As I wrote, though, some of what I wanted to say got a little lost in the flood that came when I began recounting my personal experience. I want to try to correct this. I hope that this time, by taking things one small step at a time, I can actually express my thoughts without getting lost in a sea of emotions.
People can be so quick to judge.
Most of even the most hard-core Pro-Life people I know or have encountered allow for “special cases”. Most of them will concede that either in the case of rape, or in the case of the pregnancy being the result of failed birth control and being a great risk to the mother, that abortion is “understandable” or “allowable”. When they know my story, they will tell me that they understand that I was in a terrible position, and that they understand why I would choose my health and life over carrying the pregnancy to term.
But, a lot of them, if I left the story untold, if I simply said, “I’ve had an abortion”, would immediately begin passing judgement on me. Thinking, or even outright saying, “murderer”. I have had this said to me, by people who don’t really know me, or know the full story. Hell, I’ve even had some people say it to me knowing, at least partially, what happened.
I wonder, honestly, if they think that I actually need someone to make me feel worse.
Here I am again, up well past my bed time.
There are a zillion thoughts running through my mind right now, most of them to do with two very specific and very traumatic events in my life. On the one hand, I feel compelled to talk about my perspective, and on the other, they are things that I have only really ever discussed with a tiny number of people, and there is so much anxiety wreaking havoc upon my brain that at least tonight I can say without doubt that I know from where my insomnia is coming.
Don’t read the rest of this if you think it might upset/bother/offend you. Please. In the rest of this post I talk about rape and abortion. Consider yourself warned.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately, but I’m going on my third night of not being able to sleep.
I take that back, I know what some of it is, or rather was, but tonight should have been just fine. The alarms are about to start sounding, though, and here I am, still wide awake.
I hate nights like this so much, because I really am absolutely exhausted, but whenever I lay down to try to sleep, it just won’t come.
I’m so jealous of Alex right now, even though he’s only got about 6 minutes before his alarm goes off. Well, that first alarm, anyhow.
At least I’ve been somewhat productive.
A friend of mine challenged me to write my autobiography “so far”, so I’ve done a little of that. I’m not sure exactly why she wants this done, but, she’s been pestering me to do it for some time. At the moment, there’s 6,000+ words and I’ve just barely covered graduating.
I should probably take a scalpel to it, and cut out more than a few of those words.
On the other hand, I’m not so sure anyone, including the friend who challenged me to do this, will ever lay eyes on it. (Hi, Maria, if you’re reading this). I’ve tossed the draft into the trash more than once as it is. 6,000+ words, though. What a waste.
To be honest, I’ve not enjoyed revisiting some of those moments in my life.
I didn’t make friends easily as a child. I was too shy, and we moved an awful lot. I was 7 years old before I had a real friend, and I’m not that sure that it counts as “making a friend” when you’re technically related to the person. Of course, that doesn’t make her less of a friend, it’s just, you know… I’m not sure I so much “made a friend” as I happened into one by virtue of being a part of her family.
I lost her when we were nearly 9, though. It’s quite a long story, but the gist of it is that the chicken pox can be deadly, if you haven’t much of an immune system. I still miss her, so many years later, and I wonder what kind of person she would have grown up to be.
And this is what happens when I am tired but can not sleep: I babble.
My hair is too dark.
My skin is too fair.
My eyes are too small.
My nose is too bulbous.
My lips are too thin.
My breasts are too large.
My hips are too wide.
My butt is too round.
When I look in a mirror, or when I look at photographs of myself, I don’t see the same thing that other people see. Sounds a little ridiculous, doesn’t it? Nevertheless, true.
I have a boyfriend who tells me, every single day, many times each day, that I’m beautiful. He calls me “gorgeous girl” and tells me that he will always think I’m beautiful, no matter what. Sadly, the poor guy is combating years and years of “you’d be so pretty if..” Combating several emotionally and mentally abusive ex-boyfriends.
Or, at least, the baggage left behind by these things.
It’s not really fair of me to expect that he should help me carry my baggage, and yet he does, and almost always without complaint. I’m really lucky that he puts up with my shit.
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Apparently, I need to learn to behold myself a little differently.