the color teal

TW: Abortion and Dating Violence

I felt a presence one evening before I went to bed. Perhaps I felt a presence the following morning when I woke up.

I can’t remember and cannot be sure.

The following is my story. I share my story because it may be freeing. I think it will feel like putting a name to a face.

My name is Chanell and I am a storyteller. I have made some mistakes. You may refer to me as Tico, if we’re friends. Or maybe you know me as one of my social media handles.

I was an undergraduate in college, studying sociology and the African diaspora.

I didn’t have much money, despite working two jobs. To add to the madness, I also interned at a local magazine. I didn’t have much free-time, although, I indulged in a rich tapestry of friends and hobbies. My college was situated in the heart of an old city. I’d often feel a presence and not in a Holy Ghost kind of way.

My friends and I eventually concluded the city was haunted.

When in I was in school, I was resourceful about what to eat. My diet was plant-based and I sourced as much food from local grocery stores as I could. What I couldn’t afford, I got from my university’s food pantry. I was grateful. I ate as well as I could. I lived in upperclassmen-student housing with three other young ladies, all bright and beautiful and bubbly.

When in I was in school, I was in love. I met this person who interwove themselves into my life in a way that I hadn’t experienced before. I didn’t know what was bad or what was good. I had never felt so strongly about someone. There were consequences for the strong, aggressive, physical and emotional bond that formed over the course of months between us.

We were very careful at first.

I am generally aloof and wary. He was cool and collected. Things got riskier when the stakes got higher.

“I love you,” he said.

That turned into: “I don’t like using condoms”. I hadn’t really experienced the difference between condom sex and condom-less sex. “I can try birth control,” I offered. This seemed an okay compromise. It actually felt right, at first.

I get the feeling that folks that do not take birth control think all contraception works the same. I certainly thought it did. My contraceptive fo choice was the pill. I was instructed to take it daily at the same time with food. The pill deterred egg implantation; it made my uterus so acidic that my own eggs couldn’t stick on my uterine wall or lining.

When in the climax of passion, where my partner’s joy would release inside of me, his seed wondered aimlessly. It would find no home, no match, no egg. The pill seemed like a good bet at first. But I started to get sick.

Maybe it was the stress of school. Perhaps my dramatic weight-loss from changing my diet was to blame. I could have been ill because I was an undercover anemic… always craving ice and sometimes even… dirt. I biked often and my body went from tough and tanned to weak and upset. Eating became difficult. Sex, walking, concentrating, sleeping and even communicating became hard to do, too.

I felt like my mind and body were out of sync. My family asked if I was eating. My friends asked if I was okay. My professors lamented at my inability to see projects through and my supervisors harped on weakened contributions at work. My partner criticized my outlook, ambitions, coping mechanisms and performance in bed. “You’re lazy, you need more drive, you have poor self-esteem, you’re scarce, you’re over-exerting yourself, you wear that with everything, you shouldn’t eat that, we can eat this instead, you’re spacey, you drink too much.”

The winter was dark.

I grew sores around my mouth and became very depressed. I felt ugly in my own skin, losing weight rapidly but always feeling too large. I went to my university’s clinic. She asked how I got to the clinic incredulously: “Were you driven here?” she screamed after taking my vitals. I shook my head. “I walked”. She threatened me with an immediate blood transfusion.

Something about me having no iron in my blood platelets and my blood sugar being very low upset her personally.

I stopped taking all forms of medicine instead opting to only eat iron pills and dark, leafy-greens.

A month into annoying my roommates with the bitter smells of kale I felt healthier. I jumped back into my ridiculous undergraduate-balancing act with vigor and excitement.

I biked faster, laughed more, had sex often and wrote so many stories. Out of the blue, there was a day in early March where I had abdomen pain so bad I couldn’t walk.

I worried my body was betraying me again.

My partner immediately drove me to the clinic. He wanted to bring me to a hospital. I objected. My pain couldn’t be explained at the clinic and I was tasked with going to a hospital anyway.

I never went.

A month and a half later- I’m throwing up Jamaican food on the side of my best friend’s-neighbors house. It was gross. My friend blamed the greasy food. I nodded in agreement, using my forearm to clean my chin and lips. I never had an issue with their food before and was confused but… whatever.

Whatever.

I was pregnant. I was pregnant in the early spring of 2017. I was a broke undergrad juggling 18 credits, a rich social life, part-time jobs with a bun in the oven.

I had to tell someone.

I was was giddy with excitement, oh man. I used to talk to my belly. I would stand in the mirror and dance. I was also nervous, I wouldn’t sleep some days and wouldn’t wake up on-time during others.

I went to him first. I went to him and posed the situation as a question.

“What do we do if we’re pregnant?” I asked with an air of inclusivity.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there”.

