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Mothers Whose Babies Were Killed by Abortion

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Moving Forward
I had an abortion, because I was selfish.  The clearest thought I remember having is that I couldn’t allow anyone else to raise her.  But I was also certain that I could not raise her.  There was embarrassment and self-righteousness, too, but mostly selfishness.  It also showed me how little I cared for the father; I felt he wouldn’t care, because I had heard that a previous girlfriend of his had had an abortion.   I learned from the experience to “never say never”—I had previously judged others for doing what I later ended up doing.  It felt like it really didn’t matter.

But it did.

I entered the clinic unobstructed, no one telling me not to kill my baby. I don’t remember much of the administrative stuff.  What I clearly remember is sitting in a small room (for counseling, I think), and I literally cried for three hours before the procedure.  They let me cry and even asked if I was sure.  Yes, I was sure no one else was going to have my baby.  And I did not want to be connected to the father for the rest of my life.  By the time I had finished crying, I was numb—already feeling empty.  It made the procedure itself pretty easy.  The only thing I remember the doctor saying was that I was only five weeks, and that that was too early.  He also said he would do it anyway.  Imagine—if he had followed clinic protocol, I would have had her.

Physically, I have no memory of any trouble healing, but I was certain that I would probably never conceive—my idea of God punishing me.  A friend who had an abortion a year or two earlier came to pick me up.  The rest is a two-month black hole of forgotten memory.  Then I remember a fight with the father.  I think we must’ve still been dating, but I don’t remember it. After that, more black holes of memory.  

Depression had been a part of my life since about twelve years of age.  It did not help me make the best of decisions after high school.  After the abortion at age nineteen, it got worse.  I literally have large blocks of memory missing—black spots I can’t regain.  I tried moving on.  I read spiritual books in order to feel okay with what I had done, and they worked a bit but not completely.  I contemplated suicide off and on.  I was promiscuous and non-committal.  I ran away emotionally from everything and was pretty afraid of everything and everyone.  At one point I moved to Arizona in order to find a miracle to fix me. Problem was I had left everything and everyone I knew, and all I had left was me. And I hated me.  My plan was a miracle, or I would end it all.  I was exhausted.

Long story short, I did encounter God out there—a story in and of itself.  Through various events I ended up back in Ohio, broken but alive.  My family had no idea about the abortion, and as far as I know, they still don’t.  I feel they must have an inkling.  My parents took me in, 27-year-old college drop-out with no clue how to truly live.  I went on a journey to get to know the God of the Bible.  I professed Christ—even though I didn’t know what that meant and what faith in Christ looked like.  But I needed Him—He saved me.  Why, I didn’t know, but I felt obligated to live for Him.  I still do.

God has done wonders in my life that I do not deserve.  But I love Him for it and am grateful.  He gave me my husband and, then, three children through my own body, all in a span of four years!

The deep and lasting healing from my abortion occurred when my children were still small, the youngest less than two years at the time.  Events led up to my being ministered to by two godly women who did more in two months with focused prayer and ministry than several years of therapy and meds ever did.

My children are in their teens now, and I worried about telling them the truth but had decided early on that I would not lie.  It came up one day in discussion during our homeschool family time.  They asked me, and I said, “Yes.”  They were (and are) amazing.  That helped me continue to move forward.  It has also encouraged me to work on speaking out and sharing my story—I desire to be silent no more!

Priests for Life
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