Feminist Luxuries
Yesterday was my second and hopefully last abortion. I want this to be my last not because having an abortion is a traumatizing experience — it’s more enjoyable than the dentist, actually — but because it’s expensive and the put-nothing-in-your-vagina-for-two-weeks restriction really puts a dent in my morning masturbation routine.
No, I hope it’s my last because it’s expensive.
Then again, a $300 abortion is cheaper than all the extra food I would stuff my face with during a pregnancy, let alone all the other obvious consequences — like a child.
I was 16 for my first abortion. A friend with a car drove me across state lines to Maryland — where parental consent was not required. My parents still don’t know. But at 16 I had a long-term boyfriend, a steady supply of cash, and an ambitious future ahead of me. An abortion was an easy choice.
Now I’m 27. The clinic was just ten bus stops away, and I told my friends with minimal concern. And at 27, I have had a long string of flings, no job to speak of, and a dead-end existence. An abortion meant being late on rent, feeling like a whore, and wondering if my life would at least mean something if I had a munchkin of my very own.
Clearly an abortion is the best choice again.
To keep costs minimal — and to give myself a lesson in the benefits of condoms — I was awake for the whole procedure. I ended my 13-week pregnancy in under a minute. I was watching football and eating a burger with an hour of killing my second child. The women who chose anesthesia were still puking in the recovery room after an hour. Idiots.
I say all of this not because I’m cold-hearted, but perhaps I am. I say it because I should be able to talk about what I happened to me and what I decided to do. I left the clinic feeling sore but fine. I don’t feel bad about my decision to have an abortion. I feel bad about the choices that happened before my period was late — a divorce, unemployment, self-doubt — but I don’t feel bad that my body did what biology determined it should do. My body is not me, and my ovaries don’t determine my fate. I made a choice for me, and I shouldn’t have to hide it.
But, for now, I do. An abortion is expensive. But being known as a baby killer is a feminist luxury I cannot afford.
#Abortion