I was dismissed with a charge to go to an actual doctor. I thought that was fair.

I went to my mom. “Is there room back at home for a baby?” I asked. “I think I’m having a baby, mom.” She similarly brushed me off. “You’re not serious, stop saying this,” she said.

I went to my friends. “What if I was pregnant guys?” I asked. “Ew thats gross, with him?”said one friend. “You’re kidding… I’ll beat your ass… Don’t play with me,” they responded.

I felt alone. I went back to my university clinic and said I was pregnant. The nurse nodded, had me pee in a cup and then ran some tests.

I laughed without smiling because I wasn’t alone even though I felt that way . There was a presence with me. The nurse came back with news of high hGC in my blood- I was indeed pregnant. I smiled and said I knew I was. The nurse said she was sorry. Cue internal yikes.

I called my aunt.

I don’t know why I called her. Her reaction and advice kind of depressed my mood.

“Hey, I’m pregnant!” I said. “What did you say?” she asked. I repeated myself and she hung up.

I felt sick.

She called back and advised that an abortion would be best but my family would be around if I didn’t heed her warning.

I thanked her and called one of my friends to come get me. She drove to the park I walked to and brought me back to my place on campus. “I’m pregnant.” I said in the car. She blinked then burst into tears at the wheel. I got the impression that this pregnancy was negative. It had not occurred to me that me conceiving was bad. My pregnancy confirmed some of my greatest wishes and biggest fears and all of these reactions were unnerving.

The confirmed pregnancy also confirmed that I wasn’t crazy. I knew what was happening with my body. I was able to create life. I was going to be a mom. I was going to get really big.

I laugh without smiling at those thoughts I had.

I invited my partner over some evenings later. I hadn’t rehearsed what I was going to say- I wish I had.

“I want to break up, I’m pregnant,” I spat.

I felt stupid saying that, I did. But I didn’t want him or his denial around me. I assumed he’d react like everyone else. I took everyone’s denial and distaste as lack of support and disappointment. “Wait what?” he started. “I’ll do anything, I’ll do anything. I can help. I want to be there for you,” he repeated. “Anything that has to happen for us, I want to be there,” he said over and over.

I kept thinking of responses. I kept thinking of the nurses apology. “I wouldn’t make a good mother, I don’t know. Maybe I won’t even have the child,” I tried. I didn’t want him near me. He looked me in the eye and repeated what my aunt said. “Maybe you should get an abortion,”.

I cried violently.

The weeks following he wouldn’t leave me alone. My unsuccessful attempts to be alone would get interrupted by his truck sitting in front of my place. He was acutely aware of my class schedule and what was once a cute gesture became intrusive and creepy.

He lived deeper in the city and had much more space than my shared apartment so I’d often give in to his pleading that we leave my place and go to his. I saw my friends very little. I didn’t speak to my family.

I prompted him to make a pro/con list with me.

At the time, I planned on carrying my pregnancy to term. I thought my partner would eventually come around.

The pro/con list was awkward.

There were more cons than pros. I remember the pros coming all at once. One little moment of bliss sandwiched between logistical and cold reasons the presence shouldn’t be.

I remember sharing that I couldn’t afford an abortion. I promised my partner I’d look into any resource, however, and hoped the limited resources available to me would be a good stall.

I did not know you could be too early for an abortion. There is a sweet spot for termination and I was not meeting the mark. Not if I would use community resources.

For spring break I went on vacation.

When I came back to school from vacation, my partner’s truck was sitting in front of my place again.

He drove me to a clinic. The clinic of course wouldn’t do anything the same day due to state laws. I had to legally listen to an ultrasound then have the procedure done.

Ultrasound day came around. I had two done; I had one done with the hospital where I thought I would deliver a baby. I never told my partner this.

I also had an ultrasound in the clinic where the presence was removed. My partner was present. He looked at the bean sized thing. He heard the heartbeat. He looked sick.

The nurse left us to speak to each other. I don’t remember if we said anything.

The abortion clinic was stuffy and old. It was located in an old house turned medical facility in the city. Lots of buildings were like that. They were old and historic on the outside but gutted for something else on the inside. Jerry Springer played on the televisions. He paid the $400 all alone but the clinic cashier handed me the receipt.

We spoke to a counselor. She asked too many questions. I uncomfortably lied through all of them.

They gave me a singular Xanax. I stripped down naked in a closet-space and put on a hospital gown. The Xanax didn’t kick in and I wanted to vomit. I was sweating profusely and my mind was racing. There was a knock on the door. My partner said my mom called and he’d keep her updated.

I needed my mom. She couldn’t be there that day. I can’t remember why.

He couldn’t come back with me during the procedure.

He said he’d be right outside. I walked barefoot into the operating room. The bed was tan and leather, like a car seat. The tissue paper on top wrinkled horribly as the same counselor from earlier helped me up onto table. The room was devoid of smell and I was introduced to a doctor. He was an obstetrician.

