Yes, I Regret My Abortion. Yes, I’d Still Do It Again.

by María Del Mal 

It sucked. Everyday, all day, I bled countless pints, or what felt like it, for two weeks. I wore overnight pads during the day, and cramped so hard I had to lie down because I couldn’t move. I’d try to take a step, and the knife in my gut turned and dug deeper. The blood was thick and chunky, like it was filled with blood clots and vomit chunks. My pads were always the same, I picked up some organic ones from the store with essential oils that made my vagina feel like an ice pop. The pain, it felt like my penance. I was meant to repent my abortion, I was meant to suffer for this decision, one I had made alone. But why? What told me I had to go through this? Was it catholic guilt? Was it the years of Sunday school and breaking bread? Sipping the blood of Christ while we prayed and begged for forgiveness. Or was it my mother’s voice telling me to keep it? “Vas a arrepentirte,” she’d say to me while sipping her coffee on the couch. Or maybe it was the world telling me I was supposed to feel bad about this. Maybe everyone told me that women were supposed to want this, that it was a blessing, but it felt like my personal hell. Trapped without autonomy of my own body. Trapped without the ability to do as I please. I hated it. I scrolled on my phone, or distracted myself with writing and creating. Or maybe I’d be watching TV or playing on my Switch and then it’d happen. I’d fall into this pit of nothing and overthink and spiral into this mess of self-hatred and guilt. 

The entitlement was the worst part, because even now, even the people who knew I was healing from something still expected sex. I don’t know why I say people, I mean men. I was in an unsafe place, mentally, and in a vulnerable space physically. I was hemorrhaging, and they were hungry for blood. Their desire for my pussy never stopped, even when I begged to be left alone.

“I’m on period,” I’d say. 

“Maybe we can go in the shower? At least if you bleed we can just rinse it off?” They’d suggest. They were monsters of the night, vampires who wanted to suck my blood right out of my vagina. 

Keeping the baby would’ve cost us both our lives. I knew how the world would chew up a baby born in instability, how harsh they’d be, how dangerous it becomes. The decision wasn’t easy, it was quick, I was sure it was necessary. The test was clear as day, two lines showing positive. And without question I thought next, I have to get an abortion. Because I was days away from what years of my parent’s sacrifices got me to. I couldn’t fuck this up. So instead, it fucked me up. It fucked me up, bad. It aged me, a lot. I wish it hadn’t happened, I wish I hadn’t had to happen really. I wish the world was a better place, but unfortunately men take advantage of women. Unfortunately, men are liars and cheaters and rapists. 

I cried. A lot while drunk, with strangers at a bar, with my brother at a gas station. I cried in therapy, every single week, Wednesday after Wednesday. I broke down and scratched my eyes while yelling questions into the air. I called my brother on late nights after class or work, trying to understand why I had done it, why it made sense but why it felt so wrong. I needed to know if I made the right choice. I pleaded with him to tell me that it was the right choice as I held a razor to my wrist, not that he knew.

“Sis, calm down. Take a deep breath. It wasn’t the wrong choice, you made the mature choice. It was hard and painful, and traumatic as fuck. You are so strong for that, but you were not meant to be a mother right now.” I mourned the child I never had, I never met, but will always love. I wore my shame like a latex bodysuit, slipped over curves like water and frozen in place. It came at the worst times, the more I avoided it the more it came crashing down on me like a tsunami wave. It slapped me harder than my mom’s chanclas did when I didn’t do the dishes. 

Yes, I regret having an abortion. Yes, I’d still do it again. I lost something special and loving and real, but in place I saved myself. I chose me, my future, my life. I will never be sorry for choosing me. This being the right choice can coexist with the regret I have for it as well. I can love the child I almost had, and not regret having the abortion.