June 09, 2004
On, or around, July 10, 1990, my live-in boyfriend forced himself on me. About a day, or so, after, I told him that I was breaking up with him, moving out, moving in with a couple of friends, and beginning to date someone new.
I moved to another state, not knowing that I was already around four days pregnant as a result of what my soon-to-be-ex boyfriend did to me.
I was so hurt and shocked by what “Sarge” did, that I literally moved several hundred miles away.
I was too too freaked out, too scared, and too hurting, to report Sarge to his command. I feared what the Army would've done to Sarge, as well as to me.
I thought the Army would try to make me look like I deserved it; I “had it coming” for breaking up with, and leaving, Sarge.
In late July, early August 1990, I called Sarge long-distance. He was stationed at Fort [name withheld], the same base as his brother was stationed at.
I was just eighteen. Scared, and aside from a small handful of new “friends” and a potential new boyfriend, I was pretty much alone.
So when I heard Sarge's voice, I just cried, and cried, and couldn't stop. I told him that I missed him, and that I was scared. When he asked if I was pregnant, I cried even harder.
Basically, he told me it (being pregnant and our baby) “wasn't his problem” and for me to “find a way to take care of it.” Again, “it” meaning Sarge didn't want anything to do with our unborn baby.
Fourteen years, and much counseling, prayer, and tears, later, I've long since forgiven what Sarge did to me. But I cannot forgive the pain, humiliation and dishonor he deliberately did to me; abandoning me when I needed him the most.
We might not have been together, anymore. And I can understand him not wanting to be with me — be together anymore — because our relationship wasn't working out on many different levels, and for just as many different reasons. The biggest of which was (and probably still is) Sarge's inability to be honest with others, himself, and pretty much his wilful inability to keep his dick in his pants.
I can understand not want to be with me — because of the countless fights, tears, and lies, concerning his numerous acts of being unfaithful — but to not want anything to do with his own unborn child - his own baby — to this very day, this is almost unspeakable.
How could such an intelligent, highly trained soldier, and caring uncle that dotes on his nieces and nephews, practically be the family “prodigal son,” turn his back — and heart — on his own unborn child?
My boyfiend, at the time, knew about what Sarge did, and over a few weeks time, he made it clear, in so many subtle, and not so subtle, ways, that he did not feel comfortable, nor want to raise another man's child. Especially a child concieved and born as a result of rape.
So… we talked, we fought, we cried. I pleaded. But (now ex-boyfriend many years later) would not back down from his stance. These were his feelings, his wants, and if I wanted to stay with him, and work things out, this is the way things were going to be.
My abortion was October 18, 1990. I was just 19 years old. The father was 27.
The clinic staff made me feel not only like I was on an assembly line, but if I stopped to look at information, or if I looked like I was scared, and/or having second thoughts, they became impatient. One nurse even raised her voice to me; like how dare I question her.
I barely whimpered — almost like a sad little kitten — and this woman berrated me, and made me feel so scared and lost.
I never saw, experienced, or felt that anyone cared for, or about, me or my unborn child.
No-one ever told me that either of us was, and is, a precious gift from God.
No-one ever approached me, and told me that my baby's life was special.
No-one, not even my boyfriend, made me feel special, protected, or really wanted, or worth these things, for the short time I was pregnant.
Physically, the abortion hurt almost to the point [where] I was seeing little white spots and the ceiling in the operating room was beginning to softly spin.
The “doctor” inserted an instrument, called a tenaculum, in me before he injected me with an anesthetic. I cried out; almost screamed, and gripped the sides of the table. He then injected me with anesthetic that burned like fire, and began to suction my baby out, before I knew what was happening.
I wanted to scream out, “No!!! Stop!!! You're hurting me, and you're killing my baby!!! Please stop!!!”
But sadly, all this, combined with unimaginable cramps, smelling all that blood, and hearing that vaccuum…
It's no wonder, at the age of thirty-two, that I hate vaccuuming floors. It's almost to the point I want to use sweepers, or a plain old fashioned broom, just so I don't hear that awful noise.
The abortion clinic staff made me feel like shit.
The only comfort I recieved afterward was nestling down into a large bean bag chair with an army blanket for around four hours, and then getting a half-hearted hug from my boyfriend when he came to pick me up from the clinic, later that afternoon.
Fourteen years later, and I still don't know if it was a little boy or girl baby I aborted. I've often suspected “it” (my baby) was a girl.
But, I'll never know. Not at least until I draw my last breath, and we meet, once again, in the presence of Jesus.
I miss Sarge. I miss our precious baby. I never wanted us to end. I never wanted to kill my baby!!!
I know God has forgiven me, but forgiving myself has been the hardest of all.
I'm sorry I can't share more, because, right now, I really am in tears. I'm crying right now. For me. For “Sarge”. For our unborn and aborted baby. And for all women and girls who've been emotionally (and often physically) forced into the same hellish place I was, those fourteen years ago.
Also… did I mention, besides the horror of Sarge forcing himself on me, and basically being verbally and emotionally [abusive], forced into this abortion? Sarge's words to me after he was done raping me were these: “I know that hurt you, Lee, but thanks for letting me finish.”
Like I had a choice.
Any choice.
So few, indeed, know of my great pain. Even fewer in my family know. My parents suspect but they've never asked. And I've never told.
My priest knows more than anyone; even more than my therapist nine years ago.
It took me, five years later, some serious months-long, in-depth group and individual counseling and therapy, just to say that Sarge didn't just “force himself on me,” but that he had raped me!
Until then, I was simply too emotionally shocked to say that he raped me. All I could say was that he'd “forced himself on me.”
I can no longer have children as a result of that experience.
And for this, and many other sins, my heart aches exceedingly.
Only God can judge me. And only God's love can help heal my heartbreak.
I ache to hold my baby. And ache that I cannot.
* Not her real name
