I have my entry for LJ Idol week 1 written...but I don't know if I want to post it publically. It's a heavy topic for week 1, or any time really, and posting this particular bit of information publically makes me nervous? What if my family finds it? What if it pops up on Google and people from church find it? Most of all, what will the people think of me that are reading it. I know the drama shouldn't matter, but the blind community is very small, and Idon't really want this to get back to certain people. Ugh. It is too bad too because this is a really well written piece...probably because it is real and honest.
It’s midnight, and I sit alone on my apartment steps, the August humidity wrapped around me like a heavy blanket. I feel the judgment of the moon and stars weighing on me as they look down from their heavenly dais, their points of light cutting into me like a thousand silver needles. Two weeks have passed, but I am only now starting to glimpse the gravity of what I’ve done, the summer night sky casting a pale glow onto the ugly truth; I am a murderer.
I remember the physical anguish of that Saturday afternoon, curled up on my bathroom floor, guttural cries of pain reverberating against the white walls. The pain killers they gave me have no affect, and no one is answering the emergency pager number.
Why aren’t they answering?
When will it stop?
So this is what it feels like for something to die?
“Residual pain is normal.”
“Avoid sexual intercourse.”
“You should feel normal again in a few days.”
The dreams keep me from sleeping. Phantom cries slice through the darkness, and endless hallways lead nowhere. I never get any closer to them, but I search anyway, the screams growing louder, and yet no nearer. It is much easier to fuel myself with caffeine pills and bypass the ghosts.
This is what they call normal?
“How are you?”
“Did it hurt?”
“Do you feel different?”
There’s no scar, no mark where they removed it; only a fracture in my soul that I don’t know how to mend. Crickets hum as stale tears fill my eyes, silently falling onto my shaking hands. I realize for the first time the root of it all; I’m alone, more alone than I’ve ever been before. If sixty-seven days wasn’t enough to make it real, then why do I miss it?
I have no name, no face, not even a grave to cling too. Only bright pink and purple instruction sheets, a red stain on white porcelain, and the empty feeling in my stomach, serve as reminders of your existence. I killed a piece of myself with you, and I can never get either back.
Good-bye, little one.
A/N: Please no judgment from pro-lifers, or justification from pro-choice people...It is what it is, and I can't take it back no matter how much I want too. I simply had to post it because I know there's someone out there who has been through this, or is thinking about having an abortion. These are the aftereffects that no one tells you about...do with it what you will.