Is Rage just Guilt Disguised

Erin Kavanagh writes Is Rage Just Guilt Disguised, a window into the reality that is women's healthcare rights.

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

I shut my eyes tight, hoping that would somehow block out that damn clock. It’s not enough that the lady next to me is bouncing her leg up and down, shaking the couch we’re sitting on, or that the pregnant woman across the room is flipping through a magazine in the loudest way possible. It isn’t enough that this clinic seems to be the absolute hottest room in the world, or that the pillow I’m leaning against is scratching my arm. No, the clock on the other side of the room had to be screaming. Had to tick so loudly that it could wake the dead.

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

This room feels like purgatory, restricting me from re-entering the world, but actively trying to weed out the weak. And I do want to leave. I want to leave more than anything. To run home and pretend this never happened. But if I did that, I’d have a much bigger problem in nine months time. So, I just sigh loudly, shooting a look at the woman next to me, hoping that would make her stop moving.

Everything is irritating me. I know that it’s just the nerves, or I hope it is anyway, because then that would explain the anger I’m feeling towards the teenager sitting in reception who kept trying to give me useless advice.

If you use cuticle oil, it’ll help make your nails look nicer. And covering your acne with makeup will only make it worse. Trust me, I know. But have you tried just washing your face? That helped me.

Thanks, I’m actually here for an abortion.

I bite my nails anxiously now, with the same rage I felt when I saw that fucking second line. That thin, pink line that seemed to mock me. At first, it was so faint I could barely see it. I had a moment of calm, that my missed period had been just that. A lapse. But then, ever so slightly, it faded more and more into view. I thought it was a trick, that the test was just lying to me. I’ve heard they do that sometimes, false positives. Though over the next seven tests I took, the line kept getting darker, like it was solidifying, proving to me that it was real. I don’t know if a test can be wrong that many times.

This all could have been avoided. Maybe that’s why I’m so angry. I asked him to wear a fucking condom, but he didn’t, and I had to pee on a stick seven times.

It’s not like he was my boyfriend. I bet he didn’t think twice about me after it happened. He probably did stuff like that all the time. It was just casual. We barely knew each other. We met at a friend of a friend’s party, went on a few dates here and there, but ultimately…he was just some guy. Some guy I gave it to for the first time. Gave him the one thing I can only ever give to one person.

He should be here right now.

I can’t help but think over and over how unfair it is that he isn’t. He stopped answering my phone calls weeks ago, so it’s impossible for me to reach him. How amazing it is for men that they don’t have to receive any kind of repercussions for their decisions, how easy their lives must be when they don’t have to worry about the life-changing trauma that comes from their impulses. I envy how easy it must be to not have to worry about the impacts of their whims.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I could have told my friends, or my mum, but they would have just worried and shamed me for being so stupid. I sure as hell wasn’t in the mindset for getting lectured by any of them. I didn’t want anyone to know, because no one needed to know. Besides, in a few hours, it’ll be like it never happened. To everyone else, at least, but I think I’ll feel the effects of this for the rest of my life. Mentally, sure, but maybe physically too. What if I do want to have children one day? Could I still? How badly am I going to be screwed up after this? Shit, my mind won’t stop whirring.

If I leave now, in a few months I’ll be changing nappies in my mother's house, alone. But in a few years, I’d have a toddler, maybe my own house. Maybe I’d meet someone who would help me raise my child, and my kid would be so well behaved that it would never cry, and I could match clothes with them, teach them things about the world…shit. Or I could raise a murderer. What does having a nineteen-year-old mother and no father do to a baby? I bet Ted Bundy’s mother never thought she was raising a rapist. Fuck, looking at my options, they’re not great. I could stay, and fuck up my body forever, or have the next Charles Manson.

I think I’m wildly embarrassed at the situation as well. Who gets pregnant after their first time having sex? Who doesn’t stand up for themselves when the man fucking them refuses to wear a condom? My own stupidness got me here; I have to get myself out of it. I have decided to abort this…thing, so now I have to follow through with it.

