When I became pregnant for the fifth time in seven years, my doctor asked me if I really thought I should “continue the pregnancy.”
Abortion had never occurred to me until he suggested it. I’m a former foster child. Conceived illegitimately, my father was forced to marry my mother because of me. My childhood was brutal. I was abandoned by my father when I was two-and-a-half. Then when he reappeared in my life again at the age of eight, it became worse. I survived incest, starvation, and beatings. I clung to life. But the two abortions I had nearly destroyed me.
My husband said, “It’s your decision. Do what you want,” and left for work. Naively, I began looking for women who had had abortions. I wanted to know what to expect. But I couldn’t find anyone who would admit to having had one. I asked my doctor and he said, “It only takes a few minutes and its over.”
Having already had four babies, I am now appalled at how ignorant I was about fetal development. My doctor said the baby, at six-and-a-half weeks was “just a blob,” and I believed him. I had my first abortion in another state. Afterwards, before I even got home, I began to cry. It didn’t help.
I continued to cry after I got home. I cried on my knees beside my bed. When finally I stopped crying on the outside, I kept crying on the inside. I felt so dirty and alone.
Something deep inside of me froze, I think. I dreamed a lot about snow and ice, as well as about babies. I felt cheated, betrayed, and manipulated. I went to counseling and the psychologist said “Forgive yourself,” and “Let yourself go on.” She didn’t say how.
Two years later, I was pregnant again – on purpose. But still, I wanted to die, or at least go crazy so I could escape the torment, the nightmares about babies, the self-disgust, and the degradation I felt. This time I waited until the baby was 12 weeks along before I murdered him. My doctor tied my tubes at the same time, and he said he would never do another abortion. I made him tell me about the baby, just as I had made the man who did the first abortion. (The first one was a girl. She died January 15th. The second was a boy, March 29th. I learned to dread every January and March.)
I wasn’t told that there could be complications which wouldn’t be discovered for years. I wasn’t told that the strength of the suction machine is such that it can turn a uterus nearly completely inside out. I had to have an early hysterectomy because of it.
I wasn’t told that having an abortion would to unbelievable self-hatred that would consume me, and lead to distrust, suspicion, and the utter inability to care about myself, or others — including my four children. I wasn’t told that hearing babies cry would trigger such anger that I wouldn’t be able to be around babies at all.
I wasn’t told that it would become impossible to look at my own eyes in a mirror. Or that my confidence would be so shaken that I would become unable to make important life decisions. My self-hatred kept me from pursuing my goal of becoming a registered nurse. I didn’t think I deserved success.
I wasn’t told that I would come to hate all those who advised me to have my abortions, because they were my accomplices in the murders of my babies. I wasn’t told that having an abortion with my husband’s consent would end up causing me to hate the father of my children, or that I would be unable to sustain ANY satisfying, lasting, fulfilling relationships.
I wasn’t told that I could become suicidal in the Fall of every year, when both of my babies should have been born. I wasn’t told that on the birthdays of my living children, I would remember the two for whom I would never make a birthday cake, or that on Mother’s Day I would remember the two who would never send me a card, or that every Christmas I would remember the two for whom there would be no presents.
My abortions were supposed to be a “quick-fix” for my problems, but they didn’t tell me there is no “quick-fix” for regrets.
I had gone to my pastor before both abortions. He said the babies were “just blobs” too, so when I went afterwards and asked why I felt so dirty, he said, “God forgives.” I asked God to forgive me, and my pastor said He did. But I didn’t feel forgiven. I still felt unclean and undeserving.
I went to a psychiatric hospital and they gave me shock treatments. It didn’t help.
The nightmares continued. I became a workaholic. Work didn’t help. I became a compulsive eater. Food didn’t help. I became an anorexic as a form of self-punishment. That came close to killing me; I had two strokes.
I tried alcohol. It only helped temporarily. The torment would still be there when I woke up. That effort to escape the pain only lasted two months.
A friend of mine told me she was considering an abortion. I tried to talk her out of it. But I failed.
I worked at a crisis pregnancy center for a year. But that didn’t help – three clients aborted. I started the only pro-life organization in south-east Kansas, and was president for a year, and that didn’t help.
I honestly believe that the only thing that is going to help, is to find out that someone decided against abortion because God worked in them through my story. Maybe I’m wrong though.
One thing I have learned — God’s forgiveness doesn’t depend on whether I “feel” forgiven. And it certainly doesn’t depend on whether I deserve forgiveness. It is based on His Grace, and that awes me! Regardless of what my head says, God’s Word says in 1 John 1:9 that if I confess my sins, He will forgive me. I have, and He does not lie.
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This testimony is taken from Judith’s response to the “The Abortion Case Study Project.” Originally published in The PostAbortion Review 1(2) Spring 1993.
Judith would welcome correspondence with anyone whom she can help who is considering an abortion or has had an abortion. She would also welcome letters or calls of support. She can be reached at: RR 2 Box 190, Columbus, KS 66725; (316) 848-3642.
Copyright: Elliot Institute, PO Box 7348, Springfield, IL 62791-7348
Additional material is posted at www.afterabortion.org
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