Before that needle had entered my abdomen I had liked myself. Though I may have had my share of problems, I had seen myself as basically a good person. I wasn’t into any wild scenes. I was a good housewife and a loving mother. I was happy to be me. But when that needle entered my womb, when it pulled out the nurturing fluid of motherhood and replaced it with that venom of death, when the child I had abandoned suddenly began its struggle within me, I hated myself. It was that fast.
Every bit of self-esteem, every value I held dear, every hope of which I had ever dreamed–all were stripped away by the poison of that one vain act. Every memory of joy was now tainted by the stench of death. That moment of desperation which had led me to this “healer’s table” had now positioned itself as ruler of my life. I had abandoned myself to despair and despair was my future. There was no way to stop it. There was no way to put everything back the way it had been. I no longer had any control, any choice. I was powerless. I was weak. I was a murderer.
This testimony was originally published in 1987 in the book "Aborted Women, Silent No More".
Read the whole article at Domestic Divapalooza