Here is a guest post from a woman who has struggled much in her life, but has found a path to healing that works for her. Whether or not you yourself are religious I think we can all agree that healing is most often found in community, in being open and honest, and having faith - wherever that faith may be gathered from. Her fierce devotion to the truth and in being open enough to find someone who she knew would support her and help to heal is something I greatly admire, and I hope I can have that courage too.
When I woke that morning, I knew everything had changed for me. I knew I would never be the same. The loss, devastation, destruction, and defeat I felt were a giant vice on my heart. That day would be the beginning of a new chapter and not one that I wanted to start. That day I would destroy someone I loved with my whole heart and I had no way out.
You see, my parents didn’t want to be grandparents yet. They only wanted “my problem” to go away. And I had no where to turn, so I was defeated, deflated, and heart broken that that day I would terminate my pregnancy, and I would never be the same again. A child, conceived in love, by a child would cease to exist. My oldest would never take a breath, never smile at me, never live to his potential, never graduate high school, never have a first love, and never provide me with a grandchild.
Fear gripped me. Anger burst in my heart, and hatred followed; hatred for everyone involved but mostly self-hatred. Hatred that would follow me for many years and that brought with it attempts at self-destruction. My heart broke into a million pieces and left me broken too.
My parents, mom lapsed Jewish and dad lapsed Catholic, had raised us outside of faith. So I turned to self-medicating for nearly the next decade. My medication was in the form of love, or what my experience said was love. Promiscuity—sex —with whomever I happened to be dating. I also tried self-medicating with alcohol, but after two rape attempts, slipping college grades, and feeling ill each morning, I left that drug behind.
While I dated around those nine years, I used my abortion as a sort of litmus test for the guys I dated. Sometime early in dating them, I would casually mention that I had had an abortion. I listened to their responses, sure that if they came back with hatred or disgust, I could walk away. None did, but none came up with the right response either-the one that would bring me to my knees-to a God I had made weep without knowing it; until I met my husband.
There’s no other answer to me than that he was sent for me from God. The first time we met, it was electric, or maybe magnetic is a better metaphor. It was like our hearts knew before either of us spoke. But darn, he was a Christian, surely when I tell him about my past, he’ll run. That didn’t happen, he never ran. What did happen is that the light of Christ’s love shone in him as I briefly told him of my past. Tears shimmered in his eyes, although he’d never admit to it. His compassion brought me to tears as he merely said, “If you ever need to talk.”
After meeting and marrying my husband, we tried unsuccessfully for almost a year to get pregnant, which is not long by many infertility standards, I know, but to me, it was devastating. Had I thrown away my only chance for a family a decade ago? I felt punished and felt as though I had punished my husband as well.
Then during a baby dedication service at our church, the pastor prayed over all the women and men who wanted a family, but their wombs were closed, and within a month, I was pregnant. Within a month after that, I gave myself to the Lord and was baptized, pregnant, in a pool with our dog, a Steeler’s jersey, and alongside my husband, who rededicated his life to Christ.
Our miracle son was born and nine months later, we decided to try for more children. Months passed. Again, those feelings of devastation and punishment were forefront. I needed help, badly. I was back to my old familiar friends of hatred and self-loathing.
Eventually I found help in the form of a post-abortion Bible study. I still wasn’t pregnant, but I was beginning to learn about forgiveness and that God wasn’t punishing me.
While I never got pregnant again-even with modern medical treatment-I am sure that God has blessed me. He has given me a loving husband, loving extended family, my oldest son, and two more beautiful children through adoption here on earth. He has granted me first hand knowledge of his forgiveness and grace.
I still have a lot of healing to do. My heart has begun to mend, but the scabs holding it together which have replaced the self-hatred, are easily torn free. Forgiving myself and those who coerced me doesn’t come easily, but, now, with God, I have the assurance that when I move on from this life on earth, heaven will be filled with family. The child I so devastatingly destroyed 18 years ago is there waiting for me, as well as those precious medical intervention babies that didn’t survive within me. And for now, that has to be enough.
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