I Was Eleven When I Had my First Abortion
It was forced on me by pro-life people
I was eleven the first time my parents slipped me some medicine and told me to take it.
I don’t remember how long it took, a day or two, or a week or more, because some of the memory is fuzzy, but I ended up with bad cramps.
I remember the cramps because I’d started having a period a few months earlier, but at this point I hadn’t had a period in a while and so I figured it was just my period come back with a vengeance. That’s what they wanted me to believe.
The medicine had been prescribed by the doctor, who was a friend of the family. It’s how they got away with it.
On the day when my pregnancy was officially over, I went to use the toilet. I was cramping badly and I was crying. They had told me to stop being such a wuss, that the pain would subside soon and that this pain was part of womanhood.
After a while of pain that is excrutiating for an eleven-year-old, something plopped into the toilet and there was blood. The problem was, it wasn’t just blood. This was larger than just a blob of blood.
“Mommy, there’s something bad in the toilet!” I called. It was weird because both of my parents came to see.
“Oh, that’s a blood clot,” my mother said. I knew it wasn’t a blood clot but I also didn’t know what was happening and I knew better than to question my mother.
“It’s nothing,” my father said. “Now flush the toilet.”
For reasons unknown to me at the time, I cried. I knew better than to cry where they would see me. I felt a deep feeling of sadness and despair that I couldn’t understand.
That “blood clot” would have been a little girl. I know this because I asked Jesus to tell me.
I named her Rosaria Emmanuelle.
Rosaria: Our Lady of the Rosary
Emmanuelle: God with us.
In the words of Psalm 23: for thou art with me.
I had horrific dreams for the next twenty-five years about the three abortions I endured. There was absolutely no way in hell I could have kept those fetuses, but they tried to hide the fact that I was pregnant even from me.
I dreamed that I was a horrible monster that killed little kids, because abortion was murder and somewhere deep within me, even as a child, I knew what had happened.
The grief I felt over flushing my “blood clot” down the toilet was overwhelming.
I was twelve when I flushed Dominic Raphael down the toilet too.
The same exquisite pain, with the physical pain and the emotional pain blending together and sufficiently blurring the lines so that I wouldn’t accept the truth for many years.
Dominic: belonging to the Lord.
Raphael: God has healed.
I was thirteen at the time of my third and final abortion. It would have been another little boy.
More medicine, prescribed by the doctor who was a family friend, complicit in these abuses. He was safe as he wouldn’t call Child Protective Services, even though he knew about the incest.
Zachariah: God remembers.
Our Lady of the Rosary, and God with us. The Virgin Mary conceived a child by the Holy Ghost, who was God incarnate.
When I flushed her down the toilet, Mary and Jesus were there with me.
These children belong to the Lord, and God has healed. Not God will heal, but God has healed. It’s a declaration of trust in what God is doing.
Mary gave the rosary to Saint Dominic. Raphael is one of the Archangels, and one of his titles is “exterminator of vices.” I ask for his intercession in my addiction recovery.
My merciful God remembers. The evil that was perpetrated against me God remembers, God saw, and God was there.
I chose these names with love, and care, over two decades later. It was the only way I had to honor them and to heal us all.
When God created humankind, he gave us the gift of choice. We could choose what to do with the lives we had been given, to serve him, or to serve other things. He didn’t force himself or what was good on us, because he wanted a relationship, not a slave.
The people who did these things to me chose to do bad things with their lives, and God couldn’t take back the gift he had given. I chose to do bad and evil things with my life, until I met Jesus.
Jesus and Mary have helped me to bear this, and I am becoming whole.
It turns out that pro-life people aren’t pro-life when a girl becomes pregnant with her father’s babies.
If you enjoyed this, check out one of my other stories.