seen me naked or is about to” so I just took them off and lay on the bed. I asked if Guy could stay in the room and she said it was up to us. I looked at him and he just said that he was staying, he knew he had to. They did the ultrasound and then told me to please lay all the way back. So I did. Guy rubbed my head and held my hand.

It felt like they were fisting me for a minute or two but then I realized it was just the vacuum machine. Then I heard it turn on. Once again, I thought I was freaking out before. THIS was bad. I wasn’t screaming but I definitely was not very quiet. I was awake. I heard the whole thing. I felt the whole thing. It lasted all of 5 minutes. Guy saw the whole thing. I lifted my head up, which I barely could do because those martini shots were really starting to take effect, just in time to see them move what I’m guessing was the baby stuff onto the counter. I saw the container and I just… couldnt breathe or do anything. My heart rate dropped and the nurse and doctor and Guy just kept telling me to breathe, please breathe, but I couldnt. I gasped and then there was breathe and then everyone saying its over, its over, you’ve done so well, but I didn’t do anything. I just got pregnant. That’s all I did and I really hated everyone. I saw them quickly get that container out of my eye sight and they kept checking my heart rate, kept telling me to breathe, kept asking me to keep talking, keep breathing. I calmed down after a couple of minutes and the nurse stayed in the room to make sure I was breathing. After it was normal again, or semi normal, she left and turned the lights down low. Gave me another shot and said just rest, sleep a little if I have to.

So it was just Guy and I in this dark room and this part is blurry because I was all doped up. I remember asking over and over again if it was over and Guy just telling me it was over, it was all over and not to worry, everything was fine. He kept rubbing my head and kissing me and just asking if I was fine, if there was anything I needed and he was sorry and I asked him if my boobs were going to get smaller. He laughed. I was pretty serious about it and didn’t appreciate him laughing; he felt bad and went back to kissing me and holding my hand and apologizing. Then I think I fell asleep for real for maybe half an hour. Or I was just that out of it. Who knows?

When I really woke up, Guy was still there holding my hand. His head was right on my shoulder and I was still pretty messed up because of those shots. I asked him if he would ask the nurse if my boobs were going to get smaller. For some reason, I was really concerned about that. Then I just kept asking him, just to make sure, if it was over, if they were going to do it again, if the container was away and I made him check and see how bad I was bleeding. He did. Eventually the nurse came back in the room to check my heart rate and made me sit up. That was hard; Guy had to hold me up for the first 10 minutes or so. After 20 minutes my heart rate was back to normal. Or normal enough for me to stop bitching. She said, take my time, I could get dressed whenever and gave me a pad to wear. I never saw Dr. Waterman again. Eventually I worked up the strength to get up and get dressed. Guy paid and they told me what I had to do afterwards, gave me my prescriptions and shipped us on out. Guy held my hand and was very good afterwards. I called Lias and asked if I could come over and she said of course. Guy brought me to Lias, gave me a kiss goodbye.

I got to Lias. I was in PAIN. Sitting, walking, standing. I felt like a walking zombie. But I was so relieved. After it was all done, I knew I did the only thing I could have. I don’t believe in children having children and I don’t believe in myself ever having children. My boobs got smaller eventually and I lost most of the weight. For a couple of weeks it hurt to pee and there was A LOT of bleeding. I’ll be honest, it sucked. But I healed. And I eventually got over it. I will never regret what I did, because I know for me it was completely right.

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This post, Ruth’s Story, originally appeared on I'm Not Sorry . Net on September 6, 2010. [tweethis] Post!

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