I glance at the screaming clock. They’re going to call my name any second, oh God. This is it; this is real. I’m about to have an abortion. I don’t even know how they work. How bad is the pain? Shit, I hope I don’t wake up in a few hours feeling like death. I’m supposed to go to a party tomorrow night. I wish I could say he’d be at the party, but when you have no real mutual friends, there’s not too much of a chance of accidentally running into each other at parties. So maybe he’ll never know about what I’m doing right now. Maybe I’ll never see him or speak to him again, which kind of sucks. As much of an asshole as he is, I was really into him. Maybe there’s something wrong with me.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

After I hear my name called, I feel my legs walk after the nurse. Although I am consumed with fear and dread…there is a part of me that is so relieved. This is the decision I am able to make for myself…I couldn’t imagine not being able to have the choice. I am relieved I can do this. Get my life back and move on.

---

It would be months until I saw him again. I was standing in a grocery store produce section, deciding between two equally bruised apples. I look up and see him standing not too far away, picking a grape out of a pre-packaged bag and popping it in his mouth. My heart drops at the sight of him. I can’t believe it. I had been dreaming about seeing him for months. Sure, there had been other guys, but I had spent so long thinking about him, writing about him, fixating on what I’d say to him if I ever saw him again, but now…my mouth is dry, and my stomach churns. He hasn’t seen me yet, I could just walk away…but, as much as I hate him, I want to speak to him. So, my feet, without consulting my brain first, move towards him. My voice comes out croaky and unsure as I utter his name for the first time in months.

It’s a short-lived conversation. I don’t mention the abortion; I don’t see the point. I could get angry, yell at him, demand an explanation for his not responding to my messages… But I don’t. I find that I don’t really care enough. He asks me how I am, and all I say is;

Fine.

Which isn’t a lie, I have been fine. I thought I would be dealing with the demons of my decision, thought I’d see apparitions of my now dead fetus…but really, I’m fine.

---

About a week after my abortion, I tried going to a group therapy meeting and met a girl my age, Loretta, who was seven months pregnant. She didn’t get an abortion, not because she couldn’t, or someone made her keep the baby, but just because she wanted to be a mother. At nineteen, she felt ready. I couldn’t comprehend it, not that it mattered. She made a decision, and speaking to her made me feel like I made the right one. She was prepared. She had wanted to have kids for as long as she could remember. She was ready to be a mother; she had read all the books, and it didn’t matter that she was young or that other people told her she should have gotten rid of it when she had the chance. Loretta knew what she wanted, and that was her baby.

We spoke for a long time about how I felt more fine than I had expected about my decision, and how sometimes late at night I’d feel a pang of guilt, not so much about the act itself, but my indifference towards it. Most of the time, I was just angry when I thought about it. Angry at my stupidity, angry at him, at society for making me think I was some kind of murderer.

Should I care more that I went through with it?

This was a question that often plagued my mind when I couldn’t sleep.

Society tries to tell us abortion needs to be a taboo subject. You didn’t do anything wrong. You should be allowed to move on with your life without feeling guilty.

I nodded, because it’s true. I had always thought it had to be this grand thing. Something I would carry with me forever, this idea that I killed my unborn child. But…I didn’t. All I did was put my future first, without having it be ruined by my stupid nineteen-year-old self, and a stupid boy who fucked me and didn’t care about me enough to even consider me after.

I never ended up telling my mother or my other friends. After speaking with Loretta and thinking it over in my head, I didn’t see the need to have more conversations about it. I was done with it. It was over. Something that happened that I don’t need to be stuck on any longer. Sure, there’s a small part of me that will sometimes think about what my life would have been like if I hadn't done it. A small part of me that feels the tiniest twinge of regret, but I try to push those thoughts away. I did it, and I can’t undo it. I did what was best for me. I bear no guilt, nor should I.