Inspired by a
post from Amy at
LaLa Land (a new follower!), I am trying out the steps to rid myself of this overwhelming sense of guilt and grief I've been carrying around for the past four months.
I had an abortion. There, I said it.
Jay and I got into a huge fight in April 2009. A month later, still very much addicted to him (and I strongly feel you can be addicted to someone as if they were a drug), I planned a party at my family's lake house. Partially to celebrate spring time, partially to reward myself for completing BEST, and majorly to lure him back into my life. I called to see if he wanted to party, and he accepted. So, I secured a keg of Bud Light (his favorite), rounded up my girls, bought some sexy lingerie (again, his favorite), and made sure I was as titalicious as possible.
He showed up, and it was like old times. We flirted back and forth, and it ended up with a scene in front of the fire- he kept trying to kiss me and I was being coy. Before I knew it, we were under twisted sheets. That night, the next day, and on Monday ( I took the day off), we had sex 15 times. FIFTEEN. And, because we had dated before, and nothing had ever happened, it was unprotected. The next weekend, I went to visit him, and, again, had sex several times.
Three weeks later, the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend, I sat on my bathroom floor, staring blankly at the army of pregnancy tests that littered the counter, toilet seat, and bathtub ledge. Every single one of them, all twenty, read the same result: pregnant.
It is a known fact that Jay does not want to have children. Whether it was growing up the oldest of a large family, his narcissm, or from something that happened while he was a Marine, I'm not quite sure. It was one of the things that broke up his marriage, and he often talks about having a vasectomy. He's 27.
To make a long story short, I texted him, and he called me. He was first skeptical, then angry. He arrived (DogFace in tow) at my lake house that evening, where I had gathered close friends to make sure I was safe.
"Let's go," he said, as Dogface stood behind him, her arms crossed, and her face a mask of stone. He and I sat in the field across the road and talked.
"Why were you drinking?" he asked , refrencing the beer can I held in my hand. I hadn't drank any of it, it was for appearences only. He was more open than I had ever seen him, explaining exactly why he couldn't bear to be a father. Because it's not my story to tell, I'll leave that part out. He said that it scared him that he should feel a natural instinct to protect his child, that he wanted to yell at me when he thought I was drinking. At one point, he said that when he heard I was pregnant, he stood in front of his gun cabinet and contemplated bringing his unregistred pistol. Red flags and warning bells flew up-- when he's angry, Jay is a very dangerous creature. He never actually threatened me, but the warning hung heavy in the air. I told him that, thought it was unplanned, I wanted the baby, and that I had no problem in raising the child on my own. He still disagreed.
The next few weeks were a flurry of arguments and second guesses (on my part). He wouldn't hang out with me because he said that seeing me just reminded him of the situation. He didn't want to talk about how I was feeling emotionally, and didn't want me to tell anyone out of fear that his brother (and parents) would find out. I"m a talker. I need to talk things out. I need to tell my story over and over so it makes sense. And I was fucking scared. Despite the protests of my heart, my religion, my mind, and my parents, on June 4th, 2009, I found myself driving down to Jay's house so he could bring me to my appointment at Planned Parenthood. My reasoning was this: I didn't want to have a baby whose father was so vehemently against him or her; I knew I wasn't financially ready to have a baby; I had grad school ahead of me; there was question of whether I would be fired or not as a teacher; and I had hopes that Jay and I could work things out, and be together.
I arrived at his house, found him extremely hung over, and he drove me to the clinic. On the way he said that he hadn't expected me to show up. I almost didn't. I asked him how he felt about it. His response, "What do you want from me? Do you want me to cry? I cried enough over there."
I wanted to scream at him, "BUT THIS IS YOUR BABY; NOT SOMEONE ELSE'S." But, I didn't. I stared out the window in silence.
He went in with me to all the tests, and saw the ultrasound. I didn't. I couldn't look. But I do know that I was five weeks pregnant.
We all know how the story turns out. Jay is living with DogFace, having successfully broken up her marriage, and hurting her husband and me in the process. Unless she leaves him, there is no chance of us ever getting together in a relationship.
I'm not angry with him for not wanting to be a father...I understand the psychological damage his time in Afghanistan did to him. I'm angry for how heartless he was and how he didn't feel any emotion at all about the situation. Actually, I know he feels emotion about it. He does not want to talk about any of it, ever. I'm angry that he couldn't let his guard down for me, so I could at least feel some sort of kinship with his loss and guilt. I wanted to be comforted, and told that it was okay.
A major part of me wonders how the situation would have turned out if I had had the baby. I would be 6 months pregnant now.... I would be having a baby in January. I wonder if she would have left him, if she would have stayed with her husband, and agreed to work things out as he so obviously wants to work things out with her. A major part of me knows that it was fucked up that I let his opinion change me, out of hope for us. I could have raised the child myself, with the help of my parents, whether or not he wanted to be a part of his life financially or emotionally. Part of me says it's for the best, but the other part of my soul is heavy, knowing that I'm going to have to face this nameless child in Heaven, hoping that I didn't damn myself from whatever afterlife there may be.