My feet were guided to stirrups and my bare self lay vulnerable in front of the doctor. I grew cold but didn’t shiver. The $400 my partner put toward the procedure covered local anesthetic. I had shots injected into the corners of my inner thighs.

The counselor grabbed my hand when I laughed nervously. “Look at me,” she said softly. I groggily turned towards her. The doctor said something quietly.

“He’s going to open you up a bit,” she said.

I felt the cold and metallic instrument against the outer lips of my genitals. I yelped and tried to jump up and close my legs in one motion. “Let it happen,” the doctor said loudly and quickly. The counselor squeezed my hand tight and the doctor thrust the instrument inside me. I obeyed and turned towards her.

“What are some things that make you happy?” she asked. She seemed so kind. She looked like an old hippie; lean pale woman with platinum blonde hair in a pony tail with pink barrettes. She looked like the yogi character from Orange Is The New Black.

“Family makes me happy,” I strained.

The doctor manipulated the instrument and stretched my body open uncomfortably. I gasped.

“Think of them now,” she said quickly.

I heard a loud machine whir to life. It sounded like a vacuum.

He stuck the machine inside me and the pain grew.

I felt deep contractions and pain in my lower abdomen. “Tell me about your family,” she said.

I’m the eldest of five, so describing each one of us, got me to the end of the abortion. Each of my god-given best friends’ descriptions was marked by a painful tugging on the inside of my body. I felt like a tiny black hole opened up in my lower belly and all of me was being pulled to my lower center. By the end, I was talking about my baby sister through gritted teeth.

The vacuum shut off. The counselor smiled a big genuine smile. “You did it,” she congratulated me. The door to the room opened and maybe the nurses put me on a bed. Maybe I rolled. I can’t remember. I know I couldn’t walk and I was bleeding profusely.

I laid on a stretcher in an adjacent room bleeding for what seemed like an eternity. I was offered tiny cookies and juice. I refused. I was dazed and mildly angry but mostly in pain from my inner thighs to the back of my neck. I couldn’t see, the pain was so bad. I closed my eyes.

They should give women two Xanax.

Perhaps one was enough though, I can’t really remember much.

Another woman was wheeled into the room where I was. She asked if this was my first one.

“What?”

I stared at her. She went on and on about how these were good for her. Had she had multiple procedures? I can’t remember. I know she said she had a 10-year-old daughter that she was very proud of.

I zoned out.

The other patient asked how I was feeling. The nurses perked up waiting to hear my response. I said I didn’t feel well. The woman asked how old I was.

“21,” I said.

She nodded and smiled saying I did the right thing. She asked me about what I did for a living. I said I was a student. She said she was so proud of me then she oddly went back to the I’m so happy with my daughter bit.

I sat for awhile longer and eventually was given a prescription for pain-killers.

“Do you need counseling?” the nurse asked.

“No,” I lied.

I signed some forms and walked out to the tiny waiting room.

He still was there.

We got in his truck and I can’t remember what we said if we said anything.

I can’t really remember the time-period immediately after. The narcotics soothed my body and sedated my mind. I remember making several attempts on my life. I couldn’t sleep well.

The medicine was replaced by alcohol. The erratic behavior remained. The details are fuzzy. I can’t remember and I don’t know if my memory is spotty because this experience is something I don’t want to remember or I was never cognizant enough to form memory.

I would frequently mix the narcotics and alcohol.

Sometimes I would crush up three pills at a time to consume, knowing that crushing them made them “hit quicker”. Many times I hoped the medicine would kill me.

We began to fight often. We said horrible things to each other. We laid our hands on each other without love and with so much malice.

I remember the night before he dumped me over the phone, I had a panic attack trying to fall asleep. I felt like a monster, I couldn’t convince myself I was human, I couldn’t calm down.

The break-up explanation was a mix of “I can’t deal with this shit” and “I need to heal”.

He packed up all of my belongings at his house and sent them to my mother’s house. I left my college-town to return home to my family.

I’ve since written this story and edited it many times.

There are details I cannot remember. There are things I leave out and add in. There are parts of this story I don’t understand.

I’m a different person, of course, after the abortion.

I didn’t share this story at first, out of fear.

The reasons I wasn’t direct about my pregnancy are the same reasons I choke up about why I didn’t see it through.

My fear is that this story seems too dark- that looks like a smear campaign against folks’ right to an abortion. The conversations surrounding abortion are limited and taboo.

My fear is that people once close to me or still close to me grow angry with how I depict them in this story.

My fear is that I tell my own narrative wrong. What if this story has no therapeutic value? What if I just continue to feel shame and sadness?

Nonetheless, this is my story with abortion and dating violence.

this is the color teal.