I was 19 and in college. I was seeing a guy who was more of a distraction from schoolwork than a relationship. We didn’t have much to talk about but we didn’t piss each other off so there never was much reason to end it.
The condom fell off one night. He didn’t bother to tell me until we were done. I knew practically the next day. He told me he’d “do the right thing” which made me want to die. The idea of being trapped in Northern Maine in the apartment over his parents’ garage for the rest of my life wasn’t an option. I was able to have a medical abortion, rather than a surgical one. A couple pills, some serious cramps and I was free.
I spent a few hours curled up in bed with the cramps thinking about what I was doing. I’d already marched once on Washington for safe, legal abortion with only the vaguest of thoughts of needing one. I’d watched my dear friend buckle with pain after eating several months of birth control because she was broke and terrified. I realized then and remember every time I think about it that my life is worth living. The decision was not just to have an abortion but also to remain myself, to affirm that the things I did had meaning.
I also made a vow. I’d been politically conscious for a long time. I’d read a lot about the struggle for abortion rights and against sexism. I knew that countless men and women have dedicated their lives and too often given their lives for abortion rights. I vowed that I would fight for myself and my sisters.
